He questioned her interestedly about Osterway.  What sort of a place was it?  Were the people round about sociable?  He liked plenty of friends, he said.

Christine answered eagerly that everyone was very nice.  To hear her talk one would have imagined that Osterway was a little heaven on earth.  The last few weeks, with their excitement and disillusionment, had made the past seem all the more roseate by contrast.  She told this man that she would rather live in Osterway than anywhere else; that she only wished she were sufficiently well off to keep Upton House.

When the train ran into the station he asked diffidently if he might be allowed to drive her home.

“My car is down here,” he explained.  “I sent it on with my man.  I am staying in the village for a few days. . . .  Upton House is some way from the station, I believe?”

“Two miles. . . .  I should like to drive home with you,” she told him shyly.  “Only I am meeting a friend here.”

“Perhaps your friend will drive with us, too,” he said.

Christine thought it a most excellent arrangement.  She looked eagerly up and down the platform for Gladys Leighton, but there was no sign of her.

“Perhaps she never got my telegram,” she said in perplexity.  She asked the stationmaster if there had been a lady waiting for the train; but he had seen nobody.

The man with whom she had travelled down from London stood patiently beside her.

“Shall we drive on?” he suggested.  “We may meet your friend on the road.”

They went out to the big car; there was a smart man in livery to drive them.  Christine and her companion sat together in the back seat.  They drove slowly the first half-mile, but there was no sign of Gladys anywhere.  Christine felt depressed.  She had counted on Gladys; she had been so sure that she would not fail her; she began to wonder if Jimmy had sent that wire; she hated herself for the thought, but her whole belief and idea of him had got hopelessly inverted during the past days.

They seemed to reach Upton House very quickly.

“You are evidently expected,” her companion said; “judging by the look of the house.”

The front door stood open; the wide gate to the drive was fastened back.  As the car stopped the housekeeper came to the door; she looked interestedly at Christine, and with faint amazement at her companion.  For the first time Christine felt embarrassed:  she wondered if perhaps she had been foolish to accept this man’s offer of an escort.  When they were inside the house she turned to him timidly.

“Will you tell me your name?  It—­it seems so funny not to know your name.  Mine is Christine Wyatt—­Challoner, I mean,” she added with a flush of embarrassment.

“My name is Kettering—­Alfred Kettering.”  He smiled down at her.  “The name Challoner is very familiar to me,” he said.  “My greatest friend is a man named Challoner.”