"Hush," I said. "Do not speak to the man at the wheel, and, above all, refrain from disconcerting the beer---- I mean seer. What do I see? A man--let him pass for a man--in motion. He moves. Yes," I said excitedly, "yes, it is a stable. The man moves across the stable. Lo, he leads forth a horse. There now." I turned to her triumphantly. "The horse you fancy, madam, will also run, and the--ah--fee is one guinea. You don't fancy any horse, madam? Ah, but you will. Very soon too. Sooner, perhaps, than you---- But you can't help it, madam. The crystal cannot lie. Pleasant weather we're having, aren't we? No, I'm afraid I haven't change for a note, but I could send it on, madam. On. On Monday you for instance--" "Stop, stop," she said, laughing and putting a little hand on my wrist. "Listen. Oh, I say." A horse was undoubtedly led out of the stable. Breathlessly we heard it come across the yard, and the next moment we felt rather than saw it put between the shafts of our brougham. My companion uttered a stifled cry and set a hand upon the door handle. "Sit still, lass," I whispered; "for the love of Heaven, sit still. He's going to drive us away." "Oh, lad." "We are in luck." "But where are we going?" "Heaven knows. But away from the bees, any way." The horse was harnessed at last. The lamps were lighted--the while we cowered in the depths of the brougham, the coachman mounted heavily upon the box and we rolled slowly out of the yard. Round to the left we swung, away from White Ladies, slowly into the village and to the left again. I kept my companion informed as to our whereabouts. "That's right," I said, "there's the butcher's. Splendid meat he sells--I beg his pardon--purveys. Wears wonderfully well. Always follows the hounds on one of his own saddles. And there's the tobacconist. You should see the plugs he keeps. I've got one I use as a paper-weight. We used to think it was a piece of the original Atlantic cable. I've had it years now, and it's still going strong--very strong. It makes rather a good paperweight, imparts a homely soupcon of farmyard life into one's correspondence, you know. The P.M. had to give up reading my letters--said they made him feel as if he'd gone to the country. Ah, we are now within a stone's throw of the church--a noble edifice, complete with one bell. Hullo! Stand by with that ankle, lass; we're going to the doctor's. You'll like him rather. Incompetent, but genial. Shouldn't wonder if he wants to paint your foot. He is a bit of an artist in his way. When I cut my head open last year, he painted the place all over with some of his stuff. It certainly healed all right, but the way the wasps followed me--I might have been a private view. Now for it. You stand on the steps quite naturally, and I'll manage the driver."