I

The car was the same two-seater Mercia that had carried Miss Trant so bravely out of Hitherton four days before. It was not perhaps the same Elizabeth Trant, certainly not the one Hitherton had known. She had been running about, discovering England, all by herself; marching into hotels and demanding beds and breakfasts and dinners and lunches; talking about roads and cars and cathedrals to strangers, mostly men. This was something. Indeed, after you had lived with the Colonel for twenty years at Hitherton, it was a great deal, a wild rush of independent life. But it was nothing⁠—mere touristry⁠—compared with her other adventures. The little car had taken her farther than the most distant cathedral, the loneliest hotel. It had plumped her into the middle of other people’s lives, the most fantastic places in the world. She had not forsworn her allegiance to the historical romance⁠—and had read two out of the four she carried with her⁠—but now she regarded its figures with a different eye, meeting its conspirators and dragoons on something like terms of equality. Indeed, she could afford to pity them, for though they had to grapple with all the urgencies of life they appeared to have been denied all but a crumb or so from its vast stores of comic relief. She was beginning to feel now that she knew both. After the first splendid hour or two of escape, Monday had not been an exciting day. Ely, she found, was just fifteen miles too far, so she stayed that night in Cambridge⁠—a town she had visited before⁠—at The Lion in Petty Cury. Term had not yet begun and the little grey town, which she remembered as a riot of rowing enthusiasts, salmon mayonnaise, ices, and lawns lit with Chinese lanterns, was now pleasantly empty, only engaged in decking out its windows with a new stock of caps and gowns and college ties and tobacco jars. She had a little stroll before dinner, ate heartily, then sipped her coffee in the glass-covered lounge, which pleased her because it reminded her of being on board ship. By this time, she was eager to talk to somebody, and did her best with her neighbour, a large upholstered sort of woman who stared straight in front of her, above a magnificent Roman nose.

“I find it more tiring than I thought it would be, driving by oneself, I mean,” explained Miss Trant.

“Do you?” said the other in her deep contralto voice.

“Perhaps it’s because there’s nobody to share things with,” Miss Trant continued, eagerly, “all the little difficulties and dangers and triumphs, you know.”

“Indeed!” The woman still stared straight in front of her.

“It may be because I’m inexperienced, of course,” Miss Trant faltered. It was not easy to talk to this nose.

“I dare say,” said the other, achieving her very lowest notes but not moving a muscle of her face.

Miss Trant looked at her and wondered sadly why people should be so unfriendly. The next moment, however, the woman’s face lit up and she jumped to her feet with surprising agility. A boy about eighteen had just entered the lounge, obviously her son. The woman had not been unfriendly but simply absentminded. Miss Trant felt relieved. She looked about her again, only to meet the gaze of the man opposite, a man with protruding grey eyes, admirably adapted for staring fixedly at strangers, and a heavy greying moustache that he fondled as if it were a privilege to have access to such a creation. She made the mistake of meeting his stare very frankly. It brought him over to the vacated chair at her side.

“Mind if I sit here?” he inquired, in a thick voice.

“Not at all,” said Miss Trant, looking hard at the chair he had just left.

“Thanks. Awfully quiet here, isn’t it?” he continued, his eyes bulging at her.

“Is it?”

“Well, dontcher think so? I know this place pretty well, come here three or four times a year, you know. Not much to do here in the evening, specially if the boys aren’t up. Usually drop into the pictures myself.”

She may have led a quiet life, but she was no fool. There was no mistaking his doggish inviting air. And a minute or two ago, she had been telling herself that people were too unfriendly. And now this. It was too absurd. She wanted to laugh, and some little sound must have made its way out.

“Pardon,” and the man leaned forward.

Her amusement somehow brought her into command of the situation. She fixed her eyes upon the heavy moustache, as if it were a curious museum exhibit, and remarked: “I was wondering if all the men in my family had decided to go to the pictures. I’m waiting for them now, and they’re late.”

“Oh, waiting for them, are you?” There was a change in his tone.

“Yes,” she continued hastily. “My father, my two brothers, my husband, and our two boys. Quite a crowd of them. They’re awfully late.”

He stared at her, but it was quite a different stare. “Yes, time’s getting on, isn’t it?” he mumbled. He pretended to look at his watch. “Time I was moving on.” And he moved.

He left Miss Trant wondering at herself, at her impudence, her courage, her staggering presence of mind. She felt as if she were a schoolgirl again and yet a woman of the world, though no woman of the world, she reflected, would have ever stooped to such a ridiculous fifth-form trick. Something⁠—money or freedom or both⁠—had changed her. She wanted to unbosom herself to somebody very badly now, so she wrote a long letter to Dorothy Chillingford. Then she went to bed.

Next morning, about eleven o’clock, she was at Ely, enraptured by the dramatic splendours of the cathedral. It was at the top of the tower that she made the acquaintance of the fierce little elderly man, apparently the only other visitor there. He had very bright eyes, pink cheeks, a bristling beard, and one of those old-fashioned turned-down collars that always suggest that their wearers are William Morris socialists or vegetarians or leaders of surprising little religious sects. She never learned which of these he was, never knew his name, business, or place of address; but nevertheless they were soon on very friendly terms. It was impossible that they should be silent when they were standing on the high tower together, looking down upon the sunlit plain of Cambridgeshire. He had a map with him and insisted upon pointing out to her every landmark on the horizon. Then they explored the rest of the cathedral together, and she found him a most learned and entertaining companion, in spite of his staccato dogmatic manner. “Do you know anything about brasses? You don’t, eh? Then I’ll explain.” And he would explain, and he hurried from one part of the building to another, explaining. Miss Trant felt sometimes as if she were back at school, but it was impossible not to like him.

Both of them, it appeared, had left their cars outside The Lamb, so they walked back there together and shared a table for lunch. It was during this meal that Miss Trant let fall a remark that was of some consequence because it led to a change in her programme.

“Isn’t it a pity, we can’t build like that now, make really beautiful things?”

“No pity at all,” he cried, putting down his fork. “We can; we do. My dear young lady, don’t you believe that stuff. All rubbish! The world progresses. We can build when we want to. I don’t say we build anything like Ely here⁠—we don’t want to⁠—not our style⁠—all wonder that, cultivated by barbarism, no knowledge of the universe in it⁠—but I say we can build as well, can build better. Look at the new County Hall in London. Have you seen it? Look at the Bush Building. Have you seen that? Have you seen that enormous block of offices near London Bridge? You must get that idea out of your head at the earliest possible moment, you really must, if you’ll forgive my saying so. You say you are going round looking at the cathedrals⁠—that’s the plan, isn’t it? Well, have you seen Liverpool?”

No, she had not seen Liverpool.

“Go to Liverpool at once,” he commanded, and was so impressive that she felt she ought to hurry away at that very moment. He was as bad as Mr. Chillingford. And what a pair they would make!

“Now you can’t say I’m not interested in these medieval creations,” he continued earnestly. “You can’t say I don’t appreciate them. This morning you probably thought I was a little too interested and appreciative, the way I dragged you round and talked your head off. But at Liverpool there’s a brand-new cathedral, finished the other day⁠—so to speak. Not a town-hall or a railway station or a block of offices, but a cathedral, the very thing you’re talking about.”

He paused to take breath, and Miss Trant, who was reminded a little of her father, regarded him with friendly amusement.

“Now what’s it like, this cathedral? Is it a little shuffling jerry-built hotch-potch thing? It is not. It’s large, it’s solid, it’s enduring. It’s beautiful, it’s sublime. And who made it? The men of today. Don’t be misled by this medieval nonsense. We’re better men than they were, and we live in a better world. Building was their chief trick; it’s not ours; but when we want to build, we can outbuild ’em. You never give a thought to most of our building,” he lectured away, forever taking up his fork and then putting it down again. “Take the big liners⁠—there’s building for you. Look at one of ’em.” He said this as if there were several just outside the window. “There’s adaptation to ends, there’s beauty of design, there’s solid craftsmanship and workmanship, everything there in a big liner. You go to Liverpool, look at the cathedral, then take a peep or two at some of the liners in dock, and you’ll soon change your mind about our building. You were going there anyhow, I suppose?”

Miss Trant found herself compelled to say, untruthfully, that she was. It would have been terrible to have told him that she had never even thought about Liverpool; he would never have eaten any lunch.

“Then go there at once, my dear young lady,” he replied, eager as a boy. “See it before this nonsense takes root in your mind. I insist upon your going there next. It’s only a pleasant day’s run from here. I’ll show you on the map after lunch.” And he fell to gobbling his lunch, he was so anxious to have done with it and to show her the map.

Miss Trant sat there, eating daintily, and envying his complete absorption in the matter in hand. It might be babyish, but it must be great fun, she thought, to be swallowed up by things like that. She could as well go to Liverpool as to Lincoln or York, and she decided she would go there, if only to please him. It would, too, be a friendly gesture towards the eagerly-forgetting-all-about-yourself, which only needed what she determined now to call “a swallower.” Buildings and anti-medievalism and progress were apparently all swallowers for this old gentleman, now galloping rather noisily through his blackberry tart. Perhaps she had served other people’s swallowers too long; it was time she had one of her own. But then there might be one waiting for her at Liverpool.

“Here you are then,” cried the old gentleman enthusiastically, pointing to the map. “Huntingdon, Kettering, Leicester, Derby, Macclesfield, Warrington, Liverpool. Almost a straight run across country.”

She examined the route carefully. It seemed to take her through a number of industrial towns, places with trams and lorries and narrow main streets. “Will there be a lot of traffic?” she inquired dubiously.

“Traffic! What’s wrong with traffic? Why, I can give you thirty years, but I like traffic. The more traffic the better. I like to see a place bustling alive. It does me good to drive through a town that’s got some trade. It’s⁠—it’s inspiring. You’re not going to tell me that you’re frightened of traffic.”

“Yes, I am,” she said firmly. “I don’t like it at all. If I’d more experience, I might not mind it so much, but, as it is, I’m terrified. I never know which side I ought to pass a tram on, and when the great lumbering things look as if they’re going to pin me between them I can’t possibly console myself by thinking the town is very busy.”

“Pass them on any side. I do.” He waved an arm carelessly. “I like these little problems of driving. They keep me young. In and out, in and out, stop, go on, in and out again⁠—nothing pleases me better. It will you soon, too, you mark my words. But you’ve nothing to be afraid of on this route.” And he went over the route again, and made such a fuss about it and was so friendly and absurd that she felt herself compelled to fall in with his plan.

“But I can’t go all that way today, of course,” she told him.

