taken Broomleys."

"I hope that you will like the neighbourhood," she said.  "I used to
live here once myself."

"So I understood."

She was for a moment taken aback, conscious now of a certain definitely
inimical attitude in the man who stood looking coldly into her eyes.

"You know all about me, then?  That is the worst of getting into 'Who's
Who.'"

"I know more about you than I do about your companion, certainly," he admitted.

She laughed mockingly.  To a downright declaration of war she had no
objection whatever.

"That is Mr. Borden, who publishes my stories," she told him.  "I don't
suppose you read them, do you?"

"I am not sure," he replied.  "I read very little modern fiction, and I
never look at the names of the authors."

"Then we must take it for granted," she sighed, "that my fame is unknown to you.  If you should see the Marquis before I do, please tell
him that he was entirely wrong about the best route here.  His advice
has cost us nearly thirty miles and a punctured tire.  You won't
forget?"

"Certainly not," he promised.

She turned away with a little nod of farewell, to which David's
response was still entirely formal.  Left alone in the room he resumed
his breakfast, finished it with diminished appetite, and within a few
minutes was speeding through the country lanes in his great Rolls-Royce
car.  The chauffeur sat a little uneasily in his place.  It was very
seldom that his master showed such signs of haste.  In a quarter of an
hour they were in the avenue of Mandeleys.  Instead of turning to the
right, however, to Broomleys, he took the turning to the Abbey and
pulled up short when within a hundred yards of the house.

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