As soon as they were beyond Guildford, he knocked at the window, and afterwards mounted beside Mead.  He hated to be in a car alone, for he himself was a good driver and used always to drive his father’s old “’bus.”

“I’ll go to the Berkeley Hotel,” he said to the man.  “Drop me there, and pick me up outside there at twelve, will you?”

The man promised to do so, and then they chatted as they continued on their way to London.  Mead, a Guildfordian, knew every inch of the road.  Before entering Mrs. Bond’s service he had, for a month, driven a lorry for a local firm of builders, and went constantly to and from London.

They arrived at the corner of St. James’s Street at half-past ten.  Hugh gave Mead five shillings to get his evening meal, and said: 

“Be back here at midnight, Mead.  I expect I’ll be through my business long before that.  But it’s a clear night, and we shall have a splendid run home.”

“Very well, sir.  Thank you,” replied his hostess’s chauffeur.

Hugh Henfrey, instead of entering the smart Society hotel, turned up the street, and, walking quickly, found himself ten minutes later in Ellerston Street before a spacious house, upon the pale-green door of which was marked in Roman numerals the number fourteen.

By the light of the street lamp he saw it was an old Georgian town house.  In the ironwork were two-foot-scrapers, relics of a time long before macadam or wood paving.

The house, high and inartistic, was a relic of the days of the dandies, when country squires had their town houses, and before labour found itself in London drawing-rooms.  Consumed by curiosity, Hugh pressed the electric button marked “visitors,” and a few moments later a smart young footman opened the door.

“Mr. George Peters?” inquired Hugh.  “I have an appointment.”

“What name, sir?” the young, narrow-eyed man asked.

“Henfrey.”

“Oh, yes, sir!  Mr. Peters is expecting you,” he said.  And at once he conducted him along the narrow hall to a room beyond.

The house was beautifully appointed.  Everywhere was taste and luxury.  Even in the hall there were portraits by old Spanish masters and many rare English sporting prints.

The room into which he was shown was a long apartment furnished in the style of the Georgian era.  The genuine Adams ceiling, mantelpiece, and dead white walls, with the faintly faded carpet of old rose and light-blue, were all in keeping.  The lights, too, were shaded, and over all was an old-world atmosphere of quiet and dignified repose.

The room was empty, and Hugh crossed to examine a beautiful little marble statuette of a girl bather, with her arms raised and about to dive.  It was, no doubt, a gem of the art of sculpture, mounted upon a pedestal of dark-green marble which revolved.

The whole conception was delightful, and the girl’s laughing face was most perfect in its portraiture.