Richard saw that Mike was quite as startled as himself at the sound of that appalling crash within the house. But in a moment the Irish man-of-all-work had recovered his wits.

‘Sure,’ he said, his eyes twinkling, ‘the Day o’ Judgment has come along unexpected.’

‘What was it?’ Richard asked.

‘Mrs. Bridget must have pulled the kitchen dresser on the top of her,’ said Mike. ‘Or it’s a procession of cups and saucers down the cellar steps and they missed their footing.’

But, in spite of the man’s jocular tone, Richard thought he perceived something serious in Mike’s face. It occurred to him that the Irishman had guessed the true cause of the noise, and was trying to hide it from the visitor.

‘You’re up early in these parts,’ said Richard, determined to ignore the crash.

‘I’m a bad sleeper, your honour, and when I can’t sleep I get up and enjoy the works of Nature—same as your honour.’ The man looked as fresh as though he had had a long night’s rest. ‘Like to see the horses, sorr?’ he added.

‘Certainly,’ said Richard, following Mike into the stable, which was at that end of the range of farm buildings nearest the house. A couple of Irish mares occupied the two stalls of the stable, fine animals both, with clean legs and long, straight necks. But Richard knew nothing of horses, and after a few conventional phrases of admiration he passed into the harness-room behind the stable, and so into what had once been a large farmyard.

‘No farming here nowadays,’ he said.

‘No, sorr,’ said Mike, taking off his coat, preparatory to grooming the mares. ‘Motorcars and farming don’t go together. It’s many a year since a hen clucked on that midden.’

Richard went into several of the sheds. In one he discovered a Panhard car, similar to that belonging to Lord Dolmer. He examined it, saw that it was in order, and then, finding a screwdriver, removed the screw which held the recoil-spring of its principal brake; he put the screw in his pocket. Then he proceeded further, saw the other two cars in another shed, and next door to that shed a large workshop full of Yankee tools and appliances. Here, improving on his original idea, he filed the thread of the screw which he had abstracted, returned to the first shed, and replaced the screw loosely in its hole. At the furthest corner of the erstwhile farmyard was a locked door, the only locked door in the quadrangle. He tried the latch several times, and at last turned away. From the open door of the harness-room Mike was watching him.

‘I’ve been on a voyage of discovery,’ he called, rather self-consciously, across the farmyard.

‘Did your honour happen to discover America?’ Mike answered.

Richard fancied that he could trace a profound irony in the man’s tone.

‘No,’ he laughed back. ‘But I think I’ll try to discover the village. Which way?’

‘Along the boreen, sort; then up the hill and down the hill, and you’ll come to it if you keep going. It’s a mile by day and two by night.’

Richard reached the house again precisely at seven o’clock. Teresa was out in the garden gathering flowers. They exchanged the usual chatter about being up early, walks before breakfast, and the freshness of the morning, and then a gong sounded.

‘Breakfast,’ said Teresa, flying towards the house.

The meal was again served in the hall. Richard wondered at its promptness in this happy-go-lucky household, but when he saw the face of the stern old woman named Bridget he ceased to wonder. Bridget was evidently a continual fount of order and exactitude. Whatever others did or failed to do, she could be relied upon to keep time.

Mr. Raphael Craig came out of the room into which he had vanished six hours earlier. He kissed Teresa, and shook Richard’s hand with equal gravity. In the morning light his massive head looked positively noble, Richard thought. The bank manager had the air of a great poet or a great scientist. He seemed wrapped up in his own deep meditations on the universe.

Yet he ate a noticeably healthy breakfast. Richard counted both the rashers and the eggs consumed by Raphael Craig.

‘How do you go to town, dad?’ asked Teresa. ‘Remember, to-day is Saturday.’

‘I shall go down on the Panhard. You smashed the other last night, and I don’t care to experiment with our new purchase this morning.’

‘No, you won’t go down on the Panhard,’ Richard said to himself; ‘I’ve seen to that.’

