“It’s all my fault,” Stephanie gulped. “That man in the other car, it’s Geoffrey. He has lunch with me. I didn’t know—I told him you had a collection, that you were coming down here today—I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Of course not, how could you?” Majendie consoled her. “Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll soon be out of all this, quite safe and sound. Look, here’s Mr. Nightingale in the corner—haven’t you seen him? Or perhaps you haven’t had time to learn his name—”

“You! I thought they’d left you behind,” she cried. “Oh, are you all right? Did they hurt?”

“They didn’t tickle.”

“How odd your voice sounds.”

“Yours isn’t quite natural.”

“I can’t help it—I’m not really crying, it just keeps coming.”

“Of course, of course, we understand,” said Majendie, reproachfully, as it seemed to Brett. “You’ve been magnificent. You’re sure they didn’t hurt you?”

“No, oh no. Just kept on asking and threatening—about the case, of course. I just pretended I didn’t know what they were talking about, and so there was nothing they could do. They’re raging mad, but they’re in a hurry to get somewhere. I don’t know why they’ve stopped here.”

“You see, dear fellow?” said Majendie triumphantly.

“I see,” said Brett. “They didn’t talk between themselves at all?”

“Only just now, before they brought me over. Someone’s gone—”

“We know.”

“Oh. And that man who hit you—it was a sort of sausage he used, did you know?”

“A sock and sand, I suppose, or rubber.”

“Well, he kept on saying he didn’t like it, but Geoffrey—” Her voice quivered. “Geoffrey told him to drive further out—this car, I suppose—so that you shouldn’t see. The driver said you’d see anyway and you weren’t deaf either, but Geoffrey made him. He said to mind the ditches. That’s all. Oh, where are we?” she concluded miserably.

“Inexplicable as it seems,” said Majendie, “somewhere about Richborough, by my calculation of time, direction, and so on—hullo!”

The car had stopped. And Majendie had named the name, thought Brett. Could he, at last, fully acquit him? But that must wait. If this was Richborough, where were they, Kent? Where in this white wilderness could they hide themselves? Were they hiding? Someone had blundered, he thought with a shudder. He fancied them diverted by a false message, its authenticity not questioned till too late. Or was it conceivable that his plan had at the last minute been overridden, Superior Wisdom having insisted on a concentration at the point? Or had they even thought that in such weather the meeting would surely be cancelled?

Duster, the driver, got out and closed his door. He was going away. Brett watched him lumbering and slipping, trying to hurry over the treacherously pitted snow.

“What now?” asked Majendie quickly. “He’s left the engine running. Why?”

“Batteries? No, we’ve no lights to drain them. Ready to get away quickly, perhaps. Apparently they don’t intend to leave us here. I thought they might.”

“What’s happening?” asked Stephanie.