Mr. Bennett now began to address himself in earnest to the task of calling for assistance. His physical discomfort was acute. Insects, some winged, some without wings but—through Nature’s wonderful law of compensation—equipped with a number of extra pairs of legs, had begun to fit out exploring expeditions over his body. They roamed about him as if he were some newly opened recreation ground, strolled in couples down his neck, and made up jolly family parties on his bare feet. And then, first dropping like the gentle dew upon the place beneath, then swishing down in a steady flood, it began to rain again. It was at this point that Mr. Bennett’s manly spirit broke and time ceased to exist for him. Aeons later, a voice spoke from below. “Hullo!” said the voice. Mr. Bennett looked down. The stalwart form of Jane Hubbard was standing beneath him, gazing up from under a tam o’shanter cap. Smith, the bulldog, gambolled about her shapely feet. “Whatever are you doing up there?” said Jane. “I say, do you know if the car has come back?” “No. It has not.” “I’ve got to go to the doctor’s. Poor little Mr. Hignett is ill. Oh, well, I’ll have to walk. Come along, Smith!” She turned towards the drive, Smith caracoling at her side. Mr. Bennett, though free now to move, remained where he was, transfixed. That sinister word “ill” held him like a spell. Eustace Hignett was ill! He had thought all along that the fellow was sickening for something, confound him! “What’s the matter with him?” bellowed Mr. Bennett after Jane Hubbard’s retreating back. “Eh?” queried Jane, stopping. “What’s the matter with Hignett?” “I don’t know.” “Is it infectious?” “I expect so.” “Great Heavens!” cried Mr. Bennett, and, lowering himself cautiously to the ground, squelched across the dripping grass. In the hall, Webster the valet, dry and dignified, was tapping the barometer with the wrist action of an ambassador knocking on the door of a friendly monarch. “A sharp downpour, sir,” he remarked. “Have you been in the house all the time?” demanded Mr. Bennett. “Yes, sir.” “Didn’t you hear me shouting?” “I did fancy I heard something, sir.” “Then why the devil didn’t you come to me?” “I supposed it to be the owls, sir, a bird very frequent in this locality. They make a sort of harsh, hooting howl, sir. I have sometimes wondered,” said Webster, pursuing a not uninteresting train of thought, “whether that might be the reason of the name.” Before Mr. Bennett could join him in the region of speculation into which he had penetrated, there was a grinding of brakes on the gravel outside, and the wettest motor car in England drew up at the front door. § 3