It occurred to him to wonder how Wacey could be sitting opposite instead of beside him. He stared, and saw that Wacey’s seat was pulled down from the division which shut off the driver. Next to Wacey’s was a similar seat, occupied by the person to whom belonged the suspended face he had seen before, but whom he now perceived to have a body also. He turned his head to the right. The fourth corner too held a passenger. Brett peered at him. The car was lit only by reflection from the snow outside; but that was strong enough.

“Majendie,” said Brett.

The figure stirred, in an oddly restricted way.

“Nightingale—my dear fellow! How do you—”

“For heaven’s sake!” said Brett, disgusted. “Don’t you think you could peel off that skin of hypocrisy? Haven’t we passed the price-cutting stage?”

“Shut up,” murmured Wacey, in tones of mild reproof.

“Look here,” protested Majendie energetically, “can’t you hear the man’s beside himself? Surely you’re not so blunted to humane—”

“Shut up,” said Wacey more firmly. “Now cut it out.”

Brett, who had turned his head away from Majendie, promptly turned it back. In a second he divined the reason for Majendie’s clumsy movement, for his present stillness, for the extraordinary language in which his subordinate addressed him. Majendie, propped in the corner of the back seat, was bound like himself.

His diagnosis of the situation, of the whole affair, disintegrated; and, in a minute or so, was reformed to a new pattern. Of course Majendie had been pursued, and not only by him; that much was right. Majendie had underestimated the shrewdness of his associates. They had reached the same conclusion as Brett. And now Majendie was hoist with his own petard. As for Stephanie, Brett’s opinion of her was modified only to the extent of wondering where, in his new disposition, she belonged; to the main party, or to Majendie.

“Where is she?” he asked, almost against his will.

No one answered. Nor did Wacey tell him to shut up, as Brett had expected.

“Where is she?” he repeated.

“I shall never forgive myself,” said Majendie suddenly, in a voice quite unlike his own.

“Oh, stop this unutterable birdseed!” cried Brett impatiently. Suddenly he was stricken with apprehension. “What happened?” he asked, quite oblivious of her lies and defection, remembering only her smooth neck and straight back and the golden hairs caught up on her shoulder.

“Poor child—she did so struggle and cry. I’m afraid—”

Majendie broke off. The car had slowed and come to a temporary standstill, its engine running. Without a word Wacey leaned forward, opened the door a little, slipped out, crouching, into the ashy twilight, closed the door soundlessly and was gone. The whole thing was over in a few seconds; and the car went forward.