A few minutes’ pedalling brought him into St. Wennys, where he dismounted to buy a packet of “gaspers” dispensed by the village postmistress.

It was a quaint little village, typical of the West Country, with its double row of small houses climbing the side of a steep hill capped at the summit by an ancient church of weather-beaten stone.  The bright June sunshine winked against the panes, of the cottage windows and flickered down upon the knobby surface of the cobbled pavements, while in the dust of the wide road an indiscriminate group of children and dogs played joyously together.

The warning hoot of a motor-horn sent them scuttling to the side of the road, and, as Sandy smilingly watched the grubby little crowd’s hasty flight for safety, a big green car shot by and was swiftly lost to sight in a cloud of whirling dust.

But not before Sandy’s keen eyes had noted its occupants.

“Nan and the artist fellow!” he muttered.

Then, remembering that Nan had promised to go with him that afternoon for a run in the “stink-pot,” he stepped out into the middle of the street and stood staring up the broad white road along which the car had disappeared—­the great road which led to London.

An ominous foreboding knocked at the door of his mind.

Where was Nan going with Rooke—­driving at reckless speed at this hour of the day on the way to London, when, according to arrangement, she should have been ready later on to adventure herself in the “stink-pot”?

Of course it was just possible she had only gone out for a morning spin with Maryon and proposed returning in time to keep her appointment with him.  But the hour was an unusually early one at which to make a start, and the green car was ripping along at a pace which rather precluded the idea of a pleasure jaunt.

Sandy was obsessed by a sense of misgiving that would not be denied.  Wheeling his bicycle round, he mounted and headed straight for Mallow Court at break-neck speed.

He arrived to find Kitty composedly dividing her attention between her breakfast and an illustrated paper, and for a moment he felt reassured.  She jumped up and greeted him joyfully.

“Hullo, Sandy!  Been down to bathe?  Come along and have some breakfast with me.  Or have you had it already?”

He shook his head.

“No, I’ve not been home yet.”

“Then you must be famished.  I’ll ring for another cup.  I’m all alone in my glory.  Barry and the Fentons departed yesterday on their fishing trip, and Nan—­”

“Yes.  Where’s Nan?” For the life of him he could not check the eager question.

“She’s gone off for the day with Maryon.  He’s driving her over to Clovelly—­she’s never been there, you know.”

Sandy’s heart sank.  He knew the quickest route from St. Wennys to Clovelly—­and the green car’s nose had been set in quite a different direction.