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they must be kept out of it. It was evident that if there was any help at all coming from that house it must come from the girl; I can’t say that I was too sanguine about her. From the landlord’s description she sounded a blue-stocking of the most virulent description; it seemed to me that water-colours and escaped convicts were unlikely to go well together. Evidently I must try the house, but I thought it was more probable that Compton would have to stay in the woods for a day or two till I could get some clothes for him and smuggle him away.
    As I drew nearer to the house I began to wonder how I should get hold of the girl without her parents. A succession of ideas passed through my head and were rejected one by one. I might say that I was soliciting custom for a projected milk round—but that wouldn’t work in the country. Nor would the gas-meter do, where there was probably no gas. Finally, I fixed on the car as being the one thing in the house that would be solely the domain of the daughter, and decided to make that my line of attack.
    The house was a pleasant-looking place on the woodedside of a hill, standing well back from the road in three or four acres of land. It was not a large house, but it was beautifully cared for; the gardens were small, but very neat. There was a large paddock with a decrepit-looking pony in it. It was about seven o’clock when I got there; the rain had stopped and the clouds were clearing off before the sunset. The garden smelt wonderful after the rain.
    I rang the bell and a maid came to the door. ‘Can I see Miss Stevenson?’ I said. ‘It’s about the car—I’m from the garage.’
    The maid went in and a girl came to the door. She must have been in the hall.
    ‘It’s about the car?’ she said. ‘You’ve come from Weller’s?’
    That was the first time I met Joan Stevenson. I wish I could recall that first interview a little more clearly. She was a tall slim girl with grey eyes, by her complexion a country girl, rather plain and—which seemed strange to me—without a trace of powder or make-up. She had very soft brown hair, bobbed; she was wearing a brown jumper, a skirt that looked like corduroy, and brown brogues. She looked me straight in the eyes when she spoke, which worried me and made me nervous.
    I produced a jet from my waistcoat pocket. ‘It’s about the carburettor on your car, Miss,’ I said. ‘The makers sent a letter round to us agents to say as some cars was issued from the factory wiv jets as gives trouble in the morning, starting from cold, like. They was to be replaced without charge. So as I was passing along this evening the manager told me to look in.’
    ‘It’s very good of him,’ said the girl, ‘but she’s always been very easy to start. Beautiful.’ I could see that she was puzzled.
    ‘Could I just ’ave a look at her,’ I said, ‘if it won’t beinconveniencing? ’Course, if she’s going all right, I says leave well alone. There’s a sight more damage done messing them about than what there is leaving them alone. But if I might look to see what number jet she has got in, an’ then I can tell the boss.’
    She took me round to the back of the house, and there was the car standing in the coach-house with the doors open. We went into the coach-house, but I didn’t open the bonnet of the car. Instead, I straightened myself up.
    ‘Miss Stevenson,’ I said, ‘I haven’t come about the car. I’ve come about your cousin, Compton—I don’t know his other name. He sent me here to see you. He wants help.’
    She looked at me incredulously. ‘He sent you here?’ she repeated.
    ‘I saw him this afternoon,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid he’s in trouble. He broke prison apparently—he’s been in prison, hasn’t he? He’s in the woods close here, and he wants help to get a change of clothes and get away.’
    ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
    I could see that this interview wasn’t going at all well. I didn’t see what else I could