connecting line one bit. Probably the people who've recommended it
to you decide to look you up in their car, just when you think you're
safely buried, and disinter you. I don't _want_ to be disinterred. I
propose to get right away into the country, out of reach of everybody
we know, for two months. I shan't give our address to anyone except
Melrose, and he can forward on all letters." A small amused smile
crossed her lips. "Then we can answer them or not, exactly as we feel
disposed. It will be heavenly."

"Still I don't know where this particular paradise is which you've
selected," returned Gillian patiently.

"It's at the back of beyond--a tiny village in Devonshire called
Ashencombe. I just managed to find it on the Ordnance map with a
magnifying glass! The farm itself is called Stockleigh and is owned and
farmed by some people named Storran. The answer to my letter was signed
Dan Storran. Hasn't it a nice sound--Storran of Stockleigh?"

"And did you engage the rooms on those grounds, may I ask? Because the
proprietor's name 'had a nice sound'?"

Magda regarded her seriously.

"Do you know, I really believe that had a lot to do with it," she
acknowledged.

Gillian went off into a little gale of laughter.

"How like you!" she exclaimed.

The train steamed fussily out of Ashencombe station, leaving Magda,
Gillian, and Coppertop, together with sundry trunks and suitcases, in
undisputed possession of the extremely amateurish-looking platform.
Magda glanced about her with amusement.

"What a ridiculous little wayside place!" she exclaimed. "It has a kind
of 'home-made' appearance, hasn't it? You'd hardly expect a real bona
fide train to stop here!"

"This your luggage, miss?"

A porter--or, to be accurate, _the_ porter, since Ashencombe boasted but
one--addressed her abruptly. From a certain inimical gleam in his eye
Magda surmised that he had overheard her criticism.

"Yes." She nodded smilingly. "Is there a trap of any kind to meet us?"

Being a man as well as a porter he melted at once under Magda's
disarming smile, and replied with a sudden accession of amiability.

"Be you going to Stockleigh?" he asked. The soft sing-song intonation
common to all Devon voices fell very pleasantly on ears accustomed to
the Cockney twang of London streets.

"Yes, to Storran of Stockleigh," announced Coppertop importantly.

The porter's mouth widened into an appreciative grin.

"That's right, young master, a