“Perhaps not, perhaps not,” he cried, rather testily. Then he ran his finger over the map. “You could get as far as Macclesfield,” he finally announced.

She looked for herself. “Leicester would be quite far enough for me.”

“Leicester! A stone’s-throw, a mere stone’s-throw! You could have tea there, then run on to Macclesfield. That’s the place, obviously.”

Miss Trant shook her head. She did not see why she should be dictated to in this fashion. “I shall have done quite enough by the time I reach Leicester.”

“My dear young lady, I don’t believe you can read a map, I really don’t believe you can. You’re talking nonsense, you know.” He seemed quite irritated. “You couldn’t have an easier run than to Macclesfield.”

She smiled at him. “Yes, I could, and I’m going to. Just as far as Leicester.”

“It’s ridiculous,” he exploded. He slapped the map angrily with his open hand. “Really, you know, you’re not trying. It’s most annoying the way you’re not trying.”

Her only reply to this absurd protest was a little peal of laughter. The whole idiocy of the situation burst upon her. “I’m sorry,” she faltered at last.

“So am I,” he ejaculated. “Very.” And he marched out of the dining-room and banged the door behind him. The door at the other end of the room then opened to admit the head of the waiter. “Did the gentleman call?” he inquired.

“No, I don’t think he did,” she replied. “He went out.”

The waiter withdrew and had no sooner closed his door than the other opened and the old gentleman marched in again. He walked straight up to her, looking pinker and more bristling than ever. “I beg your pardon, my dear young lady, I really beg your pardon,” he said earnestly. “Most stupid of me. You must go as far as you like and stay where you like, of course. It’s no business of mine at all, is it?” Then he smiled and turned himself into a very charming old gentleman indeed. “But you will go to Liverpool sometime, won’t you, and remember what I said?”

“This very day,” said Miss Trant, and they became more friendly than ever.

She never learned his name, and after a time remembered nothing of him but a voice and vague patch of pink cheek and bristling beard; but she always believed afterwards that it was he who really began it all by hurling her across country towards Liverpool. If he had not insisted upon her going there, she would say, nothing would ever have happened, thereby forgetting that she had been busy turning herself into one of those persons round whom things always happen, and also forgetting, as we all do, that the one road we have chosen out of a hundred is not the only road lined with adventure. Perhaps she was right, however, in saying that the particular adventures she did have were really set in motion by the nameless old gentleman who shot across the map. But she never arrived at Liverpool, and to this day has never even caught a glimpse of the town of Macclesfield.

II

She spent Tuesday night at Market Harborough. The next morning, she ran through Leicester, or rather lost herself in what seemed a nightmare of traffic and unlabelled streets and then miraculously found her way out of it, pushed on through Derby, and by lunchtime was out in the rising open country beyond. She came to a village clustered about an important junction of roads, and saw at the corner a pleasant little hotel that promised lunch. There were two cars already drawn up before the front door, but she was able to slip in between them. It was then she noticed that the car in front seemed exactly like her own, the same kind of two-seater and painted an identical light blue. She entered the hotel wondering idly what sort of people owned this twin car.

There were only two persons having lunch. Miss Trant was given a small table in the opposite corner, but as the dining-room was quite narrow she was not far away from her fellow-lunchers. They were a curious pair. The woman was about her own age, a large square blonde with a wandering nose and a mouth that was so big, so loose, and so vividly and inhumanly carmined, that it seemed to have no connection with the rest of the face, to be a dreadful afterthought. She was cheaply but showily dressed, a jangling sort of woman, and she talked very quickly and loudly and was evidently in nervous high spirits. Her companion was nervous but not in high spirits. He was a neat compressed little man, with dark hair parted in the middle, pince-nez about a button of a nose, and tiny moustache. He looked vaguely uneasy. Miss Trant told herself that he reminded her of a rabbit.

Before Miss Trant had finished her soup, there were sounds of other arrivals outside, and in a few minutes four men, three stout and one thin, clomped in and seated themselves at the other end of the room.

The large blonde woman, who was halfway through her lunch, had been fussing some time with a heavy coat. Now she stood up, took it off, and exclaimed, in a curious mincing accent apparently assumed for everybody’s benefit: “This cowt’s an orful nuisance. I’ll have it pet in the caw.” She looked about for the waitress, but the waitress was ostentatiously busying herself with the men’s table, so she walked out with the coat herself, obviously enjoying the little fuss she was making, and returned in a moment.

“All ri’?” inquired her companion, in a weak high voice that was exactly what you expected from him.

“I told the man to pet it in the caw, deear,” replied the woman, reseating herself and attacking the boiled mutton with an indescribable air of luxurious pleasure.

Miss Trant had just decided that she had watched and wondered at this odd pair long enough, when the telephone bell rang. The telephone was in the dining-room, and the waitress answered it. Everybody else looked at her and listened intently, finding it impossible, as usual, to be indifferent to a telephone. “Yes, it is,” cried the waitress through the mouthpiece. “That’s right.” Then she listened. “How should I know?” She listened again. “Like what?” she asked, frowning. “Oh, I see.” And then her glance went travelling round the room and finally rested on the odd pair. It was very exciting as nobody even pretended to eat. “Well, I don’t know,” said the waitress dubiously, still looking the same way. Miss Trant shot a glance there too, and noticed that the little man seemed very restive. “I dare say it might be,” the waitress continued, “but why don’t you give the name. I’ll ask if you give me the name. All right. Hold on a minute.” She put down the receiver and called out to the little man: “Beg your pardon, but are you Mr. Tipstead? Mr. Eric Tipstead?”

Miss Trant saw him start up involuntarily, saw the woman give him a sharp warning glance, lay a hand on his arm, and give a lightning shake of her head. “No, no,” the woman cried hastily, too hastily.

“It isn’t, eh?” the waitress called out.

“No⁠—er⁠—certainly not,” the man quavered in anything but a tone of certainty. He seemed desirous of appearing as if he were not really very sure just then what his name might be.

The woman, however, had no such subtle reservations in her manner. “Johnson’s the name, Miss⁠—Johnson,” she cried. She evidently shared with the waitress a conviction that it was more polite to talk about “the name” than to say “your name” or “our name.”

“Perhaps she had worked in an hotel,” Miss Trant told herself. She had missed nothing of this.

“Not the name,” the waitress informed the telephone. Then after a pause: “Well, I can’t help that, can I?” The tone in which she said this suggested that it was no business of hers if her patrons chose to tell lies, though she had her own private opinion of them. Then she replaced the receiver and hurried out with her tray.

Miss Trant was now positive that the little man, the very uneasy little man, was Mr. Eric Tipstead. To begin with, he looked exactly like a Mr. Eric Tipstead. Then she was certain she had heard the woman addressing him as “Eric deear.” And why should he have started up when he heard the name, why should the woman have restrained him? Johnson too! Nothing could be less convincing. Johnson was mere impudence.

She kept her eye on them. They were now eating away for dear life, wanting to get away as soon as they could but equally determined to have their three shillings’ worth each if it choked them. In another five minutes they were hurrying out, and Miss Trant heard a car give a familiar gasp or two, then a rattle, then a roar immediately afterwards. Never had a car sounded so guilty; there was nervous apprehension in every diminishing hoot. Miss Trant was left to ponder the mystery of Mr. Eric Tipstead and his partner, without whom the dining-room was very commonplace, just so much boiled mutton and treacle pudding, so many fat men and whisky advertisements. She was aching to ask the waitress what had been said to her on the telephone, but even in her new character of independent woman, who dashed from Ely to Liverpool and stalked in and out of hotels, she could not do it. The waitress herself trotted about, looking as if she could tell a tale if she wanted to, and she had dropped some remark that had made the four men roar with laughter. It was most irritating. Miss Trant did not bolt her lunch Tipstead fashion, but on the other hand she did not linger over it as long as she might have done. And she gave the waitress only fourpence, instead of sixpence.

There were at least half a dozen cars and vans standing outside the front of the hotel now, but she was astonished to find that her own car was not there at all. She stood on the threshold, staring in bewilderment. Then she walked round the assembled cars. It was not there.

“I’m looking for my car,” she explained to a man who was hanging about the door. “I left it here.”

“Ar,” said the man, looking wise. “Blue two-seater was it?”

She replied, eagerly, that it was.

“Ar. It’s round the corner ’ere. ’Ad to shift one of ’em about ’alf an hour ago.” And he led the way round the corner.

There it was, much to her relief. She climbed in, and was about to start the engine when she noticed there was something strange about the dashboard, something strange indeed about the whole interior.

“All right, miss?” the man asked.

“All wrong. This isn’t my car.” She got out and looked at it.

“Then whose car is it?” the man, anxious to be helpful, walked round the car after her.

“I don’t know whose car it is, I only know it isn’t mine. It’s like it but it isn’t it. I’m afraid that sounds ridiculous. Well, I suppose my car must be about somewhere.”

The man began to stare at her and as he stared his mouth slowly opened.

“I remember now,” she went on, not bothering about him, for he seemed very stupid. “This car was in front of mine when I went in to lunch. I noticed that it seemed extraordinarily like mine. Yes, this is the one.” She broke off; it was impossible to talk to that fish-like stare. “What’s the matter?”

“They took it,” the man said slowly.

“Who took what? Do you mean my car? Did someone mistake it for this? I know. Was it⁠—” she hesitated.

“About ’alf an hour ago,” the man put in. “Just after I’d ’ad to move this. A couple comes dashing out, gets in, goes off without a word. Smallish feller with eyeglasses, it was. His wife picks up a big coat that’s lying over the side, puts it on, and then they’re off without a word.”

“The Tipsteads!” cried Miss Trant.

“I beg yer pardon, Miss.”

“That’s the name of the people who took it, or at least I think it is. Tipstead.”

“If ’e was that by name, ’e wasn’t that by nature,” the man observed rather bitterly. “As I say, ’e gives me nothing for my trouble but goes off without a word. And then ’e goes and takes the wrong car, seemingly. Now if ’e’d only said something. They were trying it on, if you ask me. I says to myself at the time, I says ‘You’re in a bit of a ’urry, aren’t you.’ Going off like that without a word! I might ’ave known!”

“But this is absurd!” cried Miss Trant. “They’ve taken my car and now they’re miles away. What on earth am I to do?”

“I should take theirs if I was you,” said the man with an air of deep cunning.

“But I don’t want theirs. They’ve got all my things. Which way did they go?”

“Took the north road.” And the man pointed.

“I wonder if I could overtake them,” she mused. “I suppose I could drive this one. But how do I know this is theirs? It might belong to somebody else.”

