“Where does _she_ go?” inquired Remsen suspiciously. “To the Cave? Or the Castle on the Crags? Or the Haunted Manor House? Or the Co-educational Club? Or which one of the numerous institutions you maintain in your private city?” “She goes to the Farmhouse. Mrs. Bond, my housekeeper, is looking after her. Seclusion is her watchword. If you see her, make a noise like a dry leaf and blow away. You’ll go, won’t you?” Remsen meditated. “It certainly seems made to order. And it’s mighty good of you, old man. Yes, I’ll just take you up on that.” “There’s a train at nine o’clock in the morning. To-morrow?” “Make it the day after. I’ve got some things to attend to.” “Now, about our jail-breaking scheme? I’ve got an amendment. How would it be if the taxi I arrive in should catch fire at the psychological moment?” “Can it be done?” “Easily. I’m not a manufacturer of chemicals for nothing.” “Great! Keep it going for ten seconds for the benefit of the watchful Murphy, and if you look up after that, you’ll see the Englishest looking Englishman you ever sat eyes on outside the pages of _Punch_, trying to tear my old-fashioned doorbell out by the roots.” “That’s your best make-up, is it, Remsen?” “As good as any. Fortified by my accent, it is most convincing. That’ll be Carteret.” “Who?” “Rodney Carteret.” “Am I supposed to know him?” “Rather. Not know a man with whom you toured for two months in Japan?” said Remsen reproachfully. “Stupid of me,” confessed Harmon, grinning. “Carteret. Good old Roddy! Certainly. Then I’d better capture you—him, I mean, and take him to the nine o’clock train for Boulder Brook, in my taxi.” “Right-o, old thing! Be here at eight-thirty. Cheery-o!” said his host Britishly. Promptly at that hour, on the second morning thereafter, a taxicab swerved violently into the curbstone almost at the feet of the patient and vigilant Murphy, and stopped with an alarming scrunch of brakes. From its window emerged a heavy puff of smoke. From its door emerged Mr. Thomas Harmon, who rolled upon the pavement apparently strangling. Mr. Murphy rushed to his aid. When he was restored to his feet and his breath, and the taxi had ceased to imitate Fafnir the Dragon, a tall figure in an extremely English ulster (which had hastily emerged from the Remsen front door, rushed down ten steps, and leisurely climbed them again) was wrenching violently at the bell. For a time Mr. Murphy regarded him disdainfully, then crossed over, held brief colloquy, and returned. “Hot chance he’s got of breaking in,” he observed to Mr. Harmon. “What is he making all the fuss about?” inquired that gentleman as the visitor again applied himself forcefully to the bell. “Wants to see Mr. Remsen. But the old bulldog of a butler won’t let him put his nose inside the door. Says his name is Carteret, and he’s come all the way from England to see him.”