They were entering the outskirts of a country town. The easy-going vehicles which characterise country towns occasionally took up more than their fair share of the road. The chauffeur reduced speed.

"This is Timberham; slow as you can's the best game here--never know when you may run up against a peeler; seems to me they've nothing else to do except pounce on you if you're moving above a crawl; some of them would like to make out that you're doing twenty miles when you're hardly doing two." Suddenly the chauffeur spoke in a half whisper. "What did I tell you?" They had come along a narrow, winding street, where discreet driving was certainly a matter of necessity; it had suddenly widened out into a broad, open space, from which streets branched off in all directions. In the centre a constable was standing with a superior officer. At sight of the car the latter raised an authorative hand. "Now, what's he want?" growled the mechanic, under his breath. "Drat them fellers!"

The officer approached.

"You leave him to me," said Mr Frazer. "I'll talk to him. What is it, officer?"

"Sorry to stop you, sir, but have you passed a caravan on the road?--a primrose-coloured van, with black stripes, and red wheels--something rather unusual in the way of vans; you could hardly help noticing it."

"I'm afraid I haven't been paying much attention. Whereabouts would it be?"

"Somewhere between here and Newcaster Heath. Which way did you come?"

"We've come from the Heath. Why do you ask?"

"Well--we're rather anxious to get news of that caravan."

"Why?--been stolen?--or anything of that sort?"

"No, it's not been stolen--no, nothing of that sort; only--there's someone with it with whom we should very much like to have a little conversation."

There was a significant twinkle in the speaker's eyes. Mr Frazer smiled, as if with perfect comprehension.

"In that case I hope it won't be long before your wish is gratified. There'll be plenty of people on that road to-day--I don't suppose I need tell you that it's race day--if it's anywhere about you ought to have news of it soon."

"As I said, if anyone does see that caravan they can hardly help noticing it. Thank you, sir; sorry to have kept you waiting."

Stepping on one side the officer saluted; the car went on.

Until the town was left behind the chauffeur said nothing; but when they began to bowl along the open road beyond he smiled, with much meaning.

"I saw that van he was asking about in the field which you came out of."

"Did you? That shows that you've the faculty of observation--odd how many people are without it."

"And as it was in the same field in which you were you must have seen it too; in fact, you couldn't help it."

"I never said I hadn't."

The chauffeur considered this statement.

"No, I suppose you didn't, if it comes to that--very artful the way you put him off. He thought you said you hadn't seen it."

"Some of those policemen do think at times."

When he had duly pondered this cryptic saying the chauffeur chuckled.

"I can see that you're a deep one."

"I am not sure that I quite deserve that compliment. What are we doing now? Thirty? At this rate we ought to be in Ashington in under half-an-hour."

"We're doing all of thirty--we ought to be in Ashington in less than twenty minutes. That peeler was looking for you."

"Short-sighted mortal--surely I was near enough for him to see me."

"What have you been doing? I hope it's nothing--you know; I don't want to be mixed up with anything fishy."

"I assure you there's nothing fishy about me. It is not only you gentlemen who drive motor cars who have differences with the police; lesser folk have them also--especially when there's a lady in the case, and a stony-hearted guardian."

"A lady is it? Ah!--I might have thought of that--now I see what the caravan was for--and she sitting behind there all the time saying nothing. Well, you're a couple of cool ones. But when there's a lady about you never know what's about. Not long ago one of my governor's daughters ran off with a young chap what was a riding master. Wasn't there a rumpus! Every policeman in the county was looking out for them--but they were married before they got them--and she only turned seventeen; sandy hair she had."

"It's a dangerous age, seventeen."

"Where a woman's concerned all ages are dangerous."

"That's true. I perceive that you also are a deep one."

"When you've got to drive a motor car, and keep her properly tuned up, you've got to be about all there. By the way, would you mind giving me ten sovereigns instead of those two fivers?"

The change of subject was rather sudden; Mr Frazer glanced round, as if a trifle startled.

"With pleasure--if I have them. But what's wrong with the notes?"

"There's nothing wrong with them--as notes; I know that well enough, only--their numbers might be known, and, if they're traced, it wouldn't suit me to be asked how they came to be in my possession--not by a long chalk."

"I catch your meaning--you're a far-sighted man. However, I give you my word that the numbers of those notes are not known, in the sense you mean--thanking you very much for the insinuation."

"I daresay; still--I'd rather have the sovereigns. I sha'n't forget how artful you were in putting that peeler off the scent. Whereabouts in Ashington do you want me to put you down?"

