Mr. Dashwood, piloting his undesirable companion, led the way to the station, where they arrived ten minutes before the train was due.

He had seven pounds, the remains of the twelve pounds he had won at the Bridge Club, and he thanked fervently the powers above that he had the money about his person. To have left Mr. Giveen while he rushed back to The Martens for the sinews of war would have been a highly dangerous proceeding. He felt intuitively that Giveen was one of those people who, incapable of trust, have no trust in others, and that once this gentleman's suspicions were aroused, the affair would be hopeless.

Above Bobby's intense desire to save French and thwart his enemy was the desire to shine in the eyes of Violet Grimshaw, to execute some stroke of finesse, to trump the ace that Fate had suddenly laid down on the card-table on which French was playing the greatest game of his life.

And he had not a trump-card, to his knowledge.

The train came steaming in, disgorged a few passengers, received some baskets of country produce, and steamed out again, with Mr. Dashwood and his antagonist seated opposite to one another in a third-class smoking carriage.

Dashwood was by no means an "intellectual," yet before they reached Victoria the unintellectuality of Mr. Giveen had reduced him from a condition of mild wonder to pure amazement. An animal of the meanest description would have been a far preferable companion to this gentleman from over the water, childish without the charm of childhood, ignorant, and little-minded.

As Mr. Dashwood stepped out of the carriage at Victoria he saw, amid the crowd on the platform, a figure and a face that he knew.

A tall girl with red hair and a good-looking but rather masculine face, dressed in a tailor-made gown of blue serge, and wearing pince-nez—that was the apparition that brought Mr. Dashwood to a pause and caused him for a moment to forget Mr. Giveen.

It was Miss Hitchen, the high-minded girl with the latchkey, the student of eugenics and sociology, the lady who, in a moment of mental aberration, had engaged herself to Mr. Dashwood, and who, after recovering her senses, had disengaged herself, much to Mr. Dashwood's relief. She was evidently looking for some friend expected but not arrived.

For a moment Mr. Dashwood paused. He had never loved Miss Hitchen, but he had always felt a profound respect for her intellect and a grasp of things. In his present quandary, with French's fate literally in his hands, and with no idea how to preserve it, the clever and capable face of Miss Hitchen came as a light to a man in darkness.

They had parted in amity. In fact, the last words Miss Hitchen had said to him were of a nature almost prophetic. "Bobby," she said, "if your irresponsibility ever gets you into any scrape, and I can help you, let me know, for you are just the sort of boy that gets into scrapes that only women can help a man out of."

"Wait for me a moment," said Mr. Dashwood to Mr. Giveen. Then, pushing through the crowd, he touched Miss Hitchen lightly on the arm.

She turned.

"Bobby!"

"I'm so awfully glad to see you—you can't tell. I say, I'm in a scrape—not me, but another man. I can't explain everything at once. Don't think there's anything wrong, but a man's whole fortune is hanging in the balance, and I want you to help to save it. Just look round there. Do you see that fellow in grey tweed, with a face like an—I don't know what?"

"Yes," said Miss Hitchen, gazing at Mr. Giveen. "Is he the man in the scrape?"

"No, he's the scrape. See here—will you drive with us to the Albany, and I'll leave him in there, and we can speak about the thing. He's a gentleman, and all that, but he's slightly mad, and the whole thing is most curious."

"Yes," said Miss Hitchen. "I came here to meet a girl, but she hasn't turned up. If I can help you in any way, I'm willing."

"Well, then, I'll introduce you to him, and I wish you'd study him on the way to the Albany. I can't tell you the importance of all this till we have a moment together alone."

Mr. Dashwood left his companion and made through the crowd towards Mr. Giveen.

"I say," said Mr. Dashwood. "I've just met a lady friend, a most charming girl, and she wants to be introduced to you."

"Sure, with pleasure," replied the lady-killer.

"Well, come along, then."

He led him by the arm towards where the girl was standing, and effected the introduction.

"Now," said he, "as you say you are going in my direction, if the presence of myself and my friend Giveen here will not bore you, may I ask you to take a seat in my cab?"

"Oh, you won't bore me," replied Miss Hitchen, who with a searching glance had taken in the face, form, and bearing of Giveen and who felt for this new type of individual something of the interest a naturalist feels on coming across a new species of insect. "You'll amuse me."

