For a moment I stood in the middle of the road, spellbound. The pseudo Mrs. Cotesham was a wonderful sight. Her false front and mass of grey curls had slipped over her ear, disclosing the clean-shaven head of a young man. The paint was cracking upon her face. Thomson's terrible grip seemed to be slowly strangling her, and slowly from out of the wreck there seemed to creep another face, the face of a man with Kinlosti's haunting eyes. He seemed to wrench himself at that moment a little freer from the cruel grip upon his windpipe, and a cry of terror rang out into the mist, the thrilling, horrible cry of a man in fear of his life. The cry was stifled by something which Thomson held in his hand. He turned to me. "Get back in the car and take that box with you," he directed. I obeyed him, glad enough to be away from whatever else might happen. In a minute or two Mr. Thomson returned. He gave a brief order to the chauffeur, the car swung round, and we headed once more for Bath. As we flashed past the taxicab, I caught a momentary glimpse of its amazing occupant, leaning forward, his face buried in his hands. The taxicab man had lit a cigarette and was waiting apparently for orders. "Sha'n't we be stopped?" I asked my companion. "He can telephone." Mr. Thomson shook his head. "The game isn't played that way," he said shortly. Whereupon he put his feet on the opposite cushion and either slept or pretended to sleep until we reached Hungerford. Then he yawned and looked at me. "Can you hold out until we reach London?" he asked. "I don't want to stop for luncheon." "Easily," I replied. "I had a good breakfast, and to tell you the truth," I added boldly, "I'm too curious to be hungry." Mr. Thomson yawned and closed his eyes again. "You can keep your curiosity and your appetite, too, if you like," he said, "until eight o'clock this evening, Milan Restaurant--not Grill Room." "All three of us?" I asked. "Yes." Mr. Thomson closed his eyes, and not another word was spoken until he set me down at the Mayfair Hotel. * * * * *