“That’s theirs all right,” he replied. “I saw ’em come up in it. It’s the spit image o’ yours, too.”

She got into the car again, started it up, and ran it backwards and forwards once or twice. It was as easy to handle as her own, and was indeed a twin Mercia. Finally she reversed it round to the front of the hotel, with the vague idea of consulting the landlord. At that moment a motorcycle came tearing up to the hotel. It stopped just as she stopped.

“Where is he, where is he?” cried a very angry feminine voice. “Where is he?⁠—you⁠—you⁠—” here it choked a little⁠—“you big vamp, you!”

Miss Trant looked round and was astonished to find that the furious little woman who had just jumped out of the sidecar was screaming at her. “What on earth are you talking about?” she cried.

The woman was even more astonished. As she stared, her face fell. “Oo, I’m sorry.” She was now joined by the young man who had dismounted from the motorcycle. “This isn’t her, Willy,” she wailed. Then she looked at the car, and her eyes grew round and her mouth opened. “This is our car, isn’t it, Willy? I’m sure it is.”

Willy, a very stolid young man, looked it over carefully and announced that it was certainly their car.

“I know what he’s done,” she wailed again. “You needn’t tell me. He’s gone and sold it. Three hours away and the first thing he does is to sell the car. She’s made him sell it.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Willy, unmoved. “We can ask, can’t we?” And he looked at Miss Trant.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Miss Trant, looking from one to the other, “but I can assure you this car doesn’t belong to me.”

“Then what are you doing in it?” Willy broke in, rudely.

Miss Trant, who was annoyed, gave him a sharp glance. “Please be quiet a moment,” she commanded. “Otherwise I can’t explain. This car belongs to some people who have just gone off in my car.”

“That’s right.” This was from the first man, who felt it was time he took charge of the situation. “You see, a party comes out, gets in this lady’s car, goes off without a word⁠—”

“What sort of party?” asked Willy.

“A little-ish feller with eyeglasses⁠—”

“Eric!” cried the woman. “I knew it, I knew it. What did I tell you, Willy?”

“Sounds like him all right,” Willy agreed.

“A biggish woman, fair-’aired, ’is wife was,” the man continued.

“His wife!” The way in which the agitated little woman let loose these two syllables confirmed Miss Trant. This was Mrs. Eric Tipstead. She was small and dark, like her husband, but looked altogether more energetic and purposeful. She was one of those little stringy women who never seem to tire.

“They left the hotel in rather a hurry,” Miss Trant began.

“Yes, I’ll bet they did,” said Mrs. Tipstead grimly, folding up her mouth.

“And they ran off in my car. That was about half an hour ago.”

“You hear that, Willy?” cried Mrs. Tipstead. “In for a penny, in for a pound. Taking cars now! She goes and makes him take this lady’s car right under her nose.”

“Hold on, Sis, hold on,” Willy put in. “He didn’t mean to take it, you bet. Did he?” And he appealed to Miss Trant and the other man.

“No, of course he didn’t,” said Miss Trant.

“It’s as easy to explain as anything you could wish for, considering, that is, it’s a bit of a mix-up,” said the man. And he began an immense narrative of what would obviously have developed into an enormous narrative if Miss Trant had not cut it short by giving a brief account of the affair as she saw it.

“There’s no doubt this is his car, then?” asked Miss Trant at the end of her story.

“Not a bit. Look, there’s his bag.” She pointed to the luggage in the dicky seat. “And⁠—and⁠—look there, Willy⁠—that’s hers.” She plucked out the suitcase and flung it down on the road. “The impudence of it, with a bag and all!” And then, quite suddenly, surprisingly, she burst into tears and had to lean against her brother, who did not support her very tenderly or even adequately. Miss Trant, who was still sitting in the car, looked on and felt very foolish.

“What are you going to do then, Sis?” asked Willy, a practical man clearly at a disadvantage.

Some choking sounds from Mrs. Tipstead might have been interpreted to mean that she intended to follow her erring husband.

Miss Trant came to the conclusion it was time she intervened. The relations between Mr. and Mrs. Tipstead and the large blonde were no business of hers, and the thought of being in any way entangled in their affairs made her shudder; but the fact remained that her car and most of her best clothes were being rushed into the North somewhere by Mr. Tipstead at that very moment. She was confident that, whatever he did, he would not return to the hotel with the car. He must have known that it was his wife who rang up when they were having lunch.

“The point is,” she said clearly and calmly, “do you happen to know where these⁠—where Mr. Tipstead is going? The very moment you came I was just setting out to try and overtake them. The man showed me which road they took. And we’re only wasting time, you know.”

“Yes, I do know,” replied Mrs. Tipstead, calmer now. “At least I’ve a good idea. If I hadn’t, I couldn’t have come so far. I got her address and they’re going there. I found a letter she’d sent him, found it this very morning. I’ll bet he doesn’t even know he’s lost it yet, but he’s going to know very soon, mark my words. She’s got a house at Sheffield, and they’re going there.”

“Can you drive this car?”

“No, I can’t, and that’s another thing. Never would let me touch it, artful monkey! Said I might hurt myself! A lot he cared!”

“Then you must come with me,” said Miss Trant. “That’s the only thing to do. If you really think they’ve gone to this address you have, we must go there, too. I don’t want this car of yours and I certainly do want my own and all my things that are in it.”

“That’s so,” said Willy, obviously much relieved. “I’ll have to get back anyhow, Sis. You’ll get to Sheffield easy before dark, and this lady’ll look after you.”

“Oh, I can look after myself all right,” exclaimed Mrs. Tipstead. “And it does seem best, doesn’t it, Willy?” Then she turned to Miss Trant and suddenly became very stiff and genteel. “I’m sure it’s very kind of you, Miss⁠—er. I’m Mrs. Tipstead.”

“My name is Trant.”

It seemed as if “Very pleased to meet you” was only prevented at the last moment from popping out. Perhaps the absurdity of it in that situation dawned on Mrs. Tipstead just in time. All she said, after some hesitation, was: “Very⁠—kind indeed, of you, Miss Trant.” Then she turned aside with her brother.

Miss Trant hunted for a map in the car but could not find one. There was one hanging in the hall of the hotel, however, and she traced the route to Sheffield on it with her finger. When she returned to the car, she found Mrs. Tipstead sitting in it and staring straight ahead, down the road to the North, like a small damp fury.

It was a fantastic journey. The road crossed the valleys of the Dove and the Derwent and wound about the lower spurs of the Peak. They ran along green troughs powdered with dust; they sailed up towards great castles of vapour, rosy Himalayas of cloud; they sank through hollows of blue air cupped round with grass; and all the hills, the dales and dingles, the farmhouses came curving to meet them, steadily shone or gloomed for a moment, then slipped noiselessly away like places in a dream. So it seemed to one part of Miss Trant, which saw nothing, knew nothing, but this pageantry which went, mazed with wonder, flashing a wing, through the golden afternoon. But she was triune; and the other two of her were very differently occupied. One was busy with the mechanism of the car, and a little dubious of the matter of gears. The other⁠—it was a fair division⁠—had to attend to fellow humanity which was present in the form of Mrs. Tipstead. At first, Mrs. Tipstead was very stiff, very quiet. Miss Trant did not know what to do with her. It is not easy to make conversation with a strange woman, a woman, moreover, with a social background very different from your own, when you are helping her to overtake a runaway husband. It is all the more difficult when two-thirds of you are busy elsewhere, up on the hill, down among the gears. Miss Trant did what she could, however, and very soon Mrs. Tipstead, who was not equal to the task of keeping up her stiff genteel manner, began pouring out her confidences.

Miss Trant had murmured something about tea.

“I reely couldn’t, you know, Miss Trant,” Mrs. Tipstead cried into her ear. “I believe a mouthful would choke me. You don’t know how I feel, I’m that worked up.” There was genuine distress in her tones, but there was also a certain melodramatic gusto. Obviously she rather liked the thought of being choked by a mouthful.

Miss Trant said nothing because there did not seem to be anything suitable to say. One of those vague little sympathetic noises would have done, but you cannot make them in a car, at least you cannot possibly make them loud enough to be heard. It is not easy, she reflected, saying anything to someone who confessed to being “worked up.” You really ought to shout back: “I hope you’ll soon be worked down.”

“It’s pretty country, isn’t it?” Mrs. Tipstead remarked quite unexpectedly. “I’ve always been fond of this part. I like a bit of nice scenery, don’t you? Eric now⁠—my husband⁠—never cared for it much. There, I’m beginning again. I won’t say another word.” And she threw herself back against the seat.

“Do go on, unless you really don’t want to,” said Miss Trant. She wanted to add to this, to say something tactful, sympathetic, but discovered she could not frame a sentence that would suggest the right attitude, something between brutal indifference and equally brutal curiosity.

The other was silent for a minute or two, but her thoughts demanded relief. “I shouldn’t have minded half so much,” she declared suddenly, “if he’d been honest with me, if he’d had it out with me. But to go sneaking off like that! Just leaving a bit of a note! I shouldn’t have known anything if it hadn’t been for that letter she sent him I found this morning, the one with her address on, this address we’re going to in Sheffield. Not that I didn’t know something was going on. I knew that all right. There’s no smoke without fire, is there? When me lord’s out night after night, I knew there was something on. ‘Business,’ he says, leaving me to look after the shop. You see, we’ve got a shop⁠—nice little business⁠—sweets and tobacco and newspapers and fancies⁠—and he does a bit in the insurance line, too, and of course that does take him out at night. But it never took him out as much as all that. Besides, I could tell the diff’rence⁠—you always can, can’t you?⁠—because he’d try to sneak out and then if I faced him with it, he’d go off in a minute, fairly screaming at me, telling me I didn’t understand what business was. You always know, don’t you, when they get angry like that about nothing, they’re hiding something. It’s their consciences, if you ask me. They know they’re doing wrong, silly babies. Well, I pretended not to see. You can’t do anything else, can you?”

There was a large car coming towards them, travelling at a great speed almost in the middle of the road, and Miss Trant had to attend to this car. When they had passed it, she found it quite impossible to settle any problem in conjugal tactics. “I don’t know,” she replied.

“No, of course you don’t. I was quite forgetting. Well, I’ve always said you’ve got to have it out right at the first, as soon as you notice anything, or you’ve got to leave it alone, keep your dignity, you see. And I left it alone, soft thing that I was. And this is what’s happened. Catch me doing it again! But I thought I knew him all right.” She thought about this for a moment, then went on: “And so I do. It’s her I don’t know. But I’ve heard a few things about her, and if I didn’t know what I do know, you wouldn’t see me here now. If she’d been a bit different, he could have had her and welcome. I’ve got my pride. But if you ask me, he’s just been dragged into this, couldn’t help himself. She’s said ‘Come’ and he’s gone. I know him.”

