The afternoon dragged after the pressman’s departure. What Grant really hungered for was a heart-to-heart talk between Doris Martin and himself. But, short of a foolish attempt to carry the post office by storm, he saw no means of realizing his desire. He must, perforce, await the less troubled hours of the morrow or next day. Doris would surely give her father an exact account of the conversation between Grant, Furneaux, and herself that morning, and that greatly perplexed man could hardly fail to see how unjust was the tittle-tattle of the village. So, avoiding Mrs. Bates, whose fell intent it was to ask him what he wanted for dinner, he struck off along the road to Knoleworth, walked eight miles in two hours, and reached _The Hollies_ about seven o’clock, rather inclined for a meal and much more contented with life. Minnie announced that a gentleman “who brought a bag” had been awaiting him since half-past five, and was now asleep on the lawn! A glance at the aforesaid bag, still reposing in the entrance hall, sent Grant quickly into the garden. A long, broad-shouldered person was stretched on a wicker chair, and evidently enjoying a nap. A huge meerschaum pipe and tobacco pouch lay on the grass. The newcomer’s face was covered by a broad-brimmed, decidedly weather-beaten slouch hat, which, legend had it, was purchased originally in South America in the early nineties, and had won fame as the only one of its kind ever worn in the Strand. “Hullo! Wally! Glad to see you!” shouted Grant joyously. The sleeper stirred. “No, not another drop!” he muttered. “You fellows must have heads of triple brass and stomachs of leather!” “Get up, you rascal, or I’ll spill you out of the chair!” said Grant. A lazy hand removed the hat, and a pair of peculiarly big and bright eyes gazed up into his. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” drawled a quiet voice. “Why the blazes did you send for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep I’ve had for a week?” “But why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have met the train.” “I did. Here’s the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly had a fit when I opened it to show her that I was expected.” “You wired from Victoria, I suppose?” “Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn’t Victoria respectable?” Grant laughed as they shook hands. Hart was the most casual adventurer in existence. His specialty was revolutions. Wherever the flag of rebellion was raised against a government, thither went Walter Hart post-haste by train, steamer, or on horseback. He had been sentenced to death five times, and decorated by successful Jack Cades twice as often. “I’m a sort of outlaw. That’s why I sought your help,” explained Grant. “I know all about you, Jack,” said Hart slowly, picking up the pipe and filling it from the pouch. The meerschaum was carved to represent the head of a grinning negro, and was now ebon black from use.