"I don't care, so long as it is in Ashington. Aren't we nearly there?"

"That's Ashington, round the bend--that square tower's the town hall. It's new, the town hall is; they think more of it than I do--I call it a common-looking building."

"If you'll slow down I'll see if I can find the ten sovereigns you would rather have." He took several gold coins from a pocket in his trousers. "I've got them--here they are. If you'll give me those two notes, I sha'n't mind their being found in my possession. Now if you'll take us, say, a quarter of a mile farther, and then set us down, I'll be obliged."

"I'll set you down by the town hall--I know the chap who built it--he's a sort of cousin of my old mother's. It's the biggest job he's ever had, and he thinks no end of it. I tell him opinions differ--it does make him so wild."

When they had alighted in front of the edifice in question, and had divested themselves of their wraps, the car drove off--possibly to fetch the "governor" from the races. The girl turned on her companion with flashing eyes.

"Why did you tell that policeman such a lie?" Nothing could have been better done than Mr Frazer's air of deprecation.

"Did I tell him a lie? I was not aware of it."

"You as good as told him a lie; you prevaricated--you meant to deceive him, and you did. If I hadn't been such a contemptible coward I should have jumped up and told him the truth--that it was me he was looking for. I believe that every policeman is looking for me everywhere--I feel sure they are. Every fresh lie you tell to screen me makes me feel more ashamed--especially as I know they're certain to find me in the end. There's a policeman over there; I'll go and tell him who I am--now!--and then at least you need tell no more falsehoods for me."

Fortunately, Mr Frazer seemed to think, as he looked about him, there was no one within earshot to notice her wild words and manner, and the constable to whom she referred was some little distance off, on the other side of the way, with his back towards them. He laid his hand upon her arm, speaking with that matter-of-fact coolness which the girl seemed to find herself powerless to resist.

"I shouldn't do that, just now, especially as a train will soon be starting which I am rather anxious to catch. Let's get into this cab, and see if we can't catch it."

Feeling as if she were doing none of these things of her own volition--which, indeed, was the case--the girl suffered him to hand her into it. Presently she found herself entering a railway station at his side; then, a little later, seated alone with him in a first-class compartment--a passenger in a train for the second time in her life. The rate at which it moved; the noise it made; the occasional oscillation; the strangeness of it all--served to increase her mental confusion. She caught herself wondering, with what seemed to be some remote lobe of her brain, if her mind ever would be clear again. He held out towards her a cigar which he had taken from a case.

"May I smoke?" She said yes; and he did, talking as he smoked, in that clear, gentle, musical voice, which made itself audible above the roar of the train, affecting her as nothing had ever done before.

"This is an express, which runs through to town without a stop; we are lucky to have caught it. You look tired."

"I am; I don't know why: I have done nothing; but I feel as if I shall never again be anything but tired."

"You wait--till you're not tired." He was silent; examining his cigar, which did not seem to be lighted quite to his satisfaction. She thought, hazily, how handsome he looked; handsomer in what seemed, to her, to be his smart attire, even than he had looked in his shirt sleeves on the heath. He went on, speaking rather as if he were soliloquising than addressing himself to her: "Queer world! Yesterday you were non-existent; yet to-day your life has become so intertwined with mine that I feel sure that we must have been associated in some prior state of existence."

"That's absurd! My horrid troubles have nothing to do with you--nothing! To you I am only a stranger--a disreputable stranger too."

"You're a foolish child."

"I may be foolish, but I am not a child--and I wish you wouldn't persist in treating me as if I were a child! I believe you have been doing all the things you have been doing--and ever so many of them you ought not to have done--simply and solely because you think I'm a child. Do get that idea out of your head, I beg of you; I'm quite old enough to be able to take care of myself--and if I'm not able I ought to be. Please, when we reach London, leave me, when we get out of the train, and I'll go to the first policeman I see, and tell him everything there is to tell--I feel sure that if you keep going on as you have been I shall get you into trouble as well as myself, and--and I'd rather anything than that. Why should you suffer because of me?"

"When we reach town I'm going to take you to the Vernons'--Frances' father and mother."

"Why should you do that? Why should you try to thrust me on people who know nothing about me, and who wouldn't wish to have anything to do with me if they did? Why should they take me in?"

"All those whys in one sentence! I never knew such a child for whys. Your fondness for asking questions shows you are a child."

"You won't tell me anything unless I do; I have to keep on asking you questions--and even then you don't answer them--I don't know why, but you won't--it's not kind of you!"