‘Perhaps I may have the pleasure of taking Mr. Redgrave with me?’ the old man added.

‘I shall be delighted,’ said Richard.

‘Do you object to fast travelling?’ asked Mr. Craig. ‘We start in a quarter of an hour, and shall reach Kilburn before nine-thirty.’

‘The faster the better,’ Richard agreed.

‘If you please, sir, something’s gone wrong with the brake of the Panhard. The thread of one of the screws is worn.’

The voice was the voice of Micky, whose head had unceremoniously inserted itself at the front-door.

A shadow crossed the fine face of Raphael Craig.

‘Something gone wrong?’ he questioned severely.

‘Sure, your honour. Perhaps the expert gentleman can mend it,’ Mike replied.

Again Richard detected a note of irony in the Irishman’s voice.

The whole party went out to inspect the Panhard. Richard, in his assumed rÔle of expert, naturally took a prominent position. In handling the damaged screw he contrived to drop it accidentally down a grid in the stone floor.

‘Never mind,’ said Raphael Craig, with a sharp gesture of annoyance. ‘I will drive to Leighton Buzzard and catch the eight-ten. It is now seven-thirty. Harness Hetty instantly, Mick.’

‘That I will, sorr.’

‘Let me suggest,’ Richard interposed, ‘that I take you to Leighton on the new car. I can then explain the working of it to you, and return here, retrieve the screw which I have so clumsily lost, and put the Panhard to rights, and possibly mend the other one.’

‘Oh yes, dad,’ said Teresa, ‘that will be splendid, and I will go with you to Leighton and drive the car back under Mr. Redgrave’s instructions.’

In three minutes the new electric car was at the front-door. Mr. Raphael Craig had gone into the house to fetch his bag. He came out with a rather large brown portmanteau, which from the ease with which he carried it, was apparently empty. The car was in the form of as mall wagonette, with room for two at the front. Mr. Craig put down the bag in the after-part of the car, where Teresa was already sitting, and sprang to Richard’s side on the box-seat As he did so the bag slipped, and Richard seized it to prevent it from falling. He was astounded to find it extremely heavy. By exerting all his strength he could scarcely lift it, yet Mr. Craig had carried it with ease. The bank manager must be a Hercules, notwithstanding his years!

The five and a half miles to Leighton Buzzard Station, on the London and North-Western main line, was accomplished in twenty minutes, and Mr. Raphael Craig pronounced himself satisfied with the new car’s performance.

‘If you don’t mind, Mr. Redgrave,’ he said, ‘you might meet me here with this car at two-forty-five this afternoon—that is, if you can spare the time. Meanwhile, perhaps the Panhard will be mended, and my daughter will entertain you as best she can.’

Mr. Craig seemed to take Richard’s affirmative for granted. Stepping off the car, he threw a kiss to Teresa, picked up the bag as though it had been a feather, and disappeared into the station.

‘May I drive home?’ Teresa asked meekly, and Richard explained the tricks of the mechanism.

Speeding through the country lanes, with this beautiful girl by his side, Richard was conscious of acute happiness. He said to himself that he had never been so happy in the whole of his life. He wished that he could forget the scene in the chalk-pit, the mysterious crash, Teresa’s lies, the suicide of Featherstone, and every other suspicious circumstance. He wished he could forget Mr. Simon Lock and his own mission. But he could not forget, and his conscience began to mar his happiness. What was he doing in the household of the Craigs? Was he not a spy? Was he not taking advantage of Teresa’s innocent good-nature? Bah! it was his trade to be a spy, for what other term could be employed in describing a private inquiry agent? And as for Teresa’s innocence, probably she was not so innocent after all. The entire household was decidedly queer, unusual, disconcerting. It decidedly held a secret, and it was the business of him, Richard Redgrave, specialist, to unearth that secret. Simon Lock was one of the smartest men in England, and his doubts as to the bona fides of Mr. Raphael Craig seemed in a fair way to be soon justified. ‘To work, then,’ said Richard resolutely.