"Faith, we'll try our best," said Mr. Giveen, while Bobby Dashwood went in search of a taxicab. "There's nothing like fun, is there? And, faith, it's fun we've been having to-day, Mr. Smith and I."

"Mr. Smith?" said Miss Hitchen, and then recognising in a flash that the pseudonym was part of some artless plan of Bobby's, "Oh, yes, Mr. Smith. You mean my friend who has just introduced us. And what have you been doing? I mean, what did your fun consist of?"

"Faith, it mostly consisted of a girl."

"Yes?"

Mr. Giveen tilted his hat and scratched his head. He did not shine as a conversationalist, and as Miss Hitchen watched him, something of disfavour for this humourist with the shifty manner of a self-conscious child stole into her mind.

"Yes?" said Miss Hitchen.

"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Giveen.

"You were saying something about a girl," said Miss Hitchen.

"Oh, ay, it was a girl down at a place in the country, and, faith, by the same token, she was old enough to be my aunt," said Mr. Giveen. "It was a bazaar."

"Yes?"

"And she was selling tea behind a counter and up I went, and 'What can I serve you with?' says she. 'A cup of tea,' says I, 'and a bun.'"

"How funny! What did she reply?"

"Faith, I forget, but the next she says to me, 'One and sixpence,' she says."

"Yes?"

"One and sixpence!" suddenly burst out Mr. Giveen. "Why, you might have knocked me down with a feather. And I put me hand into me pocket, and 'Here's sixpence for you,' says I, 'and that's tuppence too much; but you can keep the change.' With that she called an old gentleman up with a red face, and then Mr. Smith came and took me by the arm, and out we went."

"And the sixpence?"

"Faith, I've got it still in me pocket."

"How awfully amusing! But look, Mr. Smith has got us a cab. Thanks, no, I never take gentlemen's arms; it is quite unnecessary."

They took their seats in the taxi, Miss Hitchen and Mr. Dashwood in the back seat, Mr. Giveen sitting opposite to Miss Hitchen.

"The Albany, Piccadilly end," said Mr. Dashwood to the driver, and they started.

Before they had well cleared the precincts of the station Miss Hitchen was alive to the fact that Mr. Giveen was "making eyes at her"—ogling her. Mr. Dashwood noted the same fact, and with his elbow touched his companion's arm as if to implore her patience. To have stopped the taxicab and kicked Mr. Giveen out of it would have been apples of gold in pictures of silver to Mr. Dashwood, but he controlled himself, contemplating French's possible salvation as a Buddhist controls himself by contemplating Nirvana.

At the Piccadilly end of the Albany the taxicab drew up, and Miss Hitchen, who was on the kerb side, alighted hurriedly. She stood on the pavement waiting, while Mr. Dashwood paid the driver off, and then the three entered the Albany. Mr. Dashwood's rooms were situated half-way up, on the right-hand side, and at the entrance of them he stopped and turned to Mr. Giveen.

"Will you come in and wait for me a few minutes? Miss Hitchen will excuse me if I run in for a moment with you to show you the way. You can sit and wait for me a few minutes while I see Miss Hitchen into a cab. Come, this is the way."

Mr. Giveen held out his hand to the girl. "It's sorry I am to have seen so little of you," said Mr. Giveen, "but, sure, if we have any luck, we may meet again."

"Yes, I suppose so," replied Miss Hitchen, releasing her hand. "Good evening."

She waited.

In less than a minute and a half Mr. Dashwood reappeared.

"Bobby," said Miss Hitchen, as she turned with him to the Vigo Street entrance, "I have forgiven you many things, but that Thing is too much to be forgiven without a very complete explanation. Do you know that it put its toe on my foot in the cab?"

"Beast!" said Mr. Dashwood. "Can you imagine my fix, tied to it? I feel as if I were going to burst. Now, look here. Here's my situation in a nutshell. I know a man called French, the nicest fellow in the world. He's almost broken; but he has one thing left—a racehorse. The horse is almost sure to win the City and Suburban, and if he does French will make a fortune. Well, French is training the horse down at Crowsnest, in Sussex. French owes a moneylender named Lewis a lot of money, and Lewis doesn't know where French is. If he knew it, he would send down a man to-morrow and collar the horse. Do you see?"

"Yes."

"Giveen is French's cousin."

"Poor Mr. French!"

