road set with white posts, ending before a red brick lodge and a
closed gate. They blew the horn and a gardener came out. He gazed
at them in amazement.

"It's all right," Gerald cried. "Let us through quickly, Foulds.
We've a gentleman in behind who's ill."

The man swung open the gate with a respectful salute. They made
their way up a winding drive of considerable length, and at last
they came to a broad, open space almost like a platform. On their
left were the marshes, and beyond, the sea. Along their right
stretched the long front of an Elizabethan mansion. They drew up
in front of the hail door. Their coming had been observed, and
servants were already waiting. Gerald sprang to the ground.

"There's a gentleman in behind who's ill," he explained to the
butler. "He has met with an accident on the way. Three or four
of you had better carry him up to a bedroom--any one that is ready.
And you, George," he added, turning to a boy, "get into the car and
show this man the way round to the garage, and then take him to the
servants' hall."

Several of the servants hastened to do his bidding, and Gerald did
his best to answer the eager but respectful stream of questions.
And then, just as they were in the act of lifting the still
unconscious man on to the floor of the hall, came a queer sound--a
shrill, reverberating whistle. They all looked up the stairs.

"The master is awake," Henderson, the butler, remarked, dropping
his voice a little.