Smith-Aitken had made the obvious retort. Chard couldn't, he thought, take the money when the damage had really been small. Chard considered the problem: he was disagreeably surprised at receiving the cheque: it had made him look a fool. There was only one reply, to cash the cheque and give the money to a hospital. This he did. Smith-Aitken, on discovering what had happened, was furious. The money didn't matter much to him, but he didn't see why he should have to pay four guineas for making a splash of ink on one of Chard's jocular essays; besides, he now looked the fool. But he was very polite to Chard whenever he met him and they talked to one another with urbanity. On the afternoon of the great day on which Chard and Bavin were to batter one another in the arena of the Oxford Union Society, Chard was walking across the quad when Smith-Aitken came out of the porch. He carried a telegram in his hand and rushed up to Chard at once. "I've just seen Bob Marshall," he said. Marshall was the President of the Union, a new Tory blood and a close friend of Smith-Aitken's. "He has had this telegram from Bavin. It says that his car has broken down badly. They're close to a village with a telegraph but miles from a railway. He wants someone to go and fetch him in. Marshall is too busy; he's got to see to the dinner and a heap of things. But he saw me in my car and asked me to run out. You've met Bavin, haven't you? What's he like?" "I met him at a dinner once," said Chard. "Successful barrister. Face like a hatchet. Stern, morose, and inexorable, you know the type. But I believe he's nicer than he looks." "Well, look here. You'd better come and talk to him while I drive him in. It would be better to have someone who knows the man. You can arrange what names to call each other." Chard was attracted. Bavin was, he thought, a bouncing jackass, but he bounced before a large audience. He was certainly a person to 'acquire,' and Chard went about the world 'acquiring' the people whom he deemed worthy of that honour. It would be useful to know Bavin well and the formal President's dinner would not give him much chance. Smith-Aitken, too, had been civil lately; he really wasn't such a bad chap. So Chard accepted with alacrity and Martin watched them being driven away. Nixon, a friend of Smith-Aitken's, went with them. He wanted a lift to the station. That was at half-past two. At a quarter to seven Lawrence rushed into Martin's rooms. "Have you heard the latest?" he shouted. "Our Chard has been kidnapped. It's all over the place. Smith-Aitken got him in his car and God knows where they've taken him." Martin saw it all in a flash. "But how did it leak out?" he asked. "One of Smith-Aitken's push let on. Couldn't contain himself for glee. Someone on the Bullingdon suggested it. They all hate Chard, and now they think they've fairly got him. No cheers and epigrams to-night." "Are you dead certain about it?"