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the restaurant car for tea to help pass the time. And then, at last, the train drew into Lyme Regis station.
    She got out of the train with her suitcase, and looked vaguely about her. A considerable number of other passengers had also left the train, quite a few of whom were being met, so that the platform was quite crowded. It was impossible to pick out anyone who had come to meet her, so Lucy waited until everyone else had gone—everyone else, that is, except a tall man in grey flannels and an open-necked shirt to whom Lucy took an instantaneous and unreasonable dislike. For one thing, she could not help feeling that the casual crimson cravat he was wearing had been especially chosen because the colour suited his dark handsomeness—oh yes, he was handsome, Lucy admitted grudgingly—and no doubt knew it. But besides that, he was scowling most unpleasantly as he came towards her.
    “Miss Darvill?” he asked coldly.
    “Yes, I’m Lucy Darvill,” she acknowledged with an upward inflection of her voice.
    “I’m Mrs. Mayberry’s nephew, Owen Vaughan,” he told her, and then, picking up her case, he turned his back on her and began striding towards the exit. Lucy followed, vaguely wondering why he was in such a bad temper, but not really very much interested.
    In the station courtyard stood an open sports car. Owen Vaughan dropped the case on the back seat and without a word held open the door for Lucy to get in. With a murmured “Thank you,” she took her place and a moment later they were on their way.
    The station lay to the back of the town and Owen Vaughan turned in the opposite direction from it. None the less they were on a busy main road, and more than once, with a deepening scowl, Owen had to drop to a crawl while the tangled traffic sorted itself out.
    Neither of them spoke until Lucy, stirred from her apathy by his boorishness, remarked with a show of spirit that since it had obviously been a nuisance for him to have met her, wouldn’t it have been possible for a car to have been hired?
    Owen Vaughan laughed shortly.
    “At the very last moment—on a Saturday in late April? My good girl, all the cars for miles around are booked up with wedding engagements. Except for June, April is one of the most popular months for weddings that there are, you know.”
    Involuntarily Lucy shrank a little in her seat, but she managed to say in quite a controlled voice:
    “Yes, I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m sorry you were forced to come to my rescue, Mr. Vaughan.”
    Owen gave her a quick, puzzled look. Something in the way she had spoken had caused his anger to evaporate to a perplexing degree—but he was not entirely appeased.
    “Why was there such a deuce of a hurry for you to come today?” he demanded.
    “It suited Mrs. Mayberry—and it suited me,” Lucy said coldly.
    “I grant you it suit's Aunt Louise.” Owen admitted. “She’s been like a cat on hot bricks for the last month, wanting to get on with her book. All the same, the suggestion came from you, via Uncle Stanley.” He gave her another quick, searching look. “Well, I want to know why!”
    Lucy did not reply, and after a moment Owen said very deliberately:
    “I’ve always found secretiveness a most unpleasant trait in anyone’s character. To me it smacks of—underhandedness.”
    “Evidently you feel about that just as I do about unjustifiable inquisitiveness.” Deliberately Lucy mimicked the way he had spoken. “To me it smacks of— bad manners.”
    For a moment there was silence. Then, as if he were faintly amused, Owen remarked:
    “I see—mutual mistrust and dislike! Well, at least we know where we are, which is something, no doubt!”
    For the rest of the trip there was no conversation.
    * * *
    Spindles, Mrs. Mayberry’s home, lay well off the Uplyme Road. One reached it by twisting, turning lanes that led up and down sharp little hills to a five- barred gate which Owen jumped out and opened. This, presumably, was