Fayre’s first act on parting with Grey was to hire a bicycle. It was a ramshackle affair with dubious tires, but it was the best the Whitbury dealer could provide, and at least it made Fayre independent of the Staveley motor. Lord Staveley had put his garage at his guest’s disposal and had begged him to consider himself free to come and go as he pleased, but Fayre hesitated to take too great an advantage of his kindness. With the help of the bicycle he could pursue his investigations in peace, unhampered by the thought of a waiting chauffeur. Mounted on the hireling, he set out for Keys, the first stage on his quest for the carter. It did not take him long to locate the village smithy, and the two men at work there looked with considerable curiosity at “the gentleman from Staveley” as he toiled past their door on an obviously inferior push-bike. A little farther on, on the opposite side of the road, was a small ironmonger’s shop. Here he dismounted, propped the bicycle against the curb, and went in. A dusty-looking old man emerged from behind the counter and Fayre proffered his request. It appeared that the old man might or might not have a pair of trouser-clips. He would see, but it was a long time since he had been asked for any. While he was rummaging in a drawer, Fayre strolled to the window. From it there was, as he hoped, an excellent view of the smithy. The trouser-clips materialized and Fayre explained that he had taken up cycling again after a lapse of years for the sake of exercise, and added the comment that he found the roads very different from what they had been when he was last in England. “I reckon you got to have your wits about you nowadays, sure enough,” agreed the shopkeeper. “I mind the day when a man might walk five mile round here and see nothing but a horse and cart, and a child could play in the lanes and its mother not give it a thought. It’s a different story now.” “I suppose you get a lot of motors through here?” “A goodish few. They got one of the red signs at the bend there, but it’s little notice most of them takes of it.” “I saw a narrow shave the other day on the other side of the village,” remarked Fayre conversationally. “A big car, coming round the corner too quickly, as nearly as anything ran down a farm-cart. I wonder the carter didn’t summons him.” “Went off too quick, I reckon. That’s their way. Main difficult to catch, they are.” “They were going too fast for me to see the number. I should know the cart, though. You don’t often see a white horse, nowadays.” The old man’s face lit up with the proverbial curiosity of the villager. “That’ll be George Sturrock’s cart, I’m thinking. There’s not a many white horses round about here, as you say. Or it might be Mr. Giles, the farmer over to Grantley. ’E got a white mare. In a fine way, ’e’d be, if anything ’appened to ’er.” “I expect you know most of the horses round here,” observed Fayre. “Living where you do.” The old man chuckled.