e, with a long dark cloak over a
light dress. She raised her arms frantically, calling to me. Therefore
I put down the brakes hard, stopped, and then reversed the car, until
I came back to where she stood in the muddy road.

The moment she opened her mouth I recognised that she was a lady.

"Excuse me," she exclaimed breathlessly, "but would you do me a great
favour--and take us on to Wansford--to the railway?" And looking, I made
out that she held by the hand a fair-haired little lad about seven years
of age, well dressed in a thick overcoat and knitted woollen cap and
gloves. "You will not refuse, will you?" she implored. "The life of a
person very dear to me depends upon it." And in her voice I detected an
accent by which I knew she was not English.

Seeing how deeply in earnest she was, and that she was no mere wayfarer
desirous of a "lift," I expressed my readiness to do her a favour, and,
getting down, opened the door of the _tonneau_, removed the waterproof
rug, and assisted the little lad and herself to get in.

"Ah, sir, this kindness is one for which I can never sufficiently thank
you. Others may be able to render you some service in return," she said,
"but for myself I can only give you the heartfelt thanks of a distressed
woman."

In her refined voice there was a ring of deep earnestness. Who could she
be?

The hood of her heavy, fur-lined cape was drawn over her head, and in
the darkness I could not distinguish her features. The little boy
huddled close to her as we tore on towards Wansford Station, her
destination, fifteen miles distant. The ceaseless rain fell heavier as
we entered the long, old-world village of Stilton, and noticing they
had no mackintoshes, I pulled up before the "Bell," that well-known inn
of the coaching days where the York coaches changed horses.

"You are not surely going to make a stop here, are you? No one must see
us. Let us go on!" she urged in apprehension.

"But you can't go through this storm," I said. "No one shall see you.
There is a little sitting-room at the side that we may have until the
rain has ceased." And then, with apparent reluctance, she allowed me to
lead her and the boy through the old stone hall and into the little,
low, old-fashioned room, the window of which, with its red blind, looked
out upon the village street.

As she seated herself in the high-backed arm-chair beside the fire, her
dark, refined face was turned towards me, while the little lad