‘Don’t you like Micky?’ the girl asked, with an enchanting smile.

‘Micky is delightful,’ said Richard; ‘I suppose you have had him for many years. He has the look of an old and tried retainer.’

‘Hasn’t he!’ Teresa concurred; ‘but we have had him precisely a fortnight. You know that Watling Street, like all great high-roads, is infested with tramps. Micky was a Watling Street tramp. He came to the house one day to shelter from a bad thunderstorm. He said he was from Limerick, and badly in need of work. I was at school in a Limerick convent for five years, and I liked his Irish ways and speech. We happened to be desperately in need of an odd man, and so I persuaded father to engage him on trial. Micky is on trial for a month. I do hope he will stop with us. He doesn’t know very much about motor-cars, but we are teaching him, and he does understand horses and the garden.’

‘Only a fortnight!’ was all Richard’s response.

‘Yes, but it seems years,’ said the girl.

‘I was much struck by his attractive manner,’ said Richard, ‘when he came to my room last night with your message.’

‘My message?’

‘Yes, about breakfast.’

‘That must be a mistake,’ said Teresa. ‘I never sent any message.’

‘He said that you desired to remind me that breakfast was at seven o’clock.’

Teresa laughed.

‘Oh!’ she said, ‘that’s just like Micky, just like Micky.’

The frank, innocent gaiety of that laugh made Richard forget Teresa’s fibs of the previous night. He could think of nothing but her beauty, her youth, her present candour. He wished to warn her. In spite of the obvious foolishness of such a course, he wished to warn her—against herself.

‘Has it ever occurred to you, Miss Craig,’ he said suddenly, and all the time he cursed himself for saying it, ‘that Mr. Craig’s—er—mode of life, and your own, might expose you to the trickeries of scoundrels, or even to the curiosity of the powers that be? Permit me, though our acquaintance is so brief and slight, to warn you against believing that things are what they appear to be.’

There was a pause.

‘Mr. Redgrave,’ she said slowly, ‘do you mean to imply——’

‘I mean to imply nothing whatever, Miss Craig.’

‘But you must——’

‘Listen. I saw you at the circus yesterday, and in the——’

He stopped at the word ‘chalk-pit.’ He thought that perhaps he had sacrificed himself sufficiently.

‘At the circus!’ she exclaimed, then blushed as red as the vermilion wheels of the electric car. ‘You are an excessively rude man!’ she said.

‘I admit it,’ he answered.

‘But I forgive you,’ she continued, more mildly; ‘your intentions are generous.’

‘They are,’ said Richard, and privately called himself a hundred different sorts of fool.

Why, why had he warned her against espionage? Why had he stultified his own undertaking, the whole purpose of his visit to Queen’s Farm, Hockliffe? Was it because of her face? Was Richard Redgrave, then, like other foolish young men in spring? He admitted that it appeared he was.

When they arrived at the farm Richard deposited his hostess at the front-door, and ran the car round to the outbuildings, calling for Micky. But Micky was not about He saw the stable-door open, and, dismounting, he entered the stable. There was no sign of Micky. He went into the harness-room and perceived Micky’s coat still hanging on its peg. He also perceived something yellow sticking out of the inside pocket of the coat He made bold to examine the pocket, and found a French book—the Memoirs of Goron, late chief of the Paris police.

‘Rather a strange sort of Irish tramp,’ Richard thought, ‘to be reading a French book, and such a book!’

With the aid of the admirable collection of tools in Mr. Raphael Craig’s workshop, Richard, who was decidedly a gifted amateur in the art of engineering, set to work on the damaged motor-cars, and an hour before lunch-time both the Panhard and the DÉcauville voiturette were fully restored to the use of their natural functions. He might easily have elongated his task, after the manner of some British workmen, so as to make it last over the week-end; but he had other plans, and, besides, he was not quite sure whether he wished to continue the quest which he had undertaken on behalf of Mr. Simon Lock.

At twelve o’clock he made his way to the house, and found Micky weeding the drive. The two mares were capering in the orchard meadow which separated the house from the road.

