He believed it implicitly. Radnor, a mild and worried young man, with quite a sound knowledge of his business, might struggle along and earn a hand-to-mouth living. But he lacked driving-power. To Triona, during his two or three interviews with him, that was obvious. He had sufficient capital for a start, a good garage equipment, a fairly modern 25 h.p. utility car and was trying to make up his mind to buy another. Triona divined his irresolution. He would be at the mercy of unscrupulous mechanics and chauffeurs. His spirit seemed to have been broken by two years imprisonment in Germany. He had lost the secret of command. And, by nature, a modest, retiring gentleman. Triona pitied him. He had wandered through the West of England seeking a pitch where the competition was not too fierce, and finding unprogressive Fanstead, had invested all his capital in the business. He had been there a couple of months during which very little work had come in. He could stick it out for six months more. After that the deluge. “Give me four pounds a week as head mechanic and chauffeur,” said Triona, “and the deluge will be golden rain.” This was after the exhibition of John Briggs’ papers—Armoured Car Column and Minesweeper—and the tale of his Russian chauffeurdom. He had also worked magic, having a diagnostician’s second sight into the inside of a car’s mechanism, with a mysteriously broken down 40 h.p. foreign car, the only one in the garage for repairs, which, apparently flawless, owner and chauffeur and Radnor himself regarded with hebetude. “I’ll take you on all right,” said Radnor. “But, surely a man like you ought to be running a show of his own.” “I haven’t a cent in the world,” replied Triona. “So I can’t!” All this he told Mrs. Pettiland, swinging his sound leg, as he sat on the counter. “The only fly in the ointment,” said he, “is that I shall have to move.” “From here? Whatever for?” “Chauffeurs don’t have luxurious bed-sitting-rooms with specially designed scenery for views. They can’t afford it. Besides, they’re not desirable lodgers.” She flushed indignantly. If he thought she would prefer his room to his company, because he drove a car, he was very much mistaken. The implication hurt. Even suppose he was fit to look after a car, he was not yet fit to look after himself. Witness his folly of a week ago. He would pay her whatever he could afford and she would be more than contented. “What wonderful people there are in the world,” he sighed. But he withstood her generous blandishments. No, there was an eternal fitness of things. Besides, he must live at the garage, ready to attend telephone calls by day or by night. He couldn’t be hobbling backwards and forwards between Fanstead and Pendish. Against this practical side of the question there could be no argument. “And what shall I do with the money you’ve paid in advance?” “Keep it for a while,” said he. “Perhaps Randor will give me the sack and I’ll come creeping back to you.”