“How much further is it?” he asked over his shoulder as the engines of the motor complained bitterly at the ascent. “About another half-mile. Then you get on to a sort of plateau. There you must turn to the left.” “How far will the turning be from the house?” asked Westerham. “I'm not sure,” replied Patmore, “but I should think about five hundred yards. You will have to drive through what is practically a bridle-path and take it gently. It is an awkward place on a dark night.” The man was in considerable pain as the result of the treatment he had met with at Finchley, and now and again he groaned so pitifully that at last Westerham let him slide down from the seat on to the floor of the car again. Lord Penshurst asked what ailed him. And Patmore would have spoken had not Westerham dug his fingers into his ribs. Patmore knew well enough what that dig in his ribs meant, and wisely kept silent. As the car groaned and snorted her way up the hill Westerham took counsel with himself. He was doubtful as to the wisdom of running up to the door, lest the noise of the car's approach should give Melun and the other inmates of the farm warning of their approach. He reflected, however, that the warning would be very slight, and that, for all he could tell, every moment might count. So he held on, and as they turned into the bridle-path he urged Lowther to use all the speed he dared. It was intensely dark beneath the trees, and Westerham sitting in the blackness of the body of the car, could hear light boughs and sometimes heavy branches scrape along the sides. Suddenly the car stopped and, looking out of the window, Westerham, whose eyes were used to the darkest night, could discern that they were in a little clearing. He jumped out and, turning round, he took out a spare revolver which he had brought with him and placed it in Lord Penshurst's hand. “Lord Penshurst,” Westerham said, “it is necessary for someone to keep an eye on this man. I have no idea how many of Melun's gang may be waiting for us. I am told probably not more than two; but one cannot take anything of that sort on trust, and to avoid all unnecessary risks I shall want Mendip and Lowther with me.” The Premier, whom the drive and the near approach of danger had rendered alert and almost cheerful, nodded at Westerham in the darkness. “All right,” he said, and his gnarled but still sinewy hand took a firm grip on Patmore's collar. “You had better sit still,” he said, and Patmore cringed at the Premier's knees. His spirit was entirely broken by the agony he was now enduring. The ray from one of the lamps outlined the shape of a gate. “Here we are,” cried Westerham in a low voice, and in a second he had jumped forward and pulled the iron catch back and taken a stride forward. But his eager foot found no foothold. His hand was torn from its grasp of the gate, and he pitched forward, to find himself plunged up to the neck in icy water.