Suddenly through the open French windows of the library, a shrill telephone call rang out.  It came from the instrument on Buntingford’s desk, and the two outside could see him take up the receiver.

“Hullo!”

“It’s a message from Dansworth,” said Cynthia, springing to her feet.  “They’ve sent for him.”

“Yes—­yes—­” came to them in Buntingford’s deep assenting voice, as he stood with the receiver to his ear.  “All right—­In an hour?—­That’s it.  Less, if possible?  Well, I think we can do it in less.  Good-bye.”

Helena had also risen.  Buntingford emerged.

“Geoffrey!—­Peter!—­Horne!—­all of you!”

From different parts of the lawn, men appeared running.  Geoffrey French, Captain Lodge, Peter, and Julian Horne, were in a few instants grouped round their host, with Helena and Cynthia just behind.

“The Dansworth mob’s out of hand,” said Buntingford briefly.  “They’ve set fire to another building, and the police are hard pressed.  They want specials at once.  Who’ll come?  I’ve just had a most annoying message from my chauffeur.  His wife’s been in to say that he’s got a temperature—­since eight o’clock this morning—­and has gone to bed.  She won’t hear of his coming.”

“Funk?” said French quietly,—­“or Bolshevism?”

Buntingford shrugged his shoulders.  “We’ll enquire into that later.  There are two cars—­a Vauxhall and a small Renault—­a two-seater.  Who can drive?”

“I think I can drive the Renault,” said Dale.  “I’ll go and get it at once.  Hope I shan’t kill anybody.”

He ran off.  The other men looked at each other in perplexity.  None of them knew enough about the business to drive a high-powered car without serious risk to their own lives and the car’s.

“I’ll go and telephone to a man I know near here,” said Buntingford, turning towards the house.  “He’ll lend us his chauffeur.”

“Why not let me drive?” said a girl’s half-sarcastic voice.  “I’ve driven a Vauxhall most of the winter.”

Buntingford turned, smiling but uncertain.

“Of course!  I had forgotten!  But I don’t like taking you into danger, Helena.  It sounds like an ugly affair!”

“Lodge and I will go with her,” said French, eagerly.  “We can stop the car outside the town.  Horne can go with Dale.”

The eyes of the men were on the girl in white—­men half humiliated, half admiring.  Helena, radiant, was looking at Buntingford, and at his reluctant word of assent, she began joyously taking the hat-pins out of her white lace hat.

“Give me five minutes to change.  Lucky I’ve got my uniform here!  Then I’ll go for the car.”

Within the five minutes she was in the garage in full uniform, looking over and tuning up the car, without an unnecessary word.  She was the professional, alert, cheerful, efficient—­and handsomer than ever, thought French, in her close-fitting khaki.