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probably sleep a little, anyway.
    “All right, Evans,” he said. “I may be away for a few days.”
    The butler hesitated in surprise. “Shall I pack a bag, sir?”
    “No, thanks. I shan’t want that.”
    He went out to the car; although the night outside was cold he was glad to be leaving that house. Donaghue, smart in chauffeur’s cap and long blue coat with silver buttons, held the door open for him; Warren got in and Evans handed in a couple of rugs. They stood for moment then, holding open the door of the limousine.
    “Where to, sir?” asked Donaghue.
    “Get on the Great North Road,” said Warren absently. “Go on till I tell you to stop.”
    Evans and Donaghue exchanged glances of incomprehension. Then the chauffeur said, “Very good, sir,” and got in to his seat; in turn he wrapped a rug around him and the car moved off. Warren leaned forward and switched off the interior light, and settled down in the back seat.
    The car moved forward through Mayfair, up Orchard Street and Baker Street, past Lord’s and the Swiss Cottage on to Finchley. A light rain was falling and the streets were wet and empty; Donaghue settled to his wheel and wondered what the night would bring for him. He liked Warren, and was sorry for him; he thought that he had suffered a raw deal. Apart from that, he trusted him implicitly. At the same time, there was no denying that his master was looking mighty queer; Cook had been worried that he ate so little dinner. Maybe he would like a cup of coffee later on.
    He drove out on the by-pass, shifted and relaxed into the driving seat, and set himself to the night’s work.
    In the rear seat of the limousine Warren lay cross-ways in one corner, quiet and at rest. He was in darkness; for a time he watched the lights and street signsas they passed the windows opposite him. Presently rain blurred the windows and the lights grew more infrequent; soon they were driving through the darkness on a broad, wet ribbon of road lit by the headlights for five hundred yards. The purring of the engine, the wet swish of the tyres, the gentle, easy motion lulled him to a doze, the doze merged into something deeper, and he slept.
    Through the wet night the limousine swept on, running at quarter-power at a steady forty-five, untired and effortless. Donaghue had produced a bottle of boiled sweets and sucked them as he drove; occasionally he smoked a cigarette. The rain stopped and began again; it went on intermittently all through the night.
    At Welwyn they came out on the old road and drove on north, through Baldock and Biggleswade, past St. Neots and Huntingdon, by Norman Cross, over the bridge at Wansford and to Stamford. There Donaghue slowed down and peered into the rear seat. Warren appeared to be asleep. He shrugged his shoulders, and drove on.
    Forty minutes later he ran down the hill into Grantham, slowed down, and finally stopped at a garage to fill up. The all-night hand came sleepily to the pump; Donaghue got down from his seat and busied himself about the car.
    Through the rain-spotted window-glass he looked at Warren, saw he was awake. He opened the door.
    “Stopped here for some petrol, sir,” he said. “Just about ready to go on.”
    “Got enough money?” asked Warren without moving.
    “Quite all right, sir.”
    Warren turned his head. “What place is this?”
    “Grantham.” The chauffeur hesitated. “Would you like a cup of coffee, or tea, sir? There’s a place open up the road.”
    “No thanks. Get one yourself, if you like.”
    “I’m all right for the present, thank you, sir. Still straight on north?”
    “Straight on,” said Warren. “Get up into the hills north-west of Newcastle. Between Newcastle and Carlisle.”
    “Very good, sir,” said the chauffeur. He closed the door, and turned to pay for petrol.
    “Going far?” enquired the garage hand.
    “Two hundred bloody miles, or so,” said Donaghue. “I wish I was a dog with a good home.”
    He drove out on to the