The girl at his side might have been seventeen, a solemn child, with great fearless eyes that surveyed the occupants of the car gravely. The old man hesitated at Gilbert’s invitation, but as he beckoned impatiently he brought the girl down to the road and Leslie opened the door. “Jump in quickly,” he said. “My word, you’re wet!” He slammed the door behind them, and they seated themselves facing him. They were in a pitiable condition; the girl’s dress was soaked, her face was wet as though she had come straight from a bath. “Take that cloak off,” said Leslie brusquely. “I’ve a couple of dry handkerchiefs, though I’m afraid you’ll want a bath towel.” She smiled. “It’s very kind of you,” she said. “We shall ruin your car.” “Oh, that’s all right,” said Leslie cheerfully. “It’s not my car. Anyway,” he added, “when Mr. Standerton comes in he will make it much worse.” He was wondering in his mind by what freakish inclination Standerton had called these two people to the refuge of his Limousine. The old man smiled as he spoke, and his first words were an explanation. “Mr. Standerton has always been very good to me,” he said gently, almost humbly. He had a soft, well-modulated voice. Leslie Frankfort recognised that it was the voice of an educated man. He smiled. He was too used to meeting Standerton’s friends to be surprised at this storm-soddened street musician, for such he judged him to be by the neck of the violin which protruded from the soaked coat. “You know him, do you?” The old man nodded. “I know him very well,” he said. He took from under his coat the thing he had been carrying, and Leslie Frankfort saw that it was an old violin. The old man examined it anxiously, then with a sigh of relief he laid it across his knees. “It’s not damaged, I hope?” asked Leslie. “No, sir,” said the other; “I was greatly afraid that it was going to be an unfortunate ending to what has been a prosperous day.” They had been playing on the Downs, and had reaped a profitable harvest. “My grand-daughter also plays,” said the old man. “We do not as a rule care for these great crowds, but it invariably means money”--he smiled--“and we are not in a position to reject any opportunity which offers.” They were now drawing clear of the storm. They had passed through Sutton, and had reached a place where the roads were as yet dry, when Gilbert stopped the car and handed the wheel to the shame-faced chauffeur. “I’m very sorry, sir,” the man began. “Oh, don’t bother,” smiled his employer, “one is never to be blamed for funking a storm. I used to be as bad until I got over it… there are worse things,” he added, half to himself. The man thanked him with a muttered word, and Gilbert opened the door of the car and entered. He nodded to the old man and gave a quick smile to the girl.