So he ordered an aeroplane, a herd of sheep, a shepherd, and two tailless sheep-dogs, and made plans to spend most of his vacation yachting, when he did not spend it in town. But he was restlessly domiciled at Witch-Hollow, now, and he met Quarren at the station in a bright purple runabout which he drove like lightning, one hand on the steering wheel, the other carelessly waving toward the streaky landscape in affable explanation of the various points of interest. "Quite a little colony of us up here, Quarren," he said. "I don't know why anybody picked out this silly country for estates, but Langly Sprowl started a stud farm over yonder, and then poor Chester Ledwith built a house for his wife in the middle of a thousand acres, over there where you see those maple woods!--and then people began to come and pick up worn-out farms and make 'em into fine old family places--Lester Caldera's model dairies are behind that hill; and that leather-headed O'Hara has a bungalow somewhere--and there's a sort of Hunt Club, too, and a bum pack of Kiyi's----" The wind tore most of his speech from his lips and whirled it out of earshot: Quarren caught a word now and then which interested him. It also interested him to observe how Wycherly shaved annihilation at every turn of the road. "I've asked some men to bring up their biplanes and have a few flies on me," continued his host--"I've a 'Stinger' monoplane and a Kent biplane myself. I can't get any more sensation out of motoring. I'd as soon wheel twins in a go-cart." Quarren saw him cleverly avoid death with one hand, and laughed. "Who is stopping with you up here?" he shouted close to Wycherly's ear. "Nobody--Mrs. Leeds, Chrysos Lacy, and Sir Charles. There are some few neighbours, too--Langly is mousing and prowling about; and that poor Ledwith man is all alone in his big house--fixing to get out of it so his wife can move in from Reno when she's ready for more mischief.... Here we are, Quarren! Your stuff will be in your rooms in a few minutes. There's my wife, now----" He waved his hand to Molly but let Quarren go forward alone while he started across the fields toward his hangar where, in grotesque and vicious-looking immobility, reposed his new winged pet, the little Stinger monoplane, wings set as wickedly as an alert wasp's. CHAPTER IX As Quarren came forward between the peonies drooping over the flagged walk, Molly Wycherly, awaiting him on the veranda, laid her forefinger across her lips conjuring caution. "I didn't tell Strelsa that you were coming," she whispered; "I didn't suppose the child could possibly object." Quarren's features stiffened: "Does she?" "Why--this morning I said carelessly to Jim that I meant to ask you, and Strelsa came into my room later and begged me not to ask you until she had left." "Why?" inquired the boy, grimly. "I really don't know, Ricky----" "Yes, you do. What has happened?" "You're certainly rude enough----" "What has happened, Molly?"