She gave him her hand. “I heard the car. I haven’t kept you waiting, have I?” she asked. Anthony shook his head. She glanced curiously round the room. “No,” he said. “Hastings hasn’t come. He had to get back. That’s my car outside. If you’ll allow me to, I’ll take you up to town now. If you’re ready, shall we start?” He turned to the door. “I’m sorry,” she said as he opened it, “that Mr. Hastings couldn’t come. I wanted to have time to thank him properly.” Anthony, jarred, cheered himself with the thought that there had been a laugh in her voice. He glanced at her face. It told him nothing. Her travelling-bag was carried out and placed in the car. “I’m driving myself,” said Anthony. “Will you sit in front?” She smiled at him and took the seat beside the driver’s. Annoyed with the disturbance aroused in his breast by that smile, Anthony drove out of the gate and down the narrow road to the bridge at a speed quite illegal. Then he slowed down, feeling not a little ashamed. Another new sensation for Anthony Ruthven Gethryn. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Pace frighten you?” She turned to him not the tense, white face he had expected, but a joyous one, vivid with life under the enchanting veil. “Not a little bit,” she said; and laughter peeped through her words. “You see, after yesterday—and all that you did—I feel quite safe with you. As if you couldn’t make a mistake. Not possibly!” Anthony glowed. “Yes,” she said. “Absolutely safe, that’s what I feel.” A pause. “Just as a tiny girl feels if her father takes her out, say, in a tandem.” Anthony fell from heaven with a crash. Good God! “Father!” So he had aroused an emotion akin to filial, had he? Unfortunately for him, to drive a car a man must keep his eyes on the road: he had not seen the little half-smile of joyous mockery that had accompanied that last thrust. He drove on in silence, unbroken until Guildford was reached. Here he had to slow to a crawl. “Were you at Abbotshall this morning?” came in a small meek voice from beside him. He nodded. “How did the inquest go? You see, I’ve heard nothing, nothing! Was it—was it as bad as you said it might be?” “I wasn’t there myself,” said Anthony, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, “but from what I’ve been told, I’m afraid it was.” “But you said you _were_ there.” “At the house, yes. At the inquest, no.” The small voice mocked him. “You do so love being mysterious, don’t you?” “_Touché!_ I believe I do, you know. I’ve been discovering a lot of youthful traits lately very ill in accord with my age.” Something in his tone made her look up at him from under the rakish brim of the little hat. His profile showed grim; it seemed leaner than ever. “I’m sorry if I was inquisitive.” The small voice was smaller and very meek.