Mr. Giveen, left alone in Mr. Dashwood's chambers, took a comfortable seat in an arm-chair and gazed around him.

He felt that he had fallen on his feet. He had extracted two bottles of ginger-beer, some biscuits, and a drive in a taxicab from his new-found friend. He was going to extract a dinner. He was about to have his revenge on French. All these things combined to cast him into a pleasant and amused state of mind, and he looked with satisfaction at all the evidences of well-being around him.

Then he got up and began a circuit of the room, looking at the prints on the wall, examining his own face in the looking-glass, touching the boxing-gloves and foils. Then he examined the writing-table. Fortunately there were no letters with Mr. Dashwood's name on them, and when he had turned over the books and taken another peep at himself in the glass he resumed his seat, and presently fell into a doze which deepened into slumber.

He had slept like this for some three-quarters of an hour, when he was awakened by the entry of his new friend.

"Well," said Bobby in a cheerful voice. "How are you getting along? Been asleep, hey? Now, look here, I want you to come out to dinner with me."

"Right you are," said Mr. Giveen, rubbing his eyes. "I'm with you—hay yow!—I'm half moidhered with all me travelling. And what's become of Miss What's-her-name?"

"She—oh, we're going to meet her at dinner. She's gone on in her motor-car."

"So she keeps a motor-car, does she?" said Mr. Giveen, rising and pulling down his waistcoat.

"Rather! She keeps two. Why, she has half a million of money of her own. And, look here," said the artful Bobby, "I'm only taking you to dinner with her on one condition."

"And what's that?"

"Well, I'm rather sweet on her myself, do you see?"

"Oh, faith, you may trust me," said Mr. Giveen, in high good spirits. "I'm not a marrying man, or I'd have been snapped up years ago, musha! But oughtn't I to go back to me hotel for a black coat?"

"Oh, you won't want any black coats where we're going to," said Bobby with grim jocularity. "They are most unconventional people. But, maybe, you'd like to wash your hands. This is my bedroom."

He ushered his guest into the bedroom and left him there. When he returned to the sitting-room he found Robert waiting for him with the announcement that some parcels had come.

"Let's see them," said Mr. Dashwood.

Four large brown-paper parcels were on the floor of the landing; they had just arrived from Thompson's, the big Italian warehouse in Regent Street.

"That's right," said Bobby. "I'm taking them down to a place. And, see here, Robert, I may be away a few days. I've got a car coming; it will be at the Vigo Street entrance in a few minutes. Just keep a lookout for it, and let me know when it arrives."

"Yes, sir. Shall I pack you some things?"

"Yes; shove a few things into a bag—enough for a week—and stow the bag and these parcels in the back of the car when it comes."

Twenty minutes later, to Mr. Dashwood and his companion appeared Robert, with the announcement that the car was in readiness.

Bobby led the way to the Vigo Street entrance, where, drawn up at the kerb, stood a 40-h. p. Daimler car with lamps lit. Bobby looked at this formidable locomotive with an appreciative eye, and the chauffeur sent with it by Simpson getting down, he mounted and took the steering collar. Giveen, innocent of danger as a lamb entering the yard of the butcher, got in and took his seat beside Mr. Dashwood.

"Right!" said Bobby.

He backed into Cork Street, and then, turning again into Vigo Street, passed into Regent Street.

"How far is it, did you say, to Miss Kitchen's?" asked Mr. Giveen.

"I didn't say—but it's not far—at least, with this car. Are you used to motors?"

"No, faith, I've never driven in one before. And are you used to driving them?"

"Oh, pretty well."

"Do you ever have accidents?"

"Accidents! Rather. That's half the fun. The last accident I had the car turned turtle and pinned the fellow that was with us under the engine. The petrol spilt on him, and a spark set it on fire."

"Good heavens!" said the horrified Giveen. "Was he burnt?"

"Was who burnt?"

"The chap with the petrol on him."

"Burnt! Why, they gathered up his ashes in a bucket. Didn't you read about it in the papers?"

"No," said Mr. Giveen. "I didn't."

They passed down the Strand. The night was clear and warm for the time of the year, a fortunate circumstance for Mr. Giveen, as he had no overcoat. They passed up Fleet Street, by St. Paul's, and down Bishopsgate Street.

"Is it anywhere near here?" asked Giveen as they passed Whitechapel Church and turned into the old coaching road to Ilford.

"Is what near here?" asked Bobby.

"The place we're going to."

"Oh, it's about sixty or eighty miles."

"Sixty or eighty miles!"

"Yes. That's nothing to a car like this. You just see how I'm going to make her hum. I haven't had a car like this to drive since I came out of that beastly asylum place."

"I beg your pardon?" said Giveen, cold shivers going up his back. "Did you say—did I understand you to say—which asylum place was it, did you say?"

"Don't bother me with questions," replied Mr. Dashwood, "for when people talk to me when I'm driving, I'm sure to do something wrong."