She said no more but stared fiercely ahead, down the road that led to Sheffield, where her Eric was waiting to be rescued.

Remembering that odd pair in the dining-room, Miss Trant concluded that this view of the situation was probably the right one. She had now to transform those vague figures of fun into the real people of Mrs. Tipstead’s vehement declarations. It was strange; it was rather frightening. For the moment she was repelled by the thought of this sheer thrust of life beneath these grotesque surfaces. It would not do. She told herself she ought not to feel like that. It was mean, cowardly, snobbish perhaps; it was⁠—horrible thought⁠—what people call old-maidish. She had not the slightest desire to be married, and especially at this moment, but she shuddered at the idea of being old-maidish. She must not mind being jostled by things, by people, by life; she must be ready to take hold herself.

“Only eight miles to Sheffield now,” she announced.

“Do you know, Miss Trant⁠—” Mrs. Tipstead hesitated. “It wouldn’t make any difference, would it?⁠—I mean to getting there in time. But I’m beginning to feel I’d like a cup of tea, if we could find a nice place. I haven’t had anything since breakfast, and I’m beginning to feel a bit faint, and I think just a little something would do me good. What do you think?”

“I’m sure it would,” replied Miss Trant heartily. “We’ll stop at the next decent place.”

They pulled up at a little tearoom and had the place to themselves. Tea meant confidences to Mrs. Tipstead, and as soon as she had poured the first two cups she began the story of her dreadful morning, the discovery of the letter, the summoning of her brother Willy, who knew the road and so had suggested telephoning to one or two hotels where the runaways might have halted for lunch. “We didn’t do that till we’d started off ourselves, you know,” she explained. “From Lichfield, you know. That’s were we live.”

“Lichfield! Then that’s why she said Johnson.” Miss Trant felt like Sherlock Holmes, an old favourite of hers. And she had spent hours and hours⁠—it seemed like years⁠—reading Boswell’s Life of Johnson to the Colonel, whose robust passion for Boswell and Gibbon had now closed the eighteenth century to his daughter forever.

“Who said Johnson?” Mrs. Tipstead stared over the piece of buttered teacake she held.

“Why, that woman, when the waitress asked if they were called Tipstead.” And she told the story of the telephone call.

“It just shows you, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Tipstead was bitterly triumphant. “He’d have never had enough off to do that. But trust her! This isn’t the first time, if you ask me. I’ve heard about her. What’s she like?”

Miss Trant gave a brief and unflattering description.

“I thought so. I’ve never set eyes on her, that’s the funny thing. As far as I can make out, she’s only been in the place about three or four months, came as a barmaid. She’d been on the stage a bit before that, Willy says. You know the sort. But then I don’t suppose you do, Miss Trant, a lady like you. I don’t know much about that sort myself, I’m sure, never being one for theatres and going to hotels and all that. That’s Eric’s style, though, always was. He always thought he could have done well on the stage, and I dare say he would⁠—comic, you know, when he gets going, good as a pantomime. I’ve laughed sometimes till I’ve had to tell him to stop. That’s what attracted her, I’ll be bound, that and his looks. Going there night after night, putting it on a bit and playing the comic, you know, that’s what did it. And me waiting on in the shop, night after night!” She halted between anger and tears. “Aren’t you ready for another cup, Miss Trant? I’m sure you are.”

Miss Trant was not quite ready. She was indeed rather busy trying to reconcile this Mr. Tipstead, so dashing, so droll, so fascinating to the other sex, with the little rabbit of a man she remembered at the hotel.

Mrs. Tipstead poured out another cup for herself, and having tasted it, plunged into further confidences. “I’ll tell you what it was that turned him. I thought it was the best bit of luck we’d ever had when it happened, but you can never tell how things’ll turn out, can you? This last March he won a first prize in a competition⁠—five hundred pounds.”

“Five hundred pounds!” Miss Trant was genuinely astonished. She could not imagine Mr. Tipstead winning a prize of any kind, let alone one of five hundred pounds.

“Five hundred pounds,” said the wife, with mournful pride. “Sparklets they were⁠—funny little bits of sayings, you know. He’d been trying and trying and better trying at it for months, filling in coupons and sending ’em up with a sixpenny postal order every time, till I said ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Eric,’ I said, ‘you might think we’re made of postal orders. You’ve wasted enough time and money on them things if you ask me,’ I told him. I knew he was clever at them, but it seemed to me they only took the first they came to and gave ’em prizes and his were never at the top of the bag. Well, not two weeks after⁠—it was a Tuesday afternoon⁠—two young fellows came, one with a camera, and told us he’d got the first prize. They took our photographs⁠—‘Mr. and Mrs. Tipstead receiving the cheque from our representative’ they called it⁠—and they put in a long piece about how pleased we were and what we were going to do with the money and all sorts. I wanted him to buy a bigger insurance book with it or move into a bigger shop, but no⁠—he wouldn’t have that, and of course I couldn’t say anything. He’d won it, not me. So he must cut a dash with it, buys that car outside there, some new suits of clothes and one thing and another. And what with getting all this money and having his photograph in the paper and what he said and having a car, it just turned his head. ‘Lord Tipstead’ they began calling him down in the town, Willy told me; taking him off, you see⁠—though there was a lot of jealousy in it, if you ask me. And of course all these silly girls began making a fuss of him⁠—they’ve nothing better to do now, girls haven’t. Then this one comes along⁠—regular home-wrecker, she is, from what I can see, the sort you’d think you’d never come across off the pictures. Don’t you think this butter tastes funny, Miss Trant?”

“It’s margarine. I can’t eat it.”

“I don’t blame you. You ought to have another of these cakes. What was I saying? Oh, I’d finished, hadn’t I. You really must excuse me, Miss Trant, it’s so strange meeting you like this and I’m that bewildered today I hardly know what I’m saying. If you met me ordinary times, you wouldn’t know me.”

There was no reply to this, so Miss Trant put a question instead. “Have you any children?”

“I haven’t. Not that we haven’t wanted them, me especially, and it’s been a great trouble to us. Perhaps it’s as well as things are turning out, though you wouldn’t be so lonely, would you?” She choked a little, coughed into her handkerchief, drank some tea, and looked tearful.

“Won’t you have another cake?” This was very inadequate, but it was the best Miss Trant could do at the moment.

“Well, do you think we might halve one between us, I really couldn’t eat a whole one. No? Well, I won’t bother. I’ll finish this and then we’ll go. Yes, when you’re treated like this, you don’t know whether to feel glad or sorry you haven’t any children, you really don’t. And when I think what I’ve done for that man! There’s nothing I haven’t done for him. I’ve given him my whole life.”

These phrases came out too glibly, they were not from the heart, but from the newspapers and the penny novelettes. If Miss Trant had liked the little woman less, she would have let them pass, but now she felt she couldn’t. “You know, I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Tipstead, and I’d like to help if I can. And you mustn’t think I’m unsympathetic if I say that I never understand what that phrase means⁠—about giving your whole life, you know.”

“If you’d been a wife, Miss Trant, you’d know soon enough.”

“Well, I haven’t, of course. I’ve only been a daughter. But do you mean that all the time you’ve been married you’ve been sacrificing yourself, never enjoying the life you had together or anything?”

“I’ve enjoyed nearly every bit of it,” cried Mrs. Tipstead warmly. “I know Eric’s had his faults⁠—a bit extravagant and silly⁠—thoughtless, you know⁠—but you couldn’t want a better husband. I won’t say we’ve always had the best of luck⁠—we haven’t⁠—but we’ve enjoyed ourselves, I can tell you.”

“You wouldn’t have preferred being single, then?”

“Single! Me!” she cried in horror. “Living by myself, nobody to look after, nobody coming in and out, no bits of jokes and bits of comfort! I may have had a lot to do for him, but I’ve never begrudged it, never, except just lately perhaps, brushing his coats and ironing his trousers so that he could go out and meet that⁠—that⁠—fat painted barmaid. You needn’t ask me that, Miss Trant.”

“Then you really haven’t given your life, you know. You’ve been living it just as you wanted to live it all the time. I mean, I don’t see what more you could have done with it. You don’t mind my saying this, do you?”

Mrs. Tipstead shook her head, then was silent for a minute or two, struggling through into honesty. When at last she spoke, her voice sounded different; it was quieter, more sure of itself. “It’s a funny business, isn’t it? I’ve thought a bit about it lately. And I see what you mean. If you do give a lot, it’s only because you want to. But it’s terrible when it’s all thrown back in your face. You must wonder why I’m running after him like this. Of course I’m still fond of him⁠—but I’ve got my pride the same as anybody else, and perhaps a bit more than most. But I know Eric, and I’ve nearly had trouble with him before. He’s weak, Eric is, for all he’s so clever and all that, and this woman’s simply got hold of him and made him do what she wanted. He never wanted another wife, not he. He only wanted somebody to show off in front of, somebody who didn’t know him like I did; he never wanted to be landed into this; and I’m sure he’s miserable even now and he’ll be worse tomorrow. If he can tell me to my face, he doesn’t want to come back, that’ll be different; I’ll go away and never say another word. But he won’t, you’ll see.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Miss Trant, remembering the uneasy little figure in the hotel.

“A wife knows, Miss Trant,” Mrs. Tipstead observed earnestly. Then she looked up and, with a startling change of tone, cried: “Well, Miss, I hope you’re not going to charge us for butter when we’ve had nothing but margarine.” And after wrangling with the waitress, she then proceeded to wrangle with Miss Trant, who wanted to pay the bill herself. Mrs. Tipstead did not want to pay it, she wanted to divide it scrupulously into two, and she had her way.

A few miles brought them to pleasant hilly suburbs and very soon they were threading their way towards the vast haze that was Sheffield.

III

Miss Trant sighed with relief. This was the street they were looking for, and though it was not far from the centre of the town, it had been very difficult indeed to find, and she was weary of stopping to ask the way, turning in crowded streets, dodging trams and lorries, all of which she had been doing for the last hour. It was a grimy and melancholy street, one of those that have steadily fallen in the social scale these last forty years, that begin by housing prosperous merchants and bank managers and gradually decline to the humble level of theatrical lodgings, corset agencies, palmists’ consulting-rooms, and other and more dubious enterprises. The other end of the street, not far away, was blocked by a high wall. They had stopped the car a few yards round the corner, and now looked down the street, wondering what to do.

