“That there man, sir,” replied Moggridge, who had been summoned, “is the slipperiest customer as ever I seed. ’E’s hout, sir, I believe.” “We might at least try the stations,” suggested Escott, who had by this time changed, and indulged in the hot drink recommended. The doctor began to be a little shaken. “Well, well,” said he, “I’ll send a man to each of the three stations within walking distance; and whether he’s out or in, we’ll have him by to-morrow morning. I’ve always taken care that he had no money in his pockets.” But what is a doctor’s care against a woman’s heart? For many to-morrows Clankwood had to lament the loss of the gifted Francis Beveridge. CHAPTER VII. At sixteen minutes to five Mr Beveridge stood by the side of the Clankwood Avenue, comfortably wrapped in Dr Escort’s fur coat, and smoking with the greatest relish one of Dr Escott’s undeniable cigars. It was almost dark, the air bit keen, the dim park with its population of black trees was filled with a frosty, eager stillness. All round the invisible wall hemmed him in, the ten pounds, seventeen shillings, and sixpence lay useless in his pocket till that was past, and his one hope depended on a woman. But Mr Beveridge was an amateur in the sex, and he smiled complacently as he smoked. He had waited barely three minutes when the quick clatter of a pair of horses fell on his ears, and presently the lights of a carriage and pair, driving swiftly away from Clankwood, raked the drive on either side. As they rattled up to him he gave a shout to the coachman to stop, and stepped right in front of the horses. With something that sounded unlike a blessing, the pair were thrown almost on their haunches to check them in time. Never stopping to explain, he threw open the door and sprang in; the coachman, hearing no sound of protest, whipped up again, and Mr Beveridge found himself rolling through the park of Clankwood in the Countess of Grillyer’s carriage with a very timid little figure by his side. Even in that moment of triumphant excitement the excellence of his manners was remarkable: the first thing he said was, “Do you mind smoking?” In her confusion of mind Lady Alicia could only reply “Oh no,” and not till some time afterwards did she remember that the odour of a cigar was clinging and the Countess’s nose unusually sensitive. After this first remark he leaned back in silence, gradually filling the carriage with a blue-grey cloud, and looking out of the windows first on one side and then on the other. They passed quickly through the lines of trees and the open spaces of frosty park-land, they drew up at the lodge for a moment, he heard his prison gates swing open, the harness jingled and the hoofs began to clatter again, a swift vision of lighted windows and a man looking on them incuriously swept by, and then they were rolling over a country road between hedgerows and under the free stars. It was the Lady Alicia who spoke first.