tive. "Both my brothers suffered from it. They were pretty bad, but
they're coming all right. It's generally a question of time, I think."

"I hope so," Miss Coburn rejoined, and quietly but decisively changed
the subject.

They began to compare notes about London, and Merriman was sorry when,
having filled his tank and pushed his bicycle to the road, he could no
longer with decency find an excuse for remaining in her company. He
bade her a regretful farewell, and some hall-hour later was mounting the
steps of his hotel in Bordeaux.

That evening and many times later, his mind reverted to the incident of
the lorry. At the time she made it, Miss Coburn's statement about the
shell-shock had seemed entirely to account for the action of Henri, the
driver. But now Merriman was not so sure. The more he thought over the
affair, the more certain he felt that he had not made a mistake about
the number plate, and the more likely it appeared that the driver had
guessed what he, Merriman, had noticed, and resented it. It seemed
to him that there was here some secret which the man was afraid might
become known, and Merriman could not but admit to himself that all
Miss Coburn's actions were consistent with the hypothesis that she also
shared that secret and that fear.

And yet the idea was grotesque that there could be anything serious in
the altering of the number plate of a motor lorry, assuming that he was
not mistaken. Even if the thing had been done, it was a trivial
matter and, so far as he could see, the motives for it, as well as
its consequences, must be trivial. It was intriguing, but no one could
imagine it to be important. As Merriman cycled eastward through France
his interest in the affair gradually waned, and when, a fortnight later,
he reached England, he had ceased to give it a serious thought.

But the image of Miss Coburn did not so quickly vanish from his
imagination, and many times he regretted he had not taken an opportunity
of returning to the mill to renew the acquaintanceship so unexpectedly
begun.

CHAPTER 2. AN INTERESTING SUGGESTION

About ten o'clock on a fine evening towards the end of June, some six
weeks after the incident described in the last chapter, Merriman formed
one of a group of young men seated round the open window of the smoking
room in the Rovers' Club in Cranbourne Street. They had dined together,
and were enjoying a slack hour and a little desultory conversation
before moving