croaking. A
long grey Vauxhall car with a special body was coming down the road at
speed. Cranbourne ran forward in its track, waving his arms. The man
at the wheel looked over and braked. The big car did a double two way
skid, tore serpentine ruts on the metalled road surface and stopped.

"Trying to get killed?" asked its owner sweetly. "'Cos you seem to
have got the right idea of doing it."

"I want to get to Town and get there quick," said Cranbourne.

"So do I," said the man at the wheel, grinning amiably, "but it's a
daily habit of mine. In you get!"

"By gad," said Cranbourne, leaping in as the car began to move, "I
believe you come straight from heaven."

"I come from the Slough Trading Company as a matter of fact," said the
young man, running through his gears from first to top like a pianist
playing a scale. "Hope you don't mind a bit of noise. She talks some
when she's moving."

He trod hard on the accelerator and somewhere behind a machine gun
opened fire, at first articulately and then, as the pace increased,
becoming an inarticulate solid roar. The beat of the engine, the sense
of speed and the rush of the wind past his ears infected Cranbourne
with a fierce exhilaration.

"Bless your heart," he shouted, "keep her at it."

"You bet," came the response.

"Gad, she can move. You must have pretty urgent business to push her
along like this."

"Want to buy some collars as a matter of fact," said the young man.
"No point wasting time on a job of that kind."

CHAPTER 7.

THE NIGHT OF THE 27TH.

At the flat in Albemarle Street Anthony Barraclough sat alone devouring
a grilled steak. He was reticent of speech and every now and then he
shot a glance at the clock. In the golden shadows beyond the rays of
the table lamp, Doran, his servant, stood in silent attention to his
master's wants.

Doran was a person of understanding and one of the few people in the
world who shared a measure of Barraclough's confidence. A late
corporal of the Black Watch, he had reverted to act as Barraclough's
batman throughout the major portion of the war. Rather a curious
mixture was Doran. He had a light hand for an omelette and a heavy
fist in a mix up, a sense of humour in adversity and a seriousness in
ordinary affairs of daily life, a shrewd observer, a flawless servant
and a staunch ally. Very little got past Frederic Doran.

Barraclough shook his head at a bundle of cheese straws and lit a