She was for a moment taken aback, conscious now of a certain definitely inimical attitude in the man who stood looking coldly into her eyes. "You know all about me, then? That is the worst of getting into 'Who's Who.'" "I know more about you than I do about your companion, certainly," he admitted. She laughed mockingly. To a downright declaration of war she had no objection whatever. "That is Mr. Borden, who publishes my stories," she told him. "I don't suppose you read them, do you?" "I am not sure," he replied. "I read very little modern fiction, and I never look at the names of the authors." "Then we must take it for granted," she sighed, "that my fame is unknown to you. If you should see the Marquis before I do, please tell him that he was entirely wrong about the best route here. His advice has cost us nearly thirty miles and a punctured tire. You won't forget?" "Certainly not," he promised. She turned away with a little nod of farewell, to which David's response was still entirely formal. Left alone in the room he resumed his breakfast, finished it with diminished appetite, and within a few minutes was speeding through the country lanes in his great Rolls-Royce car. The chauffeur sat a little uneasily in his place. It was very seldom that his master showed such signs of haste. In a quarter of an hour they were in the avenue of Mandeleys. Instead of turning to the right, however, to Broomleys, he took the turning to the Abbey and pulled up short when within a hundred yards of the house. "Wait here for me," he directed. "If you see another car coming up, blow your horn." He walked across the smooth, ancient turf, stepped over the wire fence and raised the latch of Richard Vont's cottage gate. His uncle, a little disturbed, came hastily down the garden path. His clothes were stained with clay, and the perspiration was on his forehead. David looked at him in surprise. "Working so early?" Vont nodded. "You forget," he said, "that this is not early for me. All my life I have risen with the sun and gone to bed with it. Come inside, David. I'll get this muck off my hands. You spoke of the afternoon." "I came direct from the village," David replied, as he followed his uncle into the house. "I came because I thought you would like to know that there is another visitor on the way to see you." Richard Vont looked round and faced his nephew. His shirt was open at the throat, his trousers were tied up with little pieces of string. In whatever labour he had been engaged, it had obviously been of a strenuous character. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "What's that, David?" he demanded. "A visitor?" "Marcia is at the Mandeleys Arms," David told him. "I am taking it for granted that she is on her way to see you." Vont turned deliberately away, and David heard his heavy feet ascending the staircase. In a few moments he called downstairs. His voice was as usual.