At eight o’clock the post office was closed. Moron went down to the nearest branch office and enquired for a telegram, but none had been received; nor were they able to get into communication with Mr. Wills. On his way back to the house, Selwyn telephoned the Bluelight Garage, in accordance with instructions, and they were flying along the broad expanse of the Great West Road, when a faster car overtook and passed them and Selwyn involuntarily shrank back to cover. “Who was it?” asked Lizzy, who had not seen the occupant. Lord Moron raised his fingers to his lips, though the possibility of being overheard was negligible. It was not until the overtaking car was a steady speck in a revolving cloud of dust that he turned dramatically to her and whispered: “Chesney--Chesney Praye. He’s going down too! I knew he was in it. A bounder like that would be in anything dirty!” “Did he see us?” Selwyn shook his head. “No. He was driving; but he was grinning like an ape. That shows!” At Maidenhead they passed the car standing outside an hotel. “He’s gone in to grub,” said Selwyn, all a-twitter with excitement. “The thing for us to do is to be careful when he passes us again.” But no care was required, and his elaborate plan to be immersed in an evening newspaper that completely hid himself and his companion when the car came abreast, was unnecessary, for it was dark when the siren of Chesney’s machine called for a clear road, and the car swept past. Within ten miles of the farm there were a number of enquiries to be made. The exact situation of the farm was difficult to locate, and it was only when they reached Whitcomb village that they were able to take the road with any certainty. And there were other difficulties to be overcome. “There is no sense in our dashing up madly to this old Gallows and saying ‘Where is she?’” said his lordship, with perfect truth. “If we’re on the track of something fishy, and I’m sure everything connected with Chesney is fishy, we shan’t get a civil answer. On the other hand, if there is nothing fishy about the business, we’ll be getting ourselves a bad reputation if we barge in and there’s nothing--er----” “Fishy,” suggested Lizzy helpfully. Two miles from Whitcomb they held a council of war, and decided to send the machine back to the main road and to continue the journey on foot. This was his lordship’s idea. “The situation requires a certain amount of tact, and if there’s anybody more tactful than me, I’d like to meet them.” They trudged up the dusty road, keeping a watch for Chesney’s car. It was dark by now and they were without any kind of light except the matches that Lord Moron occasionally struck, and both were dead-beat by the time they came in view of the farm. “Not a very cheerful looking place, is it?” said Selwyn, some of his enterprise evaporating. “Beastly dismal hole. Shouldn’t be surprised if there was a real gallows somewhere around. I think it was a mistake to have left the car.”