In the chintz-hung, old-world morning-room, lit by the last rays of the declining sun, for the sky had suddenly cleared, Mrs. Bond entered, loud-voiced and merry.

“Why, Mr. Henfrey!  I’m so awfully pleased to see you.  Charles telephoned to me that you were a bit out of sorts.  So you must stay with me for a little while—­both of you.  It’s very healthy up here on the Surrey hills, and you’ll soon be quite right again.”

“I’m sure, Mrs. Bond, it is most hospitable of you,” Hugh said.  “London in these after the war days is quite impossible.  I always long for the country.  Certainly your house is delightful,” he added, looking round.

“It’s one of the nicest houses in the whole county of Surrey, my boy,” Benton declared enthusiastically.  “Mrs. Bond was awfully lucky in securing it.  The family are unfortunately ruined, as so many others are by excessive taxation and high prices, and she just stepped in at the psychological moment.”

“Well, I really don’t know how to thank you sufficiently, Mrs. Bond,” Hugh declared.  “It is really extremely good of you.”

“Remember, Mr. Henfrey, we are not strangers,” exclaimed the handsome woman.  “Do you recollect when we met in Paris, and afterwards in Biarritz, and then that night at the Carlton?”

“I recollect perfectly well.  We met before the war, when one could really enjoy oneself contentedly.”

“Since then I have been travelling a great deal,” said the woman.  “I’ve been in Italy, the South of Spain, the Azores, and over to the States.  I got back only a few months ago.”

And so after a chat Hugh was shown to his room, a pretty apartment, from the diamond-paned windows of which spread out a lovely view across to Godalming and Hindhead, with the South Downs in the blue far away.

“Now you must make yourselves at home, both of you,” the handsome woman urged as they came down into the drawing-room after a wash.

Tea was served, and over it much chatter about people and places.  Mrs. Bond was, like her friend Benton, a thorough-going cosmopolitan.  Hugh had no idea of her real reputation, or of her remarkable adventures.  Neither had he any idea that Molly Maxwell was wanted by the Paris Surete, just as he himself was wanted.

“Isn’t this a charming place?” remarked Benton as, an hour later, they strolled on the long terrace smoking cigarettes before dinner.  “Mrs. Bond was indeed fortunate in finding it.”

“Beautiful!” declared Hugh in genuine admiration.  Since that memorable night in Monte Carlo he had been living in frowsy surroundings, concealed in thieves’ hiding-places, eating coarse food, and hearing the slang of the underworld of Europe.

It had been exciting, yet he had been drawn into it against his will—­just because he had feared for Dorise’s sake, to face the music after that mysterious shot had been fired at the Villa Amette.

Mrs. Bond was most courteous to her guests, and as Hugh and Benton strolled up and down the terrace in the fast growing darkness, the elder man remarked: