The lane twisted on, the gradient becoming steeper and the surface worse. Sir Evelyn ventured from time to time to raise his strained eyes from the road immediately in front of him and glance at the roofs of the houses which lay below, and the sea, blue and sparkling, below them. Each time he looked the roofs and the sea seemed a little nearer, which cheered him; but the descent still twisted before him. He began to wonder whether his nerves would remain under control until he reached the bottom. Sweat broke out on his forehead and trickled into his eyes, cold sweat. His hands on the wheel were moist and cold. On the other hand--such are the compensations which nature arranges--the inside of his mouth became perfectly dry, so that it was painful to swallow. Yet he had to swallow each time he crawled round one of the blind corners and found nothing on the other side. There was much excuse for Sir Evelyn's nervousness. A highly skilled driver would have disliked the hill. Sir Evelyn was a novice. A reckless youth would have hesitated over it. Sir Evelyn was sixty-five and most unwilling to throw away the few years of life remaining to him. It is greatly to his credit and a proof of the fine qualities which had raised him to the position of Cabinet Minister that he reached the bottom of the hill safely. Passing a row of fishermen's cottages, he crawled, not daring to change gear, till he came to the Anchor Inn. There he stopped. A board, either new or newly painted, announced that James Hinton was licensed to sell beer, spirits and tobacco. Sir Evelyn passed the tip of a dry tongue across a dry lip. At the moment it seemed to him that beer, even the poorest, thinnest beer, any beer at all, was the best thing the world contained. He left his car and went into the tap-room. Had Sir Evelyn been capable for the moment of any feeling except a desire for beer he would have been surprised at the tap-room of the Anchor Inn in Hailey Compton. Instead of reeking stuffily of stale beer, the place was fresh, cool and pleasant. Instead of a soiled floor, were clean polished boards. Instead of a messy counter and stained tables there was shining cleanliness. Not such are English inns in remote villages. Though thirsty Sir Evelyn could not help noticing the landlord when he came in. He was not in the least the landlord who might have been expected in such a village. He came from an inner room and greeted Sir Evelyn with respectful courtesy. He was a tall, slim man, neatly dressed, cleanly shaved. He might still have been, what indeed he once was, the valet of a wealthy peer. "A glass of beer," said Sir Evelyn. "In fact a jug of beer." The landlord, the James Hinton of the newly painted board, spread out apologetic hands. "Very sorry sir," he said. "Very sorry indeed, sir; but at this hour---- The law, sir. The law. Most unfortunate, but you know how it is, sir."