"The Vernons have a house on the river, not far from Hampton Court; it's a decentish place; you'll find yourself comfortable there."

"Shall I--that's all you know! In a stranger's house!--where I know I've no right to be, and feel I'm not wanted!--with that nightmare haunting me!--afraid to look a policeman in the face!--comfortable! Thank you; you don't understand!"

"Have you any sense at all?"

"You think I haven't; or you wouldn't treat me as you are doing--but I'm not an utter idiot."

"Then prove it, by acting on my advice. Forget all that it is better to forget; all unpleasant things are best forgotten; and, at your age, forgetting is so easy. Leave the conduct of things in more experienced hands; meaning mine. I'm pretty idle; I expect to find, in the process of putting your affairs in order, congenial amusement. A little bird whispers in my ear that I sha'n't find it nearly such a difficult job as you imagine. You don't seem to have had a very good time up to now; you shall have a better in the days which are coming; you'll find that your worries will vanish, and it will be roses, roses, all the way."

"Why should you do all this for me?--if it can be done; which I doubt."

He sighed.

"Mild remonstrance is plainly useless; you'll have to keep on whying! Did Frances Vernon know that George Emmett took you away from the convent?"

"Of course she did--besides, I told her all about it. She was there when he came--she saw us start."

"Then, in that case, I shall tell Mrs Vernon that Mr Emmett is not so well as he might be, which is a fact, and that, since, therefore, he is not able to take so much care of you as is desirable, which is, again, the fact, I have assumed the charge of you, pro tem. You understand? It may not be necessary for you to say anything--I will endeavour to make it unnecessary--but if you must, you must support my story."

"Your lie, you mean--another!"

"I hardly think that ugly word is called for. What I shall say will be the truth."

"Part of it, you mean. If you were to tell them the whole truth, those people wouldn't let me inside their door--that's what I understand. And yet you say that, knowing that, I shall be comfortable."

"Permit me to observe, since you persist in assailing me, that you speak with that merciless severity which marks the ignorant child, or the green girl who flatters herself that she is just ceasing to be a child. I am as good a judge of what is improper as most people of my acquaintance; if I thought that you were an improper person to introduce into Mrs Vernon's household you would not be introduced by me. I feel, strongly, that you are an inexperienced child; that you have had many things against you; that you are at a period in your career in which you need, above all else, an experienced hand, to keep you from coming to eternal grief. I am going to play the part of the experienced hand, for quixotic reasons, if you choose. Don Quixote didn't have such a bad time of it, first and last; he was a gentleman. If I were to tell Mrs Vernon what you would perhaps call all that occurred last night at 'The Bolton Arms' I should still be telling her what, from your childish point of view, would be a lie; because you don't know all the truth, nor I either; there's much about the affair which needs a great deal of explanation, and I'm going to see that it is explained. In the meanwhile, if there is anything about your connection with the business which you have concealed, and which is not to your credit, now's the time to get it off your mind."

Her manner was much meeker.

"There isn't; I've told you all there is to tell, at least, I--I've told you all I can think of."

"Very good; having weighed what you have told me, holding you innocent, I am going to stand surety for your innocence to Mrs Vernon. Now, do you understand the position I am taking up?"

"But why----"

"No more whys, please; I've had enough of them. Don't you, out of the fulness of your ignorance, presume to set yourself up to judge me, because I, out of the fulness of my knowledge, do or say certain things, which may be beyond your limited comprehension, but which I know to be right--in other words, don't set yourself up to be a censorious little prig--I had almost rather you had broken Emmett's head. I am going to do nothing for you that I ought not to do, but I am going to do for you everything I can. You hear?"

"Yes; I hear."

"Then don't you play me false."

"Play you false? As if----"

"You'll be playing me false if you don't endorse what I tell Mrs Vernon, and if you're not as comfortable in her house as everybody about it will unite in trying to make you. Here are some picture papers for you to look at."

He handed her half-a-dozen, while he unfolded, for his own perusal, a journal of the day. If his intention was to close the discussion he had taken a drastic means of doing it. Ominous headlines stared at him from the open sheet: "Extraordinary Occurrence at Newcaster.--Murder of Mr George Emmett.--Mysterious Disappearance of a Young Lady.--Reward Offered for Dorothy Gilbert." As he read, reflections passed through his mind. "Vernon has often boasted to me that he never reads the police news, or any of his family either. This is a local rag; perhaps they won't make such a fuss of the thing in town. Anyhow, let's hope that on this occasion he's as good as his word, or I shall have to tell a longer story than I intended."