“Look,” cried Mrs. Tipstead, pointing. “Isn’t that it? It’s just like this.”

The car stood outside a house about halfway down on the left; it was the only one in the street. Miss Trant was sure it was hers. What a pity she couldn’t take it without a word! But some explanation was necessary, of course. Perhaps she could get it back without being involved in the affairs of the Tipsteads.

“Hadn’t I better go first?” she asked. “I shall have to see your husband, of course. What’s the name of this woman?”

“If you mean her second name, I don’t know. It was just Effie on the letter. So far as I can see and from what Willy said, everybody in the town just called her Effie. They would, wouldn’t they?” Mrs. Tipstead added vindictively.

“Well, I simply refuse to go up to that house and ask for Effie.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps you had better go first and inquire for your husband.”

“No, that wouldn’t do. I’ll tell you what. I’ll get out here and wait a bit. You drive right up to the house and ask for Eric⁠—Mr. Tipstead⁠—you see, and I’ll⁠—I’ll⁠—come in later on.” She was very excited now.

After some hesitation, Miss Trant agreed, though she did not understand what Mrs. Tipstead intended to do and could not imagine her waiting outside in the street very long. She drove up to the house, discovered that the car really was her own, with all its luggage there just as she had packed it in that morning, then knocked at the door, not very loudly because she suddenly felt quite uncomfortable, almost guilty, as if she were a spy. This feeling did not last long, however, and as nobody came she gave the door, which did not look as if it had had any attention from anybody for years, a good sound rapping. Then she noticed there was one of those old-fashioned bells that have to be pulled out. She gave it a little tug, but it did not move. She gave it a hard tug and immediately fell back with about a yard of wire in her hand. At that moment, of course, before she could release the wire, the door was opened.

“Good evening,” said the man who had opened the door. He had a thick husky sort of voice.

“Good evening,” gasped Miss Trant, feeling very foolish. She let go of the bell handle and it hung down absurdly, at the end of its yard of wire.

“You’ve had a bit o’ bother with that, have you? Out of date, you know, out of date. All electric now, isn’t it. You can’t stir for it,” he observed amiably. He was a stout elderly man with a prominent reddish nose, an expanse of grey-bristled jowl, and a pair of spectacles pushed up to his damp forehead. One hand clasped a newspaper, and the other, now that the door was open, replaced in his mouth a short clay pipe. He wore neither coat nor collar, was lax in the matter of buttons, and altogether was a figure of unlovely ease.

“Is Mr. Tipstead here, please?”

He took out his pipe to think this over. “Tipstead? Tipstead? Nothing to do with the Bird-in-Hand Friendly Society, is it? ’Cos that’s two doors down. We’re always getting ’em here.”

“No, it hasn’t. I was told Mr. Tipstead was staying here. He took my car by mistake, and I’ve got his.”

The man’s eyes grew rounder, then one of them gave her a wink. He leaned forward. “Our Effie’s chap, you mean,” he whispered. “I’ve heard about that car. Didn’t know his name was Tipstead, though. ‘Eric’ she calls him. ‘Eric or Little by Little,’ I said, right off. And he didn’t like it, neither. Come in.”

No sooner had Miss Trant followed him into the dilapidated little hall than the large blonde herself, Effie, bounced out of a back room, crying: “Who is it, Unkerlarthur?”

“Half a minute, half a minute! You’ll soon know.” And Uncle Arthur ushered Miss Trant into this same back room, a rather small and dark apartment that contained a bewildering assortment of small tables and knickknacks and fretwork brackets and photographs. Among these, not unlike a knickknack or piece of fretwork, was seated Mr. Tipstead, nervously pulling at a cigarette.

Miss Trant addressed herself to him at once. “You probably remember me. I was lunching at the next table to you this morning. You went off in my car⁠—”

She could say no more. Mr. Tipstead sprang forward excitedly, and he and his Effie began explaining at the top of their voices. They continued for several minutes, first one of them taking the lead, then the other, correcting one another, as they went along. But it was Effie who concluded the explanation. “And so we found your name and address on one of the bags and were going to write this very minute, weren’t we, Eric, to tell you how it had happened, and Eric was going to offer to drive it back for you, weren’t you, Eric, to make it all right, and we’d sent a telegram to the hotel to ask about his car, you see, because that was left behind and somebody might have got it, hadn’t we, Eric?”

“Your car’s outside.”

“Outside!”

“Yes,” Miss Trant went on, “I came up here in it.”

“Thank God!” cried Effie, blowing hard. She had dropped the manner she had assumed at lunch, probably finding it too great a strain in such a crisis, and was clearly now her own natural self, dramatic, voluble, vulgar.

A weak smile lit up the face of Mr. Tipstead, who still had that vague hunted look. “Well, that’s a bit of all right. And thank you very much, Miss⁠—er⁠—Trant. That’s it, isn’t it⁠—Miss Trant? We got the name right, you see. And we can just change over now, can’t we? Drive it all right? Yours was OK. It’s the same bus, you know, but a bit newer than mine.”

“Just fancy!” And Effie’s eyes, which were her best feature and looked quite bright under her thickly pencilled lashes, travelled from Mr. Tipstead to Miss Trant, from Miss Trant to Unkerlarthur who was leaning against the door, puffing at his little clay, and enjoying every moment of the scene. Gaiety itself, Effie invited them all to fancy with her. “You’ve no idea what a load you’ve taken off our minds,” she told Miss Trant. “It was just spoiling everything, wasn’t it, Eric?” She smiled hugely at that gentleman and threw an arm about his shoulders. It was a fine solid arm coming out boldly, imperially, from the short sleeve of her lilac silk jumper, and it seemed to announce at that moment that it was ready to protect an Eric it contrived to diminish from all the trials and assaults of this world. Mr. Tipstead wriggled a little in its embrace.

“Now then, Miss Trant,” Effie continued, “do sit down and make yourself at home. And Unkerlarthur, if you’re going to stop in this room, you’ll have to go and put a collar and a coat on and make yourself look respectable; we’re not just by ourselves now. Aren’t you playing at the theatre this week?”

“I am that.” And Uncle Arthur blew out his cheeks, sent his hands sawing backwards and forwards and, in short, gave an excellent imitation of a trombone player. “Pom-pom-poppa-pom. Pom-pom-poppa-pom. It’s a musical comedy⁠—The Girl in the Garage⁠—this week⁠—augmented orchestra⁠—so I’m in. You’ll soon be rid of me. I’ll have to go and change soon.” And he gave Miss Trant, who had turned to look at him, a prodigious wink. We know, don’t we?⁠—the wink said to her.

Miss Trant did not know, but she smiled at him. She liked Uncle Arthur, somehow, and the thought that he was one of those mysterious creatures who creep from under the stage and sit so coolly, blowing or fiddling away, in their little deep trench, gave her a thrill. She had always been fond of the theatre⁠—the whole enchanted absurdity of it⁠—and had never been able to go often enough.

“I’m sure you must be tired, Miss Trant,” Erne continued. “Now do sit yourself down and make yourself at home.”

“I won’t, if you don’t mind. Now that we’ve settled which car is which, I think I’d better go.” And it occurred to Miss Trant, when she had said this, that she had not the faintest idea where she was going.

Effie looked really disappointed, almost aggrieved. “Oh, but after coming all that way and bringing Eric’s car and us taking your car nearly all the day and you coming right out of your way like this! We can’t let you run away like that, can we, Eric? Hello! What’s the matter with you, Eric? No, don’t interrupt him. He’s thought of something, thought of it deep down in his little head, all by himself, and he’ll tell us if we’ll keep quiet a minute.”

This was badinage heavy enough to make an elephant wince, but it had no effect upon Mr. Tipstead, who still stared at Miss Trant, with his round little mouth open. “I’ve just been trying to work it out,” he said at last, giving his weak laugh. “This is what I can’t understand. How do you come to be here, Miss Trant? This address wasn’t on any of the bags was it?”

“I’ve no idea,” replied Miss Trant easily. “I never looked at the bags.”

“Well, I never did! I never thought of that.” Effie looked from one to the other. “You just came here and we’d got your car and you’d got ours and I never thought any more about it. Well, how did you know we were coming to this house? Hello! What’s that?” There was a repeated knocking at the front door. “Unkerlarthur, go and see who that is.”

“It’s somebody come to put the rent and rates up, ’cos he’s seen two cars standing at the door,” remarked Uncle Arthur, with a waggish glance all round. They could hear him chuckling down the hall.

“Well, you don’t mind us asking, do you,” Eflie pursued, “but really it does seem funny, doesn’t it, you coming here⁠—”

Mr. Tipstead held up his hand. “Half a minute,” he said, listening. Then he rose to his feet, a very shaky little man. There was a sound of voices in the hall.

“What’s the matter? Who is it?” cried Effie, now looking alarmed.

“It’s her,” said Eric in a very small voice. It really seemed as if all his colour had ebbed away; he was obviously terrified.

Mrs. Tipstead marched into the room, a little figure but compact, charged with energy, all bristling. She halted, gave a quick glance at the astonished Effie, then surveyed the shrinking figure of her husband. “Well, Eric, I’ve followed you, you see.”

Effie made a last desperate attempt to carry off the situation with a high hand. “Here,” she cried, “who told you to come in here? What do you want?”

Mrs. Tipstead was fully equal to the situation. The question presented her with a magnificent cue. “What do I want?” she cried. She pointed to the wretched Tipstead. “That’s what I want. My husband.”

“O my God!” groaned Uncle Arthur at the door, and he promptly shut it and left himself on the other side.

“Now then, Eric,” his wife continued briskly, “I’m not going to argue with you here. You can take your choice here and now. Just make up your mind whether you’ll stay here with this woman or go back to the shop with me. One or the other. And it’s the last time, mind.”

“Eric, no; you wouldn’t, would you, Eric!” As she shrieked this out, Effie looked as if she were about to fling herself bodily at poor little Mr. Tipstead, who would certainly have gone down like a ninepin. He shrank back, moistened his lips with his tongue, and looked utterly abject.

“Not after all you’ve said, Eric,” moaned Effie, who was rapidly going to pieces.

“You be quiet and leave him alone,” commanded Mrs. Tipstead. “Let him make his own mind up.”

There was a silence.

“Well?” asked Mrs. Tipstead. Eric looked up, looked down, cleared his throat, swung one foot, cleared his throat again, swung the other foot, then made a sound that bore no resemblance to any known word.

There was another silence.

