please, at once. We can ride for a short distance anywhere."

"But I am just in the middle of a rubber of bridge," he objected.

"It can't be helped," she declared. "To tell you the truth, the
matter I want to talk to you about is of more importance than any
game of cards. Don't be foolish, Dicky. You have your hat in your
hand. Step in here by my side at once."

He looked a little bewildered, but he obeyed her, as most people
did when she was in earnest. She gave the driver an address
somewhere in the city. As soon as they were off, she turned
towards him.

"Dicky," she said, "do you read the newspapers?"

"Well, I can't say that I do regularly," he answered. "I read the
New York Herald, but these London journals are a bit difficult,
aren't they? One has to dig the news out,--sort of treasure-hunt
all the time."

"You have read this murder case, at any rate," she asked, "about
the man who was killed in a special train between Liverpool and
London?"

"Of course," he answered, with a sudden awakening of interest.
"What about it?"

"A good deal," she answered slowly. "In the first place, the man
who was murdered--Mr. Hamilton Fynes--comes from the village