"Did she?" was the somewhat incredulous answer. "Well, I reckon if she knew the state that steering gear was in she must be hard up for a bit of excitement." Colin laughed, and, stripping off his overalls, stuffed them away into an open locker. "You had better let me have the key," he said. "I don't suppose I shall be back till about eleven. I have promised to go down to Shadwell for supper, only I must slip round to the hospital and tidy myself up first." Davis handed over the desired article, and a few minutes afterward, leaving his car in the gutter, Colin hurried up the steps of St. Christopher's and passed in through the swing doors. On catching sight of him the porter stepped out from his box. "Telegram for you, sir," he announced. "Come in about a quarter of an hour ago." Colin paused beneath the big centre light and, ripping open the envelope, pulled out its contents. The message was short but very much to the point: "Please call at the Red Lodge to-morrow three-thirty.--CARTER." CHAPTER THREE In the days when a young and promising draper, called Mr. John Barker, had recently opened a small shop in the High Street, Kensington, Campden Hill was a singularly attractive place to live in. The favourite resort of affluent artists, retired judges, and other persons of culture and dignity, it still managed to retain a semi-rural tranquillity unknown to any other part of central London. Time, however, which has dealt nobly with Mr. Barker, has unfortunately robbed the district of most of its former charm. Of the old-fashioned houses which stood formerly in their own pleasant grounds only a sadly thinned remnant now survive. Tucked away in odd corners, amid an ever-encroaching flood of "desirable modern residences," they seem to wait sadly for the hour when, in a cloud of dust and mortar, the relentless tapping of the pick serves for their funeral bell. The Red Lodge, the home of Professor Carter, dated back to the leisured days of George the Third. It was a square, creeper-clad house, surrounded by a high wall, with a covered passageway leading up from the street to the front door. Through the outside gate, the upper half of which consisted of an iron grille, the curiously minded passer-by could, by straining his neck, just obtain a glimpse into the neglected garden. Whether it were worth his while to indulge in such contortions, however, was a matter of some doubt, for a desolate expanse of ill-kept lawn, dotted here and there with stunted bushes and overhung by gaunt trees, was the only prospect that rewarded his enterprise.