what was it? Medenham swept aside the fantasy that
Mrs. Devar knew the country well enough to be able to say precisely
when and where she might be sure of his failure to snatch Cynthia from
that hidden evil the nature of which he could only guess at. Her world
was the artificial one of hotels, and shops, and numbered streets--in
the real world, of which the lonely wastes of the Mendips provided no
meager sample, she was a profound ignoramus, a fat little automaton
equipped with atrophied senses. But she blundered badly in composing
herself so cozily for the remainder of the run to Bristol. Medenham
had dwelt many months at a time in lands where just such simple
indications of mood on the part of man or beast had meant to him all
the difference between life and death. So now, if ever, he became
doubly alert; his eyes were strained, eager, peering; his body still
as the wild creatures which he knew to be skulking unseen behind many
a rock and grass tuft passed on the way.

This desolate land, given over to stones interspersed with patches of
wiry grass on which browsed some hardy sheep, resembled a disturbed
ocean suddenly made solid. It was not level, but ran in long, almost
regular undulations. In the trough between two of these rounded ridges
the road bifurcated, the way to Bristol trending to the left, and a
less important thoroughfare glancing off to the right.

There was no sign-post, but a child could scarce have erred if asked
to choose the track that led to a big town. Medenham, having consulted
the map earlier in the day, swung to the left without hesitation. The
car literally flew up the next incline, and the dark lines of trees
and hedges in the distance proved that tilled land was being neared.
Now he was absolutely sure that he had managed, somehow, to miss the
Du Vallon--unless, indeed, its redoubtable mechanism was of a caliber
he had not yet come across in the highways and byways of Europe.

With him, to decide was to act. The Mercury slowed up so promptly that
Mrs. Devar became alarmed again.

"What is it?--a tire gone?" she cried.

"No, I am on the wrong road--that is all."

"But there is no other. That turning we passed was a mere lane."

The car stopped where his watchful glance noted a carpet of sand left
by the last shower of rain. He sprang out and examined the marks of
recent traffic. Marigny's vehicle carried non-skid covers with studs
arranged in peculiar groups, and their imprint was pla