e?" he requested, and the reply came
back:

"Mrs. Croyle went away with her maid last night."

"Last night?" cried Hillyard incredulously. "But I did not leave the
house myself until well after six, and she had then no plans for
leaving."

Further details, however, were given to him. Mrs. Croyle had called up a
garage whence cars can be hired. She had packed hurriedly. She had left
at nine by motor.

"Where for?" asked Hillyard.

The name of an hotel in the pine country of Surrey was given.

"Thank you," said Hillyard, and he rang off.

She had run to earth in her usual way, when trouble and grief broke
through her woman's armour and struck her down--that was all! Hillyard
lighted a cigarette and rang for his tea. Yes, that was all! She was
acting true to her type, as the jargon has it. But against his will, her
face took shape before him, as he had seen it in the darkness of her
room and ever since--ever since!

He rang again, and more insistently. He possessed a small, swift
motor-car. Before the clocks of London had struck eight he was
travelling westwards along the King's Road. Hillyard was afraid. He did
not formulate his fears. He was not sure of what he feared. But he was
afraid--terribly afraid; and for the first time anger rose up in his
heart against his friend. Luttrell! Harry Luttrell! At this very moment
he was changing direction in columns of fours upon the drill ground,
happy in the smooth execution of the manoeuvre by his men and
untroubled by any thought of the distress of Stella Croyle. Well, little
things must give way to great--women to the exigencies of drill!

Meanwhile, Hillyard grew more afraid, and yet more afraid. He swept down
the hill to Cobham, passed between the Hut and the lake, and was through
Ripley before the shutters in the shops were down. The dew was heavy in
the air; all the fresh, clean smell of the earth was in that September
morning. And as yet the morning itself was only half awake. At last the
Hog's Back rose, and at a little inn, known for its comfort--and its
_chef_--Hillyard's car was stopped.

"Mrs. Croyle?" Hillyard asked at the office.

"Her maid is here," said the girl clerk, and pointed.

Hillyard turned to a girl, pretty and, by a few years, younger than
Stella Croyle.

"I have orders not to wake Mrs. Croyle until she rings," said the maid.
Jenny Prask, she was called, and she spoke with just a touch of pleasant
Sussex drawl. "Mrs. Croyle has not been