To Guild, one "heath" has always resembled another, and now, as they passed through the country at high speed, there seemed to him very little difference between the several named points which marked his progress toward Westheath. Hedges alternated with ivy-covered walls on either side of a wide, fine road; trees were splendid as usual, sheep fat, cattle sleek. Here and there a common or heath glimmered bewitchingly where sunlight fell among the whins; birds winged their way, waters glimmered, and the clean, singing August wind of England blew steadily in his face strangely reviving within him some ancient, forgotten, pre-natal wistfulness. Maybe it came from his American mother's English mother. Near two villages and once on the open highway policemen leisurely signalled the chauffeur to stop, and came sauntering around to the tonneau to question Guild as to his origin, his business, and his destination; quiet, dignified, civil, respectable men they seemed to be in their night cloaks and their always smart and business-like helmets and uniforms. All seemed satisfied, but all politely suggested that passports were now becoming fashionable in England. And Guild thanked them pleasantly and drove on. "Bush," he said to his chauffeur, "this spy scare was ridiculed by the newspapers, but it looks to me as though it were being taken rather seriously after all." "It is, sir." "I understand that about thirty thousand German and Austrian reservists have been arrested in England since war began?" "I hear so, sir." "I suppose the country really is swarming with spies. The paper yesterday said that there was still a great and serious leakage of military information out of England. One paper, yesterday afternoon, reported that a number of spies had already been shot in the Tower." "I have heard so, sir," said the chauffeur smilingly. He was a blond, good-looking young fellow. Always his lips seemed to rest in pleasant curves as though his reveries were agreeable. A few hideously modern detached villas were passed, then hedges, walls, a wood, a modern bridge. "How near are we to Westheath now?" asked Guild, leaning forward in his seat. "We are there, sir." And the smiling chauffeur slowed the car to a standstill at a cross-roads where furze and broom grew rankly over the heath and a few rather tawdry villas appeared among the trees beyond. Guild looked at his watch. It was only a little after seven, an unearthly hour for a call upon any young girl, not to mention one to whom he was personally unknown. A policeman still wearing his waterproof night cloak, came leisurely across to learn what was wanted. "I am looking for the villa of Miss Girard--Miss Karen Girard," explained Guild. "Hyacinth Villa, Number 169. Take the road to the right. It is the only house." "Thank you."