It was Miss Trant who broke it, shattered it completely. Miss Trant, who had no business to be there at all. At the sight of Tipstead standing there, so dumb, so abject, a kind of angry shame had begun to take possession of her mind, had pricked and then at last gored her until she could bear it no longer.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, say something or do something!” she cried to him, stamping her foot and beating her hands together. “Don’t stand like that. Do have some courage, and either go or stay. Anything, anything but this! It’s⁠—it’s⁠—absolutely vile.” She was too excited to be surprised at herself, though this was perhaps the most astonishing speech she had ever made.

He said nothing but at last he did something. Slowly, with bent head, absurdly, pitiably like a small boy in deep disgrace, he walked to the door, opened it, and went out. He was going back home. Without saying a word, his wife immediately followed after him. The two left behind never moved. Effie stared at the open door, her lower lip hanging foolishly. A few moments later, Mrs. Tipstead marched in again.

“He’d left his hat in here,” she announced. She picked it up from the sideboard, flashed a smiling glance at Miss Trant as she passed, and went out, this time closing the door behind her. There came the sound of a car being started outside in the street.

Before Miss Trant could do anything at all, Effie suddenly became alarmingly active. She ran to the door and then came running back again, crying “Oh, he’s gone, he’s gone. I’ve lost him, I’ve lost him”⁠—or something that sounded like that. With a final gesture of despair, she flung one arm along the mantelpiece and knocked over a large pink vase. Perhaps the hideous cheerfulness of this object enraged her, for now she picked it up and hurled it into the fender, instantly smashing it to pieces. Then she threw herself into the armchair and burst into a storm of tears, sobbed and sobbed, her whole body shaking and her feet drumming on the floor.

It was an alarming spectacle. Effie was no chit of a girl but a woman on a very generous scale. The room did not seem large enough for such convulsions. It was incredible that they could have been set in motion by Mr. Tipstead. “In another minute,” Miss Trant thought, “she’ll be in hysterics,” and saw herself trying to hold Effie down as she had once had to hold down a maid at home. She was annoyed with herself for not having gone before this, but on the other hand she felt she could not go now, not at this moment. “Don’t, don’t!” she cried, and moved a step or two forward, with the intention of doing something. But she did not know what to do. The usual consolatory little actions seemed absurd, like trying to give a pat or two to an earthquake.

“Now what’s up here?” Uncle Arthur was puffing and blowing before them, looking from one to the other. “Has that chap gone?” he asked Miss Trant. “I thought I heard him. Nay, lass, bear up, bear up.” He gave his niece an affectionate slap or two on the shoulder. “You’re well rid of him. He was nowt but two-pennorth o’ copper. Nay, lass, take it easy, take it easy.”

Effie refused to take it easy. Violently she shook herself free from his hand, drummed her feet on the floor again, and cried louder than ever.

“Well, you must have it out, I suppose,” he observed philosophically. Then he glanced at the hearth. “Gone and smashed an ornament and all,” he said to Miss Trant, lowering his voice and speaking confidentially. “Can’t help it, you know. Temperament, that’s what it is. We’ve all got it; runs in the family. If we’re up, we’re up, but if we’re down, we’re down. It goes with talent, you know, and it’s always been the same i’ this family. Her mother⁠—she was my sister⁠—could sing ‘The Volunteer Organist’ and suchlike and make a whole club-roomful cry⁠—but if she were cross, she’d raise the roof, break anything. And her grandfather⁠—my father, you see⁠—was the best euphonium-player the Old Dyke Band ever had⁠—I’ve known ’em come fifty miles to hear his ‘Death o’ Nelson’⁠—but if he didn’t want to play, he wouldn’t play, you couldn’t make him. It wasn’t beer, you know,” he added earnestly, as if to arrest the thought that surely must be uppermost in his listener’s mind. “He liked a drop, but it wasn’t that. It was temperament. It runs in the family. I’m a bit that way myself. But I’ll have to be off.” He was dressed for the theatre now, for he was wearing a very old dress coat and waistcoat, a queer turned-down collar and about an inch of black tie. He caught Miss Trant’s surprised glance, and winked at her. “Ar,” he remarked complacently, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you? Well, what am I thinking?” Miss Trant was amused.

“You’re thinking ‘He’s gone and forgotten to change his trousers,’ that what’s your thinking.”

Miss Trant laughed. “Well, as a matter of fact, I was.” And with good reason, for he still wore the same trousers he was wearing before and they were blue.

Uncle Arthur winked again. “What the eye doesn’t see, the heart won’t miss,” he observed. “I’m only on duty, you might say, from the waist up, and I could wear a kilt or clogs and it ’ud make no difference you see. You notice next time you’re at the theatre, and you’ll see what I mean.”

Effie was being overlooked and so she stopped crying, to exclaim indignantly: “That’s right, Unkerlarthur, go on, don’t bother about me! Standing there talking about trousers and kilts! And look at me!”

“Well, you feel a bit better now, Effie lass, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.” And to prove it she began again.

“Well, I must be off,” he said hastily.

“And so must I,” said Miss Trant.

“No, no, Miss Grant,” cried Eme, “don’t leave me to myself. I won’t be responsible if I’m left to myself, I won’t really. Don’t go.”

Uncle Arthur stared at Miss Trant in pained surprise. “Nay, Miss, have a heart. You’re not busy, are you? Well, stop on a bit and keep her company.”

“Nobody wants me, nobody,” moaned Effie.

“Course they do, Effie lass,” said her uncle heartily. “Miss Dent here will stop and look after you a bit. I’m off then! Be good!” He gave Miss Trant a last wink as he went out.

Effie sniffed a little, then began to dry her eyes. “I’ll bet I look a sight, don’t I?” And undoubtedly she did. “Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. I don’t want to keep you here if you’ve anything to do, of course, but I wish you’d stay a bit. There’s nobody here, and if I’m by myself tonight, I shall get the jimjams, what with all the excitement there’s been today and the state I’ve been in this last week and the way he went off just now. If Unkerlarthur hadn’t been working at the theatre this week, he’d have stayed with me⁠—he’s a good sort is Unkerlarthur⁠—and this is really his house; well, really, me and my sister Elsie and him we all join in it, and we let rooms to theatricals, you know, as well, because my family has always been concerned with the profession, and I went on the stage for a time and then had to leave, it was too bad for my nerves, and Elsie⁠—she’s younger than me and very talented⁠—she’s still on, doing concert party work, you know.” All this came out in one unbroken torrent while she was still dabbing her eyes and patting her hair. How she contrived to say so much and say it so quickly, having apparently been in hysterics two minutes before, was a mystery.

“Now, Miss Grant⁠—” Effie began again.

“Trant,” the lady put in, correcting her.

“Oh, you must excuse me. Of course it’s Trant, isn’t it. I had the name right at first, and then what with one thing and another⁠—Did you catch my name? Longstaff, it is.” She stood up and examined herself in the mirror. “First thing I must do is to tidy myself up a bit. I’ll just slip upstairs, if you don’t mind. Take your hat off, Miss Trant, and rest yourself properly. What about a cup of tea and something to eat?”

“It’s awfully kind of you,” said Miss Trant, who was really touched by this show of hospitality. She was not merely an intruding stranger, she was the villain of the piece, for had she not brought Mrs. Tipstead to this very door? It was clear, however, that Effie was anxious to keep her there, probably because she needed a listener more than usual this melancholy evening. “But I had tea, you know, some time ago,” Miss Trant went on. “And I really don’t think I want any more, thank you.” She took a sensible interest in food, and had already begun to wonder about dinner.

“Ah, that’s afternoon tea, you mean,” said Effie, “but we go in for high tea in these parts, though as a matter of fact in this house supper’s the big do, and I’ll tell you why. You see what with Unkerlarthur being at the theatre and then us letting rooms to the profession, none of them really wants anything solid till the shows are over, about half past ten to eleven, that’s the time they want a proper set-to, and so Mrs. Moore⁠—that’s the woman that looks after the house⁠—goes away in the afternoon and then doesn’t come back till about nine or half past and then cooks something hot for everybody, you see.”

“That’s a very queer way of living,” said Miss Trant. “I don’t understand how anybody sleeps after that.”

“They don’t, you know, not early. But they can stay in bed in the morning. And they couldn’t have a solid meal just before the show. Take these we’ve let to this week⁠—I’ve not seen them but Unkerlarthur told me they were here again, and they’ve been here before⁠—the Four Romanies⁠—acrobats, you know⁠—you’ll probably have seen ’em⁠—they’re a good turn⁠—well, if they’d their dinners at night and then went on to do their show, they’d have to be taken to hospital in ten minutes. And even Unkerlarthur has to wait. I’ve heard him say many a time ‘Give me a good plateful of steak and kidney pudding and you just might as well push a cake of soap up the old trombone.’ Can’t play, you see, after that.”

“I see. But you needn’t wait, eh?”

“Oh, no, not at all. They weren’t expecting me, anyhow, tonight. That’s why I say let’s have a bit of something now. I could nip out for something in a minute. Just rough-and-ready, take-us-as-you-find-us, you know.”

Miss Trant was not anxious to take them as she found them. “Look here,” she said, “won’t you come out to some hotel and have dinner with me? And by the way, I can’t possibly leave Sheffield tonight. I must find an hotel to stay in tonight, and I must go and put my car away too.”

“With having these Romanies here⁠—though one of ’em’s only a dwarf⁠—you never saw such a little man⁠—we’re rather full up, though I dare say I could squeeze you in here somewhere⁠—”

“Don’t trouble, thank you,” said Miss Trant earnestly. The thought of being squeezed in there was too much even for her new adventurousness. “Probably you can take me to some hotel where I can stay and we can have dinner too.”

“I’d love that,” cried Effie enthusiastically. “It’s very nice of you, I’m sure, and if it’s not saying too much, I don’t mind telling you it’s just what I need a night like this, I mean having a little friendly outing. Hello!” She broke off, and listened. “Front door again. Hope it’s somebody for the Bird-in-Hand this time. I’m getting nervous.” She giggled uneasily, departed, only to return the next moment with a telegram in her hand. “It’s for Unkerlarthur. What’s he doing with telegrams? Here, I’m going to open this. It’s all in the family.” She did open it and, characteristically, read it out at once. “Here, listen to this. Show bust all stranded send other basket passenger train also three pounds anything wheres Effie. Elsie. Well, I don’t know! What do you think of that?” She stared at Miss Trant.

“I don’t think anything of it,” replied Miss Trant, “because I don’t understand it. What does she mean?”

“She doesn’t know I’m here, you see,” cried Effie excitedly. “And I’ll bet anything she rang up Lichfield to tell me, and they told her I’d gone, they didn’t know where. Rawsley this is from. I knew they were at Rawsley all last week. It’s just like her, too, sending a long telegram like this⁠—over a shilling, you see. It’s a funny thing those girls have always got money for telegrams, doesn’t matter how broke they are. They never write, nobody on the stage ever writes.”