‘Well, Mike,’ said Richard, ‘I see you’ve lived in France in your time.’

‘Not me, sorr! And what might your honour be after with those words?’

‘You weed in the French way,’ Richard returned—‘on hands and knees instead of stooping.’

It was a wild statement, but it served as well as another.

‘I’ve never been to France but once, your honour, and then I didn’t get there, on account of the sea being so unruly. ’Twas a day trip to Boulogne from London, and sure we had everything in the programme except Boulogne. ’Twas a beautiful sight, Boulogne, but not so beautiful as London when we arrived back at night, thanks to the Blessed Virgin.’

‘Then you are a French scholar?’ said Richard.

‘Wee, wee, bong, merci! That’s me French, and it’s proud I am of it, your honour. I’ve no other tricks.’

‘Haven’t you!’ thought Richard; and he passed into the house.

Mike proceeded calmly with his weeding. On inquiry for Miss Craig, Bridget, with a look which seemed to say ‘Hands off,’ informed him that the young lady was in the orchard. He accordingly sought the orchard, and discovered Teresa idly swinging in a hammock that was slung between two apple-trees.

‘Well, Mr. Redgrave,’ she questioned, ‘have you found that lost screw?’

‘I have found it,’ he said, ‘and put both cars in order. What with three cars and two horses, you and Mr. Craig should be tolerably well supplied with the means of locomotion.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘After all, the horses are the best.’ She sat up in the hammock and called ‘Hetty!’ One of the mares lifted its head, whinnied, and advanced sedately to the hammock. Teresa stroked the creature’s nose. ‘Isn’t she a beauty, Mr. Redgrave? See.’

In an instant Teresa had sprung on the mare’s back, and was cantering, bareback and without bridle, across the meadow. Hetty was evidently docile to the last degree, and could be guided by a touch of the hand on the neck.

‘What do you think of that, Mr. Redgrave?’ asked the girl proudly when she returned.

Richard paused.

‘It is as good as Juana,’ he said quietly. ‘I had no idea you were such a performer.’

Teresa flushed as she slipped easily, to the ground.

‘I am not such a performer,’ she stiffly replied.

‘I came to tell you,’ said Richard, ignoring her petulance, ‘that I have to go to a place in the village on some other business for my firm, I will get my lunch at one of the inns, and be back at——’

‘Now, Mr. Redgrave,’ she interrupted him, ‘don’t be horrid. I have told Bridget to prepare a charming lunch for us at one-fifteen, and at one-fifteen it will be ready. You cannot possibly leave me to eat it alone.’

‘I can’t,’ he admitted. ‘At one-fifteen I will be here. Thank you for telling Bridget to get something charming.’ He raised his hat and departed.

Now, the first dwelling in the village of Hockliffe as you enter it by Watling Street from the south is a small double-fronted house with a small stable at the side thereof. A vast chestnut-tree stands in front of it, and at this point the telegraph-wires, which elsewhere run thickly on both sides of the road, are all carried on the left side, so as not to interfere with the chestnut-tree. Over the front-door of the house, which is set back in a tiny garden, is a sign to this effect: ‘Puddephatt, Wine Merchant.’ Having descried the sign, the observant traveller will probably descry rows of bottles in one of the windows of the house.

As Richard sauntered down the road in search of he knew not what, Mr. Puddephatt happened to be leaning over his railings—a large, stout man, dressed in faded gray, with a red, cheerful face and an air of unostentatious prosperity.

‘Morning,’ said Puddephatt.

‘Morning,’ said Richard.

‘Fine morning, said Mr. Puddephatt.

Richard accepted the proposition and agreed that it was a fine morning. Then he slackened speed and stopped in front of Mr. Puddephatt.

‘You are Mr. Puddephatt?’

‘The same, sir.’

‘I suppose, you haven’t got any Hennessy 1875 in stock?’

‘Have I any Hennessy 1875 in stock, sir? Yes, I have, sir. Five-and-six a bottle, and there’s no better brandy nowhere.’

