The man stared at him, surprised. "D'you know Mr. Llewellyn, sir?" McTaggart smiled. "I'm afraid not. But I've got to get at once to Cluar--and I can't find any other conveyance." He saw the chauffeur's greedy eyes fixed on his hand, and lowering his voice: "If you can take me there, _now_," he added, "wait a few minutes and get me back to the station, it's ... five pounds in your pocket." The man gave a little gasp. McTaggart went on steadily. "I've got to deliver a certain message"--(it seemed the best excuse on the moment)--"then catch the London train (with Jill"--he said to himself--"but that can come later.") "Mr. Llewellyn's gone to town"--the chauffeur was thinking aloud--"I _must_ get this petrol first..." he glanced back over his shoulder nervously at the barman, who reappeared dragging two tins from under the low stone archway. "I daren't take you in here, sir," he stooped down as he spoke, pretending to examine a tyre, "but if you'd go across the fields, I'd pick you up at the cross roads." "All right--that's settled." McTaggart again raised his voice. "A nice car--I wasn't sure who the maker was. Thanks. Good day." Off he went with a careless nod. The sun poured down on his head, which ached from his long night journey. The stony path felt hot to his feet, adding to his sense of fatigue. For sleep had been impossible. With every throb of the rocking train he had seemed to hear Bethune's voice and recall scattered, angry phrases. "I thought ... you meant ... the straight ... game!" This was one of the refrains. The wheels had pounded out the words with the scanded beat of a Greek chorus. Well?--so he did--Bethune was mad! He tried to thrust the thought aside that blame could be attached to him: that, through any carelessness of his, Jill might have suffered. But still it rankled. "She's only a child..." he said to himself. "She understands. Bethune's an ass! ... And as to 'Aunt Elizabeth'..." Back it came with hammering force: "I thought ... you meant ... the straight ... game! ... I thought ... you meant..." He swore aloud. As the dawn stole in through the windows, wan over the misty hills, the words suddenly changed to these: "Jill's--not the girl--to love--twice." They brought a new throb of pain and the man stirred restlessly. If, after all, Bethune were right? What then...? He shrank from the thought. Jill to suffer because of him!--Little Jill ... the child he loved.... "Hardly a child!" Bethune had said. On went the wheels, merciless. "Jill's--not the girl--to love--twice..." McTaggart remembered suddenly how she had looked on his return when Roddy had played his innocent trick. He could see her sway and clutch the chair. "Peter!" He heard again the note, strange and emotional in her voice. And then at the Fair, two years ago, her face when he offered his tawdry gift--the double heart--and the way she had left him, driving home in front with Bethune.