rough, but not uncomfortable-looking building of galvanized iron,
one-storied and with a piazza in front. From a brick chimney a thin
spiral of blue smoke was floating up lazily into the calm air.

The girl nodded.

"It's not palatial, but it's really wonderfully comfortable," she
explained, "and oh, the fires! I've never seen such glorious wood
fires as we have. Cuttings, you know. We have more blocks than we
know what to do with."

"I can imagine. I wish we had 'em in London."

They were walking not too rapidly across the clearing towards the
mill. At the back of the shed were a number of doors, and opposite
one of them, heading into the opening, stood the motor lorry. The
engine was still running, but the driver had disappeared, apparently
into the building. As the two came up, Merriman once more ran his
eye idly over the vehicle. And then he felt a sudden mild surprise,
as one feels when some unexpected though quite trivial incident
takes place. He had felt sure that this lorry standing at the mill
door was that which had passed him on the bridge, and which he had
followed down the lane. But now he saw it wasn't. He had noted,
idly but quite distinctly, that the original machine was No. 4.
This one had a precisely similar plate, but it bore the legend "The
Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 3."

Though the matter was of no importance, Merriman was a little
intrigued, and he looked more closely at the vehicle. As he did so
his surprise grew and his trifling interest became mystification.