t such infernally sharp tongues----"

"Grace!" interrupted her mother, at this juncture--"You are wanted in
the kitchen."

Grace took the maternal hint and retired at once. At that instant Tom o'
the Gleam stirred slightly from his hitherto rigid attitude. He had only
taken half his glass of brandy, but that small amount had brought back a
tinge of colour to his face and deepened the sparkle of fire in his
eyes.

"Good roads for motoring about here!" he said.

Lord Wrotham looked up,--then measuring the great height, muscular
build, and commanding appearance of the speaker, nodded affably.

"First-rate!" he replied. "We had a splendid run from Cleeve Abbey."

"Magnificent!" echoed Brookfield. "Not half a second's stop all the way.
We should have been far beyond Minehead by this time, if it hadn't been
for the break-down. We were racing from London to the Land's End,--but
we took a wrong turning just before we came to Cleeve----"

"Oh! Took a wrong turning, did you?" And Tom leaned a little forward as
though to hear more accurately. His face had grown deadly pale again,
and he breathed quickly.

"Yes. We found ourselves quite close to Cleeve Abbey, but we didn't stop
to see old ruins this time, you bet! We just tore down the first lane we
saw running back into the highroad,--a pretty steep bit of ground
too--and, by Jove!--didn't we whizz round the corner at the bottom! That
was a near shave, I can tell you!"

"Ay, ay!" said Tom slowly, listening with an air of profound interest.
"You've got a smart chauffeur, no doubt!"

"No chauffeur at all!" declared Brookfield, emphatically. "His lordship
drives his car himself."

There followed an odd silence. All the customers in the room, drinking
and eating as many of them were, seemed to be under a dumb spell. Tom o'
the Gleam's presence was at all times more or less of a terror to the
timorous, and that he, who as a rule avoided strangers, should on his
own initiative enter into conversation with the two motorists, was of
itself a circumstance that awakened considerable wonder and interest.
David Helmsley, sitting apart in the shadow, could not take his eyes off
the gypsy's face and figure,--a kind of fascination impelled him to
watch with strained attention the dark shape, moulded with such
herculean symmetry, which seemed to command and subdue the very air that
gave it force and sustenance.

"His lordship drives his car himself!" echoed Tom, and a curious smile