"And he has a mortal hatred to French. He has been hunting for his address for the last long time, and he has found it. He went down to Crowsnest to-day to make sure. He strayed into a bazaar that was going on there, and I met him. He was acting like a cad, refusing to pay for a cup of tea. Miss Grimshaw, French's governess, pointed him out to me, and told me who he was, and I froze on to him. I said my name was Smith, and I told him I hated French, and he unbosomed himself to me. Well, here's the position now. To-morrow morning he's going down to Lewis, the moneylender, and is going to put Lewis on to French. Now, you see the position I'm in. For Heaven's sake, try to think of what's to be done."

"When is the race?" asked Miss Hitchen.

"On the 15th."

"Well, unless you murder him I don't see that anything is to be done. If the race were to-morrow or next day, you might chloroform him, or lock him up in your rooms, but you can't lock a man up for ten days."

"He ought to be locked up for life," said Bobby. "Idiot! If I could only make the beast tipsy, I might do something with him, but he drinks nothing—only stone gingerbeer."

"Ah!" suddenly said Miss Hitchen, pausing.

"What is it?" asked Mr. Dashwood.

"An idea."

"Yes?"

"Why not sequestrate him?"

"What's that?"

"Hide him away."

"Where on earth could I hide him?"

"Good gracious, Bobby, haven't you any imagination?"

"Not much," replied the unfortunate Bobby. "I was never any good at working out things, and now I'm so addled I can't think."

"Well, now, listen to me. I don't want to be accessory before the act in this business, and I only make suggestions. Tell me, do you not sometimes go duck-shooting?"

"Yes."

"Where do you go?"

"Essex."

"Where in Essex (I know, because you have several times told me, but I want you to fully answer my question)—where in Essex do you go duck shooting?"

"Why, you know very well it's Flatmarsh, down near Canvey Island."

"Where do you stay there?"

"Uncle James' hole of a cottage."

"Is Uncle James' hole of a cottage occupied now?"

"No."

"No one lives near it?"

"Not within six miles."

"Good. Can you drive a motor-car?"

"Should think so!"

"And hire one?"

"Yes; I've got tick at Simpson's. Oh, by Jove! I see what you mean!"

"I'm glad you do; otherwise I would have fancied that your mental sight was defective."

"I see what you mean. But, look here, if I got him down there, how would I feed the beast and keep him hid?"

"Biscuits and tinned meat can be bought, and enough for a fortnight wouldn't cost more than, say, three or four pounds."

"And there's a well there, so we'd have plenty of water," said Mr. Dashwood. "I say, you are a ripper. I'd never have thought of all that."

"Would Simpson, or whoever he is, let you hire a car for a fortnight?"

"'Course he would. I always pay up my bills, though he has to wait sometimes; but I paid him my last bill a month ago."

"Where is his place?"

"Just close here, in Regent-street."

"Now, another thing—can you imagine what it would be to live for nearly a fortnight alone in a cottage with a person like that, acting as his gaoler?"

"Oh, heavens!" said Bobby. "You think everything! No, I can't, but I'll do it to save French."

"Bobby," said Miss Hitchen.

"Yes?"

"Do you know what I have discovered?"

"No."

"That I'm a fool."

"You a fool?"

"Yes. I thought you were only an irresponsible boy, but I find you're a man."

"Thanks, thanks," said Bobby. "Anyhow, I'll try to be."

"You needn't thank me. Now, have you any money?"

"About five pounds."

"Well, I'll lend you another five pounds. No, I won't, but I'll buy the provisions myself. If I left that to you, you'd forget the essentials. Are there plates and things at the cottage?"

"Lots."

"Well, now, like a good boy, go at once to Simpson's, and order the car, and get back before that animal takes it into his head to escape."

"Do you mean I ought to take him to-night?"

"Of course I mean it."

"Will I see you again this evening?"

"No, but you can write and tell me the result. Same address. The provisions for your excursion will be sent to the Albany by special messenger within the hour. And, oh, Bobby!"

"Yes."

"Do be artful. Say you are taking him out to dinner at a country house. Once he's in the car——"

"Once he's in the car," said Bobby, "he'll stick in it, or I'll smash him up. Oh, leave him to me. But I can never thank you enough. What makes you so awfully clever?"

"He squeezed my foot," said Miss Hitchen.