ok her
head.

"No thanks," she said. "I think I'll walk."

She passed out across the courtyard and mingled with the stream of
pedestrians. Right at the beginning of her adventure she had nearly
blundered. She laughed, with a certain glee. It was novel and
exhilarating, this conspiracy against the powers that be. There was
something that appealed to the adventurous within her in thus being
under the necessity of covering her tracks.

Certainly, she was a novice. It would never have done to lay a trail
right from the hotel door to Laurel Cottage.

She walked into Charing Cross Station and approached the driver of the
first vacant taxi that offered.

"I want to go to Dulwich Village."

The man pulled a wry face. If he undertook that journey it would mean
that he would in all probability have to run back empty, and then he
would miss the theatre people.

"Sorry, miss. But I don't think I've got enough petrol!"

"Oh, how tiresome."

The American accent, now suddenly pronounced, induced him to change his
mind.

"Should you want me to bring you back, miss?"

"Sure! I don't want to be left there!"

"All right, miss. Jump in."

"But I thought you hadn't enough petrol?"

The man grinned.

"I didn't want to be stranded right out there with no chance of a fare,
miss!" he confessed.

Zoe laughed, good-naturedly, and entered the cab.

The man set off, and soon Zoe found herself upon unfamiliar ground.
Through slummish localities they passed, and through popular suburbs,
where all the activity of the West End prevailed without its
fascinating, cosmopolitan glitter.

Dulwich Village was reached at last, and the cab was drawn up on a
corner bearing a signpost.

"Which house did you want, miss?"

"I want Laurel Cottage."

The taxi-man scratched his head.

"You see, some of the houses in the village aren't numbered," he said;
"and I don't know this part very well. I never heard of Laurel Cottage.
Any idea which way it lies?"

"Not the slightest. Do you think you could find out for me?"

A policeman was standing on the opposite corner, and, crossing, the
taxi-man held some conversation with him. He returned very shortly.

"It's round at the back of the College buildings, miss," he reported.

Again the cab proceeded onward. This was a curiously lonely spot, more
lonely than Zoe could have believed to exist within so short a distance
from the ever-throbbing heart of London. She began to wish that she had