“Yes, but what does it mean?” Miss Trant was now so curious that she was quite impatient. These little glimpses of that mysterious world behind the painted scenes excited her.

“Well, don’t you see, the show’s suddenly busted⁠—she was with a concert party, pierrot troupe, you know⁠—and they’re all stranded. The old business. No salaries for a few weeks, then one morning the manager or the fellow that’s running it isn’t there, and they’re all up a gum tree. That’s what happened to them at what’s its name⁠—Rawsley.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s somewhere in the Midlands, not above thirty or forty miles from Lichfield. That’s all I know. I never heard of it before. It’s one of these small towns, you know, that some concert parties try out when they’ve finished a season at the seaside. And now she wants her other basket sending on, by passenger train, you see, so she’ll get it in good time, and a pound or two to get her out of the place. Some mangy old ma’s probably claimed her basket till she gets paid for her rooms. I’ll get that basket⁠—it’s got all her other props in⁠—off in the morning, and if Unkerlarthur’s got a spare quid or two⁠—’cos I haven’t⁠—I’ll post that on too, first thing.”

“You’ve got her address, of course?” Miss Trant did not inquire out of mere politeness; she was really interested.

Erne looked blank. “Well, if that isn’t just like her! She sends a long splathering telegram and never puts her address in it.”

“Can’t you send it to the theatre?”

“They’ve not been showing at a theatre because there isn’t one at Rawsley. It’s one of those holes where you do three nights at the Corn Exchange or all next week at the Assembly Rooms. Don’t I know ’em! Nowhere to dress and all draughts and the curtain never works. It’ll have to go to the post office, that’s all, and take its chance⁠—I mean the money. The basket’ll have to go to the station. It’s what I call a mess. Here, I’m going to tidy up, and then we’ll go out and talk about this after. Won’t you come up?”

“No, thanks. I might as well wait until I get to the hotel and then I shall have my things.”

“All right. I shan’t be long. You have a look at our photos.”

The walls were covered with photographs, and Miss Trant spent the next quarter of an hour examining them. It was like catching a glimpse, in a peepshow, of another world. There were photographs of large ladies in tights, massive Dick Whittingtons and Prince Charmings, or small ladies in ballet skirts or pierrot costume. There were photographs of gentlemen in evening dress, in battered hats and monstrous-check trousers, in nothing at all but leopard skins and laced boots. Niggers and fairies and tramps and pierrettes stared out with the same wide impersonal smile. Nearly every photograph had not only a dashing signature, followed by a brief but imposing description of the writer⁠—“Leading Comedian in Hot Times, Principal Girl Mother Goose, Starring in The Doodahs,” and so forth⁠—but also flung out, with a prodigality of exclamation marks, some such message as “Heaps of Love!” or “All the Best!!” It was impossible not to believe that the subjects of these photographs were living in a whirl of success; they seemed to smile out of a glittering triumph. Only by making an effort could Miss Trant realize that these radiant creatures might be stranded in little towns and be reduced to spending their last shillings on SOS telegrams. But she was aided by the sight of a postcard, crammed with broad grins and frills and pompoms, sent by Elsie herself, now so forlorn at Rawsley. It was all curiously fascinating. Here was a world that seemed as far away and fantastic as any of those she explored so eagerly in her favourite fiction, that of the embattled Huguenots or the Young Pretender, and yet it was only just round the corner. Indeed, she had one foot in it at that moment. That was an exciting thought, and though she laughed at herself a little, nevertheless the foolish little thrill of it remained, like a tune going on somewhere at the back of her mind.

Then Effie bounced in. Miss Trant had hoped that Effie would depress her evening’s toilet to the level of this disastrous day. She looked forward to seeing Effie more cheerful in mind but far more subdued in appearance. Actually, however, Effie was now more flamboyant than ever; her hair was a wilder gamboge; her eyebrows and lashes were astonishingly blackened and her mouth was a fiercesome daub of vermilion; her dress was a vivid green; and she carried an imitation Spanish shawl that promised to be the final catastrophe.

“I don’t know whether to wear it or not,” she mused. “Pretty isn’t it?”

“I shouldn’t wear it if I were you,” Miss Trant counselled earnestly. She was relieved to find that her companion immediately and quite meekly put the shawl away. It was soon apparent, however, that Effie had made her final onslaught upon the day’s melancholy upstairs in her room; she had called up her last reserves from her wardrobe and dressing-table and had gained a brief victory; but now she could do no more. Her appearance was hardily triumphant, but her manner became more and more subdued. When the car had been put away, the room secured at the hotel, and they sat down to dinner, Effie chattered no longer. Over the soup she looked as wistful as it is possible for a person so large, so bright of hue, to look when eating soup. After that she became sentimental, confidential. She would not talk of Elsie or Unkerlarthur; her thoughts were with Mr. Tipstead.

“I didn’t think anything of him at first, you know, Miss Trant,” she confided mournfully. “Thought he was a little swanker. He kept coming in and there was a bit of talk about him because he’d won a prize in one of these competitions. But that got nowhere with me, I can tell you; and I’m used to admiration and men saying silly things, what with being on the stage and then hotel work; they all run after you, you know, or pretend to, just to pass the time. But he kept coming in and coming in, and we got to exchanging bits of jokes, you know; and he’d make me laugh sometimes. You wouldn’t think he was droll, would you?”

“I shouldn’t,” replied Miss Trant promptly and with decision.

“Well, he is. But that was nothing. I’ve met ’em far funnier than him⁠—make a cat laugh, some of the fellows I’ve known would. Then, one day, I was walking round in the afternoon⁠—off duty, you know, and nothing much to do⁠—and he comes along, and we go for a bit of a walk and sit down, and he asks me about my life, where I’ve been and all that, and then he tells me all about himself, how he’s married and it’s all been a mistake and how his wife doesn’t understand him and won’t think about anything but making money⁠—”

“I must say I think that’s nonsense,” Miss Trant put in. “I should think she understood him only too well. But men always say that, at least they always do in books and plays.”

“Well, in real life, they’ll say anything for twopence, that’s my experience. And we’ll always believe ’em. At least,” she added, with a sudden gleam of sagacity, “we’ll believe ’em if they tell us what we want to believe. Anyhow, that started it. I felt sorry for him, and he said how sorry he was for me⁠—and you can do with a bit of sympathy when you’ve had nothing but a row of great fat fellows all talking silly round the bar every night. And then all of a sudden quicker than catching flu⁠—he got a real fascination for me; couldn’t keep my mind off him. I’d have gone anywhere, any time, to see him. But you know what it is.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” Miss Trant replied, with some hesitation. There came, unbidden, to her mind the thought of a tall Scots ship’s doctor, a deep voice, a glint of hair about prominent cheekbones. Hugh McFarlane. How queer to think of him now! But then, hadn’t she suddenly thought about him the other day, when Mrs. Chillingford had told her that Dorothy was engaged? It was time she forgot about him. She knew less about him now than she did about⁠—Mr. Tipstead. Yet, really, that was queer, too. She hardly noticed what Effie was saying. Something about her being pretty. The word startled her into attention.

“Pretty!” she cried. “Don’t be absurd. I’m not pretty, and never was.”

“My words but you are!” exclaimed Effie in all seriousness. “And don’t think I’m flattering you, either, ’cos I never flatter anybody⁠—that’s not my way. Course you’re pretty. I only wish I was half so pretty. You’ve got lovely hair and eyes and teeth⁠—they’re your own, aren’t they?⁠—and nice features and a nice slim figure. Mind you, Miss Trant⁠—if you’ll let me say so⁠—I don’t think you make the best of yourself. Your style’s too quiet⁠—of course, it’s ladylike and all that, but you can have too much of the ladylike, if you see what I mean.”

Miss Trant did not see what she meant, or did not choose to see. Effie told her and produced, among other things, what she called “some tips and wrinkles you won’t find in any of the books of words,” and this she did with great precision and fluency but still with a certain melancholy, as if life were all over for her and she was only shouting a few last messages to the fading shore. Most of this advice Miss Trant instantly decided to ignore, not having any desire to look like a human oleograph, but now and again she heard something that left her more determined than ever to take stock of herself. Indeed, she was all eager attention, having been started into it by the initial compliment. Elizabeth Trant of the Old Hall, Hitherton-on-the-Wole, was sitting in the dining-room of an hotel in Sheffield with a barmaid, a large, loud, and badly painted female who had failed that day to capture another woman’s husband; and because she had just been told she was pretty, Colonel Trant’s daughter was pleased and excited at once, perhaps better pleased and more excited than she had been for years. Hitherton would never have believed it.

Was it this conversation, was it the sight of those photographs in the sitting-room, was it merely a sudden lack of interest in cathedrals, at Liverpool or elsewhere, or was it a combination of all these things that made Miss Trant offer her services? She will be seen arriving at other decisions but at none really of greater importance than this, which is of such moment indeed that everything related up to now has been a mere overture to it. It came easily enough, and as usual with nothing to indicate that here was a little lever that might move whole worlds. Effie had returned to the subject of Mr. Tipstead, whose sun was still setting with her; then she had passed rather mournfully to talk of herself and her own prospects, and hinted at trying the next day for a place in a certain gentlemanly bar in Sheffield, where apparently she might be able to piece together a broken heart; and finally and momentously she arrived again at her sister Elsie, waiting in Rawsley for her basket and some money. It was then that Miss Trant made her offer.

“If you like, I’ll take them down for you tomorrow,” she announced quite calmly. “No, it won’t take me out of my way because really I haven’t got a way. I was going to Liverpool to see the cathedral but I’d much rather go to Rawsley and see your sister.”

Effie agreed with enthusiasm. It was arranged that Miss Trant should call at the house next morning for the basket and whatever sum Unkerlarthur might be able to raise at such short notice. There would be no difficulty, Effie pointed out, in finding Elsie in a town of that size, where everybody knew everybody else’s business. She launched upon a description of Elsie that soon became a bewildering biography, and at last Miss Trant had to cut her short, pleading that she was tired and would like to go to bed early. That was quite enough. Instantly, Effie was for rushing her upstairs at once and putting her to bed with her own hands, and by the time Miss Trant had excused herself from any such treatment, she was tired indeed.

