At that moment Josh returned. Wiping his mouth with a soiled red handkerchief, he took his place at the wheel. "Some hooch!" he remarked, with a wise, sidelong wink, and the car started laboriously up the road. Peter, still looking at the offending paper, rapidly formulated his defence as they crawled up the steep mountain side. The roadbed here was of red shale, smooth and well tended, a strong contrast to the back roads they had been traversing. Soon they came to a great rough stone gateway and a lodge. They were held up here, while the lodge keeper telephoned the Atterbury cottage, where, he said, Mr. Donald Morris was stopping. "It's all right. You can go right up, sir," he said, returning after a moment. "Do you know where it is? Well, you take the first turn to the right after you pass the inn, and it's the last house before you come to the church. You can't miss it. Thank you, sir." "Some style," grumbled Josh, as the car moved away. "Would ye think this was once a free country?" He addressed the world at large, and Peter did not trouble to answer. He had too much to think about even to notice the exquisite woodland park through which they were passing; the great old mossy trees, the broad red road, the ferns and wild flowers, the primitive forest, broken here and there by wide velvet lawns and low, broad, picturesque cottages. He was the first, however, to realize that they had reached their journey's end. "There's the church, Josh," he said, "and this will be the house. Drive in and wait a minute till I make sure." He sprang up the two low steps almost before the old car had stopped, and in a second returned and slipped a bill and some jingling coins into Josh's outstretched hand. "More hooch," he explained the coins with a wink, and Josh trundled away with a large admiration of his "fare" in his leathery old heart. The servant, from whom Peter had made his inquiries, again met him at the door as he crossed the porch. "Mrs. Atterbury would like to see you before you go up to Mr. Morris, if you please, sir," he said in a soft, tired voice, and led the way through a living room which seemed endless to Peter, and out on to another wide veranda. "Mr. Clancy, 'm," he announced, in a tone which disclaimed all responsibility for so plebeian a name, and softly vanished, leaving Peter face to face with Mrs. Francis Atterbury. It was an ill moment for poor Peter, judging by the lady's expression.