as a sling for the
wounded arm.

'Providentially the thing broke down at the Carstairs's very gates,' he
went on. The loss of blood was making him sick, but if he went on
talking he would probably not faint. 'And it was then three o'clock in
the morning, so I coaxed it up the drive and shoved it into the
coach-house, and took their motor, which is rather a nice one.'

'Then it wasn't your own machine that you smashed up?' said Peter.

'No, praise be!' replied Toffy.

'When will the fraud be discovered?' asked Jane. 'Gilbert Carstairs is
quite a good sort, but his wife has very little sense of humour.'

'Oh, I left a note all right in the coach-house,' answered Toffy, 'and
I pointed out to Gilbert that he had no right to encourage burglaries
by having inefficient locks on his coach-house doors. I added that I
thought he ought to be very thankful that it was an honest man who had
stolen his motor-car.'

'Also, I hope you said that he might have the loan of your disabled one
till he had had it thoroughly repaired?' said Peter.

'I said something of that sort,' Toffy replied. 'And I should think
Gilbert would do the right thing by the motor. I am only afraid Mrs.
Carstairs may misunderstand the whole thing.'

'One is liable to be misunderstood by even the best people,' said Peter.

At breakfast-time it appeared that nothing had been done to prepare
Miss Abingdon for the news that one of her best spare bedrooms was at
this moment occupied by a man with a broken head, for she appeared at
the door of the breakfast-room in a serene frame of mind, and was
kissed by Peter, who announced that here he was, you know, and hoped
she was not much surprised to see him so early.

'I am never surprised,' said Miss Abingdon, with intention.

'I have been thinking,' said the young man presently, in the peculiarly
genial voice which was characteristic of him and helped to make him so
likeable, 'that, suppose a policeman should come sniffing about here
this morning, you had better tell him that there is no such thing as a
motor-car in the place, and that there has never been one.'

'That is hardly true, Peter,' said Miss Abingdon, in the severe manner
which she cultivated, 'considering how often Sir Nigel is here with
his.'

'As a matter of fact,' said Peter steadily, 'Toffy is here now. He
is--he is in bed, in fact.'

'Something has happened!' exclaimed Miss Abingdon apprehensively. Why
was it that youth could never