And again I glanced at my well-beloved, whom I saw had already read what was passing in my mind. Our secret was our own. But I was glad to have the views of such an air expert as my friend Tringham, because he reflected what was just then uppermost in the official mind. Evidently the "nest of hornets" fallacy had been dismissed. When the Flight-Commander and his wife left us--for he was on forty-eight hours leave, and they were motoring back to town--Roseye and I went for a stroll back into the town. There was nothing to do before dinner, so we went into a cinema and sat watching the latest picture-drama--a certain photo-play that was highly popular at that moment and which, with transpontine vividness, showed a fuzzy-haired heroine, bound and gagged by the cigarette-smoking villain, flung down into a slimy sewer, and afterwards rescued by the muscular and, of course, clean-shaven hero. I wonder why, to-day, no hero ever wears a beard? Twenty years ago they were all blonde-bearded. But Mr Frank Richardson having declared that whiskers and love are as oil and water, the public have adopted that view. After the "pictures" we returned to the hotel, where we dined and, shortly after nine, left in the car for Holly Farm. The night was again bright, clear and starlit, and the run home was very pleasant, even though the prohibition of headlights necessitated the greatest caution and a reduction of speed. Roseye said little during the journey back. I saw she was unduly thoughtful. No doubt she was reflecting upon that incident on the road. While Tringham and his wife had sat with us and we were gossiping, she had been quite her old self again, but I had noticed that as soon as they had left she had lapsed into that strange attitude of nervous, even terrified apprehension. She seemed to be possessed of some presage of coming evil. And yet she refused--blankly refused--to tell me the truth, and so place me upon my guard against any plot or pitfall which the enemy might prepare for us. We ran on. Noting her silence, I pushed forward with all haste until at length we swung round from the lane into the farmyard, the gates of which old Theed had left open for us. The old fellow ran up to us from out of one of the sheds wherein he had been seated awaiting us. "Mr Munro!" he cried eagerly. "May I see you at once, sir. I want to tell you something. There's some mystery here, sir." "Mystery?" I echoed together with Roseye. Then, noting his scared face beneath the light of my side-lamps, I asked: "Mystery? What mystery? Tell me." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. ROSEYE'S SECRET. Old Theed, the stalwart ex-police officer, was greatly excited.