e brown coat had travelled down from town for no other
purpose than to occupy that special seat.

For the next few minutes Lessing alternated between fear and
composure. In the latter condition he told himself that it was a
usual occurrence for a country driver to give a "lift" to a friend,
and that such an action was tacitly sanctioned by his patrons.
Probably the man in the brown coat was so accustomed to avail himself
of his friend's hospitality, that to both the action had become
automatic. The more Lessing dwelt on this explanation, the more
satisfactory did it appear; it supported him to the end of the
straggling village, and only lost its power when the car failed to
turn up the lane leading to the Moat. He leaned forward, tapped at
the dividing glass, and called through the tube, but neither man moved
the fraction of an inch. He called again, more loudly than before,
and as if answering a signal, the car leaped forward, leaped again,
and with ever-mounting speed dashed down the empty lane.

Then the truth could no longer be disguised. These men were in league
against him; they had laid a trap, and he had walked into it with
credulous ease. The telegram had been a fraud, sent with no other
purpose than to lure him from town, into the solitude of these lonely
lanes. The Brethren's knowledge of Blakeney and his ways seemed at
first an incredible feat, but a moment's consideration went far to
remove the mystery. Blakeney had passed through town only a week
before, and had dined with Lessing at his club. Nothing more easy
than to discover his name from the porter, and to follow up the scent.

At that moment Lessing would have given much for the feel of a
revolver in his coat pocket. Given such a weapon he might have "held
up" the two men on the front seat, and forced them to obey his orders;
as it was, he was powerless as a child. For another ten minutes the
car pursued its headlong rush; the two men sitting silent, immovable,
looking neither to right nor left; the man inside crouched forward in
an attitude of defence. And once again Lessing was conscious of that
tingling in his veins which was rather exhilaration than dread. Pace
to face with danger he had no lack of courage, rather did every
faculty of his being rouse itself to an added fullness of life. The
tangible had no terror, it was the passive waiting which played havoc
w