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THERE WERE FIVE
    The Feathers in Penlow is an historic inn. It has, or so tradition says, for no one in these days knows where to look for it, a secret passage; and King Charles II hid in one of its small panelled rooms during his flight after the battle of Worcester. Few old houses in this part of the country lack a room hallowed by the uneasy sleep of a crowned head. Felix had calculated that of the forty-one nights occupied by his flight to Shoreham, the Merry Monarch had spent twenty-three in providing the inns and private dwellings of Penlow and its environs with interest for future antiquarians.
    But even without these advantages the Feathers is a delightful inn, with its sombre brick and timber frontage, its narrow panelled passages and large, low-pitched bedrooms, its mahogany half-tester beds, its profusion of texts, its polished, uneven floors and scent of lavender and furniture polish. No period furniture by Messrs. Gilling & Staple undermines its atmosphere of true antiquity. No posters in unnatural spelling and evil print proclaim it “Ye Oldeste Radnor Inne.” No hordes of motorists and cyclists arrive on Sundays to consume expensive teas and admire what the house-agents describe as period-features. It has no features, in that sense. The hand of the exploiter has not yet reached the Feathers. May it never do so.
    Felix, having booked a room for himself and one for Charles, wandered restlessly to the doorway and looked up and down the road. Dusk was falling, and lamps were lit in the windows across the street. He felt distinctly hungry and tired, and yet unwilling to eat or rest until Charles had arrived and dispelled his slight sense of uneasiness. There was no sign of a cyclist coming up the narrow high street. Felix sighed, and silently anathematized his cousin as an inconsiderate, confounded, irresponsible idiot. Turning back from his fruitless inspection of the street, he encountered the friendly smile of a young man standing at the foot of the stairs. It was the motorist they had stopped on Rodland Hill.
    â€œGood evening,” said the young man, advancing towards Felix. “Hasn’t your friend turned up yet?”
    â€œNo. I shan’t wait dinner for him much longer. I can’t understand where he can have got to, but I suppose he’s all right.”
    â€œHe couldn’t have lost his way, I suppose?”
    â€œImpossible. He saw us all start down Rodland Hill, and he knows we’re staying the night here. He may turn up any minute. But—”
    â€œBut you don’t feel quite easy about him. Is he the sort of person to go off on his own without warning?”
    â€œWell,” replied Felix, instinctively liking the stranger and glad to have somebody to talk the matter over with, now that the Brownings and Isabel had departed to the doctor’s house, “I’ve only known him three days. But I should think he was, rather. It’s frightfully thoughtless of him, if he has. I’m supposed to be going round to the Brownings after dinner, but I don’t like to do anything till he turns up.” Felix spoke gloomily, depressed at seeing the prospect of an evening in Isabel’s company diminish before his eyes.
    â€œYour other friends?”
    â€œYes. He’s Dr. Browning, lives about a quarter of a mile out of the town. Charles and I live at Rhyllan Hall, four miles away, and are going on there to-morrow.”
    â€œIf you care to go to your friends,” suggested the stranger amiably, “we’ll look out for the missing one, and send a message to you when he arrives. We’re staying the night here.”
    â€œIt’s awfully good of you,” said Felix gratefully. “But I think I’d rather stay on the spot.” He sighed.
    â€œWould you care to join us at dinner?” the stranger asked diffidently. “We should be delighted if you would. We’re strangers in this part of the world, and you’ll be