You're the little newspaper chap who saved my life at Magersfontein.
Thought there was something familiar about you the moment I saw you. You
remember me, eh?"

He turned back his goggles impetuously, and showed Carey his face.

Yes; Carey remembered him very well indeed, though he was not sure that
the acquaintance was one he desired to improve. He took the proffered
hand with a certain reserve.

"Yes; I remember you. I don't think I ever heard your name, but that's a
detail. You came out of it all right, then?"

"Oh, yes; more or less. Nothing ever hurts me." The big man's laugh had
in it a touch of bitterness. "Where are you bound for? Come along with
me in the car; I'll take you where you want to go." He seized Carey by
the shoulder, impelling him with boisterous cordiality towards the
vehicle. "Jump in, my friend. My name is Coningsby--Major Coningsby, of
Crooklands Manor--mad Coningsby I'm called about here, because I happen
to ride straighter to hounds than most of 'em. A bit of a compliment,
eh? But they're a shocking set of muffs in these parts. You don't live
here?"

"No; I am down on a visit to my cousin, Lady Emberdale. She lives at
Crooklands Mead. I've come down a day sooner than I was expected, and
the train was two hours late. I'm Reginald Carey." He stopped before the
step of the car. "It's very good of you, but I won't take you out of
your way on such a beastly night. I can quite well walk."

"Nonsense, man! It's no distance, and it isn't out of the way. I've only
just motored down to get an evening paper. You're just in time to dine
with me. I'm all alone, and confoundedly glad to see you. I know Lady
Emberdale well. Come, jump in!"

Thus urged, Carey yielded, not over-willingly, and took his seat in the
car.

Directly they started, he knew the reason for his companion's pseudonym,
for they whizzed out of the yard at a speed which must have disquieted
the stoutest nerves.

It was the maddest ride he had ever experienced, and he wondered by what
instinct Major Coningsby kept a straight course through the darkness.
Their own lamps provided the only light there was, and when they
presently turned sharply at right angles he gathered himself together
instinctively in preparation for a smash.

But nothing happened. They tore on a little farther in darkness,
travelling along a private road; and then the lights of a house pierced
the gloom.

Coningsby brought his car to a standstill.

"Tumble