‘I’m not feeling very well,’ said Richard, ‘and I always take Hennessy 1875 when I’m queer, and one can’t often get it at public-houses.’

‘No, you can’t, sir.’

‘You don’t hold a retail license?’ Richard asked.

‘No, sir. I can’t sell less than a shilling’s worth, and that mustn’t be drunk on the premises. But I tell you what I can do—I’ll give you a drop. Come inside, sir.’

‘It’s awfully good of you,’ said the brazen Richard; and he went inside and had the drop.

In return he gave Mr. Puddephatt an excellent cigar. Then they began to talk.

‘I want a lodging for a night or two,’ Richard said after a time; and he explained that he had brought a motor-car up to the Queen’s Farm, and had other business in the district for his firm.

‘I can find ye a lodging,’ said Mr. Puddephatt promptly. ‘An aunt o’ mine at the other end of the village has as nice a little bedroom as ever you seed, and she’ll let you have it for a shilling a night, and glad.’

‘Could you arrange it for me?’ Richard asked.

‘I could, sir,’ said Mr. Puddephatt; and then reflectively: ‘So you’ve come up to Queen’s Farm with a motor-car. Seems there ’re always having motor-cars there.’

‘I suppose they’re perfectly safe, eh?’ said Richard.

‘Oh, they’re safe enough,’ Mr. Puddephatt replied emphatically. ‘Very nice people, too, but a bit queer.’

‘Queer? How?’

Mr. Puddephatt laughed hesitatingly.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that Miss Craig’s knocking about these roads on them motor-cars day and night. Not but what she’s a proper young lady.’

‘But everyone goes about on motor-cars nowadays,’ said Richard.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Puddephatt. ‘But everyone doesn’t pay all their bills in new silver same as the Craigs.’

‘They pay for everything in new silver, do they?’ said Richard.

‘That they do, sir. I sold ’em a couple of Irish mares when they first come to the Queen’s Farm. Dashed if I didn’t have to take the money away in my dog-cart!’

‘But is it not the fact that an uncle of Mr. Craig’s died a couple of years ago and left him a large fortune in silver—an old crank, wasn’t he?’

‘So people say,’ said Mr. Puddephatt sharply, as if to intimate that people would say anything.

‘It’s perfectly good silver, isn’t it?’ Richard asked.

‘Oh, it’s good enough!’ Mr. Puddephatt admitted in the same tone as he had said ‘Oh, they’re safe enough!’ a few moments before.

‘How long has Mr. Craig lived at the Queen’s Farm?’

‘About two years,’ said Mr. Puddephatt.

Mr. Simon Lock, then, was wrongly informed. Mr. Lock had said that Craig had lived at the farm for many years.

‘Where did he come from?’

‘Before that he had a small house under Dunstable Downs—rather a lonesome place, near them big chalk-pits,’ Mr. Puddephatt answered. ‘He seems to like lonesome houses.’

‘Near the chalk-pits, eh?’ said Richard.

‘As you’re a motorcar gent,’ said Mr. Puddephatt later, ‘I reckon I can’t sell you a horse.’

‘I thought you sold wines and spirits.’

‘So I do. I supply the gentry for miles around; but I does a bit in horses—and other things. And there isn’t a man as ever I sold a horse to as I can’t look in the face this day. I’ve got the prettiest little bay cob in my stable now——’

Richard was obliged to say that that was not his season for buying horse-flesh, and, thanking Mr. Puddephatt, he left the wineshop.

‘A house near the chalk-pits,’ he mused. Then he turned back. ‘I’ll let you know about the room later in the day,’ he said to Mr. Puddephatt.

‘Right, sir,’ answered Mr. Puddephatt.

Richard could not refrain from speculating as to how much Mr. Puddephatt already knew about the Craigs and how much he guessed at. Mr. Puddephatt was certainly a man of weight and a man of caution. The wine-merchant’s eyes continually hinted at things which his tongue never uttered.