But suppose Sylvia--oh, dash it, no need to spoil one's brief rest by allowing a beastly doubt like that to rear its ugly head! One thing he was sure of--Robert Fenley could never be a rival; and Fenley, churl that he was, had known her for years, and could hardly be pestering her with his attentions if she were pledged to another man. Moreover he, John, newly in love and tingling with the thrill of it, fancied that Sylvia would not have clung to him with such complete confidence when the uproar arose in the park if----Well, well--the history of the Fenley case will never be brought to an end if any attempt is made to analyze the effects of love's first vigorous growth in the artistic temperament. About a quarter past three Dr. Stern's little landaulet was halted at the same cross-road where a policeman had stopped it nearly three hours earlier. "That you, Tom?" said the constable. "You're wanted at the station." "What station?" inquired the chauffeur. "The police station." "Am I, by gum? What's up?" "The Scotland Yard men want you." "But what for? I haven't run over so much as a hen." "Oh, it's all right. You're wanted as a witness. Never mind why. _They_'ll tell you. The doctor is there, smoking a cigar till you turn up." "I left him at Joe Bland's." "Joe Bland has left Boxton for Kingdom Come. And The Towers is half burnt down. Things haven't been happening while you were away, have they?" "Not half," said Tom. "No, nor quarter," grinned the policeman to himself when the car moved on. "Wait till you know who you took on that trip, and why, and _your_ sparkin'-plug'll be out of order for a week." It was as well that the chauffeur had not the slightest notion that he had conveyed a murderer to London when he began to tell his tale to his employer and the detectives. They wanted a plain, unvarnished story, and got it. On leaving the offices in Bishopsgate Street, Fenley asked to be driven to Gloucester Mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue. Tom had seen the last of him standing on the pavement, with a suitcase on the ground at his feet. He was wearing an overcoat and a derby hat, and was pressing an electric bell. "He tol' me I needn't wait, so I made for the Edgware Road; an' that's all," said Tom. "Cool as a fish!" commented Furneaux. "Well, sir, I didn't get hot over it," said the surprised chauffeur. "I'm not talking about you. Could you manage another run to town? Are you too tired?" The mystified Tom looked at his employer. Dr. Stern laughed. "Go right ahead!" he cried. "I'm thinking of buying a new car. A hundred and twenty miles in one night should settle the matter so far as this old rattletrap is concerned." "Of course we'll pay you, doctor," said Winter. "That's more than Hilton Fenley will ever do, I'm afraid." Tom tickled his scalp under his cap.