Lady Eva de Mallaby passed through the hall soon afterwards. Struck by her beauty, one of the motorists, with the comradeship of one sportsman to another, addressed some remark to her, with a generous smile and a casual hat-lift. Lady Eva, showing a trace of surprise, stared icily at the man and passed on. "Hoity, toity," said the motorist, without any sign of shame. "But I'd like to have the breaking-in of you, Miss. Wouldn't you, Sammy?" addressing his companion. "Too expensive," said Sammy. "Give me a four-year-old, like I bought to-day from Sir William, an' I'm 'appy." "You're a bloomin' materialist, that's what you are, Sammy," retorted the other--"a bloomin' materialist." He lingered lovingly over the rounded phrase, and drained his glass again. Twenty minutes later the sound of a gramophone percolated the house. Lord Tadcaster was at dinner. It was his daily custom to dine to the accompaniment of music. When at home his private band officiated; when he was on his travels a musical-box or gramophone supplied the necessary melody. This was an eccentricity of the peer, who had decided, after long and recondite diagnosis, that music assists the digestion, and that certain music is more suited to a particular food than another. Therefore he swallowed his soup to a dreamy prelude, his fish to a fugue. The _entrée_ was expedited by Beethoven, the joint disappeared to a triumphal march. Sweets demanded a waltz, cheese nothing more than a negro melody; but with wine and dessert were combined all the possibilities of Grand Opera. Cunningham had learnt particulars of all this when at Kirkdale, and now he listened to the programme emanating from the private dining-room. No doubt owing to the absence of Achille, the music occasionally gave out, but by the intermittent tunes Cunningham was still able to gauge the progress of the meal. The omission of a sonata denoted limitation of the repast, and when the strains of "Lucia di Lammermoor" throbbed on the air Cunningham mounted his motor-cycle, and took the road that led through Blubber-houses. A run of three-quarters of an hour brought him to the confines of Haverah Park, almost within sight of Harrogate. It was here that he had decided to waylay the motor-car. It was a lonely spot indeed. Moorland, grim pasture land, lean fir trees, stone walls and limestone road, was all that met the eye. All was cold and stern. Cold and stern was his business that night; and there, close to the wood granted by John o' Gaunt to one Haverah, and tenanted since Doomsday by the winds of the centuries, he waited. The air was springlike, but the wait was long and weary. The only satisfactory thing about it was that he had time to note the small amount of traffic on the road. A solitary dogcart was all that passed in an hour.