elder
man tried time after time to get something more definite from him, he
remained silent. Had not his unknown friend urged him to say nothing to
anybody wherever he might be?

So at nine Mead drove up the car to the door, and Hugh, slipping on his
light overcoat, bade his hostess good-night, thanked her for allowing
him the use of the limousine, and promised to be back soon after
midnight.

"Good-night, Hugh!" cried Louise from the other end of the fine old
hall. And a moment later the car drove away in the darkness.

Along the Hog's Back they went, and down into Guildford. Then up the
long steep High Street, past the ancient, overhanging clock at the
Guildhall, and out again on the long straight road to Ripley and London.

As soon as they were beyond Guildford, he knocked at the window, and
afterwards mounted beside Mead. He hated to be in a car alone, for he
himself was a good driver and used always to drive his father's old
"'bus."

"I'll go to the Berkeley Hotel," he said to the man. "Drop me there, and
pick me up outside there at twelve, will you?"

The man promised to do so, and then they chatted as they continued on
their way to London. Mead, a Guildfordian, knew every inch of the road.
Before entering Mrs. Bond's service he had, for a month, driven a lorry
for a local firm of builders, and went constantly to and from London.

They arrived at the corner of St. James's Street at half-past ten. Hugh
gave Mead five shillings to get his evening meal, and said:

"Be back here at midnight, Mead. I expect I'll be through my business
long before that. But it's a clear night, and we shall have a splendid
run home."

"Very well, sir. Thank you," replied his hostess's chauffeur.

Hugh Henfrey, instead of entering the smart Society hotel, turned up
the street, and, walking quickly, found himself ten minutes later in
Ellerston Street before a spacious house, upon the pale-green door of
which was marked in Roman numerals the number fourteen.

By the light of the street lamp he saw it was an old Georgian town
house. In the ironwork were two-foot-scrapers, relics of a time long
before macadam or wood paving.

The house, high and inartistic, was a relic of the days of the dandies,
when country squires had their town houses, and before labour found
itself in London drawing-rooms. Consumed by curiosity, Hugh pressed the
electric button marked "visitors," and a few moments later a smart young
footman opened the do