ute. You won't go by train to-day to Newcastle; you
will drive yourself there in the Fiat. Paul will go with you and drive
the car back."

He went on to give me one or two minor instructions, and then ended:
"That's all, Hargreave."

I was walking back along the passage when Rayne's pretty daughter Lola
came out of the room I had first entered. She must have come out
expressly to meet me, because when close to me she stopped abruptly,
glanced to right and left, and then asked me quickly in an undertone:

"Is my father sending you on any journey, Mr. Hargreave?"

Again her wonderful dark eyes became fixed upon mine, as they had done
on the previous day during the drive from the railway station.

"Don't try to deceive me," she said earnestly. "You will find it far
better to confide in me."

The words so astonished me that for the moment I could not reply.
Then, all at once, a strange feeling of curiosity came over me. Why
all this secrecy about the suit-case? I mentally asked myself. And
what an odd idea to send me to Paris by that long roundabout sea
route! What could be the reason?

"I am not deceiving you, Miss Rayne," I said.

She only smiled and turned abruptly away.

Then, for the first time, I found myself wondering what could be these
precious documents Rayne had told me the suit-case contained? That the
suit-case was locked, I knew! He had not unlocked it since he had
placed it in my charge in London two days before.

My employer gave me some money, and I started two hours later in the
Fiat. As I sped along the broad road from Thirsk south towards York,
with Paul beside me silent as ever, I could not get thoughts of Lola
out of my mind.

Once more I saw her gazing up at me with that peculiar, anxious
expression I had noticed when we had met in the passage, and I
regretted that I had not prolonged our conversation then, and tried to
find out what distressed her.

Several times I spoke to Paul, but he answered only in monosyllables.

We reached Newcastle in plenty of time, for the boat was not due to
sail before early next morning, and I felt relieved at being at last
rid of my uncongenial companion.

I had an evening paper in my pocket, and, to while away the time, I
lay in my narrow berth and began to read. Presently my glance rested
upon a paragraph which stated that two days before a dressing-case
belonging to Lady Norah Kendrew disappeared in the most extraordinary
manner from the hotel in Lo