The day had been so long, so eventful, so cluttered with other people’s lives, with Tipsteadery, that it seemed to press upon her now, a weight and huddle of experience not to be borne without some little respite of darkness and quiet. Thus it was a relief to see the last of Effie, now almost tearful again and threatening huge embraces, to meet the chill emptiness of the hotel bedroom, as impersonal as a packing case, to slip out of the day altogether, after having crowned it with a little gesture of one’s own. In short, Miss Trant did not regret her change of programme and slept well.

IV

Thus it was that she found herself, on the Thursday afternoon, on the road a few miles from Rawsley. Behind, on top of her own bags, was a theatrical basket, the property of Miss Elsie Longstaff, and in her handbag was a letter from Effie and an envelope in which she had seen Unkerlarthur place a dirty pound note and an equally dirty ten shilling one; all he could muster. She had hinted that she could lend Elsie some money herself, but Unkerlarthur had insisted on sending this thirty shillings. It had never occurred to Miss Trant that she, a stranger, was being trusted with these things, and neither Unkerlarthur nor Effie had pointed out this fact or shown the least hesitation; all of which says something for the company we are keeping.

The rain that had driven Mr. Oakroyd under the trees had compelled Miss Trant to put up the hood of her car. With the first appearance of the sun, she had stopped to take down the hood, and this time had stopped altogether. The car refused to start again. She cranked away until she was breathless and aching. She pressed the self-starter until at last it would not even make a noise. When she was not attending to one or the other, she was hopefully flooding the carburettor. It was useless; the engine would not start, never even gave a promising little cough or splutter. She looked wistfully at its mysterious pipes and wires and cylinders. “How absurd these things are!” she told herself. “It looks just the same, exactly the same as it does when it’s going, and yet it won’t go.” There was nothing for it but to wait until someone came along who knew more about the interior of a car than she did. As the roads now are crowded with people who know all about such things, her position did not make her feel uneasy. The road to Rawsley, however, was singularly deserted that afternoon. Ten minutes passed and brought not a soul. Then a little figure came into the struggling sunlight. And this, of course, was Mr. Oakroyd walking into his adventure.

When he came closer, Miss Trant noticed that he was carrying a bag of tools and, of all things, one of those absurd little basket trunks, and the very smallest she had ever seen. When he came closer still, she noticed that this sturdy middle-aged workman had a broad pleasant face and eyes of bright blue. His brown cap was on the back of his head and looked too small for him, and this cap and the ridiculous little basket trunk made Miss Trant want to laugh. What she did do, however, was simply to smile at him and to ask if he knew anything about cars.

He did not raise his cap, he did not touch it in salute, but he pushed it further back on his head. In this way he contrived to give the lady some sort of salute and also keep his independence at the same time. “Well,” he replied to her question about cars, “I do and I don’t, as you might say.” And he smiled back at her, his face wrinkling pleasantly in the sunshine.

“I wonder if the ‘do’ part of it would apply to this car, because I can’t make it start, you see. I wonder if you’d mind having a look at it. I’m sure you could do something with it.” Miss Trant had great confidence in all men who carried bags of tools about with them, and would have been surprised to learn that joiners usually know very little about internal-combustion engines.

“What I mean is this,” he went on, following his own thoughts stubbornly. “I’ve nivver driven a car i’ my life. Cars as cars has nowt to do wi’ my job. But where I’ve been working, they’ve a lot o’ lorries and I’ve spent many an hour watching t’lads set ’em to rights, so I’ve picked up a bit about ’em. Nar do you understand me, Missis⁠—I mean, Miss?”

His caution, his broad North-country speech, and certain whimsical details of his appearance all delighted Miss Trant. “I see. But I’m sure you could find out what’s wrong with it.”

“I might and I might not. You can nivver tell wi’ these things. I’ll have a do at her, though. Nar what have you done so far?” And he listened to her tale of cranking and petrol flooding with the deep solemnity of a man about to take over a job. When she had finished, he remarked: “I’ll bet it’s either t’plugs or magneto. She won’t start if her plugs is mucky. We’ll have a look at ’em.”

Cheerfully he set to work, first pulling out the car’s tool box, then unscrewing one plug after another. “They’re none so bad,” he observed, “but we’ll give ’em a bit of a rub up while we’re on t’job.”

It was while he was giving them his bit of rub up that the sky suddenly darkened. From the massed clouds in the West there came a vague roll or two of thunder, and the next minute there was something more than a mere shower, there was a downright pelter. Mr. Oakroyd hastily covered up the engine and then helped Miss Trant to raise the hood. “Come inside and shelter,” she cried, climbing in. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed her, and there they sat together, looking through the windscreen at the downpour, a very queer pair indeed.

“Eh, I’ve left that basket o’ mine out,” he exclaimed, and brought it in. “I’ve all my clothes i’ that, an’ they wouldn’t dry so quick once they’d gotten sopped through.”

This last remark was made, in his excitement, in a brogue so broad that Miss Trant could hardly understand it. “I’m sure you must come from Sheffield,” she said, after a pause. “I was there last night.” This nice little man reminded her of Unkerlarthur.

“Nay, I don’t,” he replied, apparently in some surprise. “I belong many a mile off Sheffield. I came from Bruddersford. Nar, I’ll bet you’ve heard o’ Bruddersford, haven’t you, Miss?”

“Yes, that’s where they make cloth, isn’t it? But that’s in Yorkshire too, surely?”

“Ay, I should think it wor. It’s more i’ Yorkshire ner Sheffield. You couldn’t have owt more Yorkshire ner Bruddersford. An’ I’ve lived there all my life, except for a bit when I was down South, till this week.”

“And where are you going to now?”

“Eh, I don’t know. I was just going to have look round this Rawsley place today, but I don’t rightly know where I’m going.”

“I’m rather like that, too, at the moment,” Miss Trant remarked. The parallel amused her.

“I nobbut set off o’ Monday night,” he continued, a trifle dreamily. “And what is it now? It’s nobbut Thursday, isn’t it? Well, it seems like months sin’ I was i’ Bruddersford, I’ve done that much and seen that much these three days. I’m fair capped wi’ mesen. It’s like being one o’ these chaps on t’pictures. And nobbut three days!”

Miss Trant could have clapped her hands, just as she used to do when she was a little girl and as she had never thought of doing for years. “But how queer!” she cried. “I’ve been just like that too. I’ve been away since Monday and all kinds of things have happened and I feel as if I’d been away months and was quite a different person. Don’t you feel that too?”

“I do an’ all.” He was as delighted as she was.

“Do tell me all that’s happened to you,” she commanded. “But tell me your name first.”

“Oakroyd’s my name. It’s a right old Bruddersford name.”

“And mine’s Trant, and that’s an old name, too, in Gloucestershire. And now you must tell me all your adventures since Monday night. I’m sure you’ve had adventures, haven’t you?”

“I have that. I’ve had so many, I don’t fairly know where to start. It’ll tak’ a bit o’ time.”

“Never mind about that, Mr. Oakroyd. It’s raining hard and we can’t do anything until it stops, and I want to hear all about it.”

After some hesitation, he told the whole story, with Lily and his wife and Leonard, the twenty pounds and the dismissal, the lorry, the Great North Road and Nobby and the Kirkworth Inn, the caravan and Joby Jackson and the fair and Jim Summers, in short, with everything in it. Miss Trant, who occasionally asked questions and insisted upon all the details, enjoyed it all and decided that Mr. Oakroyd himself was adorable. In return, she told him enough to prove that she was really a fellow-adventurer. Then the sun came out again to brighten the last spatter of rain.

“Nar we’ll have a do at them plugs,” said Mr. Oakroyd, who liked to push on with a job once he had put his hand to it. His “do” was crowned with success, for the car started easily. Miss Trant waved him back to his seat, and they moved towards Rawsley. The town began, as so many small towns do, with a railway station, and on the opposite side of the road, about a hundred yards farther along, was a corrugated iron hut labelled “Mounder’s Station Refreshment Rooms.” Miss Trant’s eyes were caught by a pink bill pasted on the wall of this hut, near the doorway. She pulled up, then got out to examine the bill. It told her what she wanted to know: The Dinky Doos, in their Musical Medley of Fun and Frolic, were to be seen, it proclaimed, in the Assembly Rooms, Rawsley; and among the promised attractions were “the Dainty Numbers” of Miss Elsie Longstaff.

While she was reading this notice, a middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway. Perhaps she was Mounder herself, for she had the mournful resignation of one doomed to be encased in corrugated iron and to serve station refreshments.

Miss Trant turned to her. “Can you tell me if these people”⁠—she pointed to the notice⁠—“are still in the town?”

Mrs. Mounder immediately folded herself up, her arms, her face, her whole body, being compressed at once, so that she seemed the very image of bitter stoicism. “Yes indeed they are,” she replied grimly. “They’re in here.”

“What! Do you mean they’re in there now?”

Mrs. Mounder shut her eyes, put her lips away altogether, and nodded her head so violently that the whole of her seemed to rock slightly. “Came an hour ago, six of ’em,” she said at last, “and ordered one pot of tea and one plate of bread-and-butter, and they’ve asked for two lots of hot water already, and some of ’em’s eating what they brought themselves. And sitting there jabbering away and ordering me about! They’ll get no more hot water, I can tell you,” she added, looking sternly at Miss Trant, as if to anticipate that lady’s request that they should be given still more hot water.

“Oh, what a shame!” cried Miss Trant, remembering their plight.

“You might well call it that, Miss. If everybody went on like that, I couldn’t keep a door open.”

“No, I was thinking about them,” said Miss Trant, boldly correcting her.

“Them indeed!” Mrs. Mounder sniffed. “Don’t you worry about them. They’ve impudence for anything, they have. We’ve heard about them.”

“Well, I’m coming to see one of them, and I’ll have some tea too.” She turned away to invite Mr. Oakroyd, who was still sitting in the car, to have some tea with her. At this moment, however, two men, looking rather bedraggled, approached the hut, and in the narrow space between the road and the doorway there was hardly room for the three of them. The men stepped back to let her pass, but as they did so, the one in front, a fair youth with a wild lock of hair and no hat, called out to Mrs. Mounder: “Good afternoon, Madam. Have you Dinky Doos here?”

It sounded as if he were an officer of health inquiring about some infectious disease. Miss Trant smiled as she hurried past them. She heard the second man cry: “Lead on, Jollifant,” noticed that he carried a large flat case that looked as if it contained some musical instrument, and wondered if they were theatrical people too. They disappeared into the Station Refreshment Rooms. Then Mr. Oakroyd, a little diffident, followed them, and Miss Trant, who had returned to her car for her handbag, was last of all. In the doorway, she lingered a moment and heard an astonishing clatter of tongues coming from the inner room. “I’m quite excited,” she told herself happily.