His ideas and Bundle’s on the subject of careful driving hardly coincided. Leaving indignant suburbs behind them, they finally emerged into Oxford Street. “Not bad going, eh?” said Bundle, glancing at her wrist watch. Anthony assented fervently. “Where do you want to be dropped?” “Anywhere. Which way are you going?” “Knightsbridge way.” “All right, drop me at Hyde Park Corner.” “Good-bye,” said Bundle, as she drew up at the place indicated. “What about the return journey?” “I’ll find my own way back, thanks very much.” “I _have_ scared him,” remarked Bundle. “I shouldn’t recommend driving with you as a tonic for nervous old ladies, but personally I’ve enjoyed it. The last time I was in equal danger was when I was charged by a herd of wild elephants.” “I think you’re extremely rude,” remarked Bundle. “We’ve not even had one bump to-day.” “I’m sorry if you’ve been holding yourself in on my account,” retorted Anthony. “I don’t think men are really very brave,” said Bundle. “That’s a nasty one,” said Anthony. “I retire, humiliated.” Bundle nodded and drove on. Anthony hailed a passing taxi. “Victoria Station,” he said to the driver as he got in. When he got to Victoria he paid off the taxi and inquired for the next train to Dover. Unfortunately he had just missed one. Resigning himself to a wait of something over an hour, Anthony paced up and down, his brows knit. Once or twice he shook his head impatiently. The journey to Dover was uneventful. Arrived there, Anthony passed quickly out of the station, and then, as though suddenly remembering, he turned back again. There was a slight smile on his lips as he asked to be directed to Hurstmere, Langly Road. The road in question was a long one, leading right out of the town. According to the porter’s instructions, Hurstmere was the last house. Anthony trudged along steadily. The little pucker had reappeared between his eyes. Nevertheless there was a new elation in his manner, as always when danger was near at hand. Hurstmere was, as the porter had said, the last house in Langly Road. It stood well back, enclosed in its own grounds, which were ragged and overgrown. The place, Anthony judged, must have been empty for many years. A large iron gate swung rustily on its hinges, and the name on the gatepost was half obliterated. “A lonely spot,” muttered Anthony to himself, “and a good one to choose.” He hesitated a minute or two, glanced quickly up and down the road—which was quite deserted—and then slipped quietly past the creaking gate into the overgrown drive. He walked up it a little way, and then stood listening. He was still some distance from the house. Not a sound could be heard anywhere. Some fast yellowing leaves detached themselves from one of the trees overhead and fell with a soft rustling sound that was almost sinister in the stillness. Anthony started; then smiled. “Nerves,” he murmured to himself. “Never knew I had such things before.”