be a relative. "Both my brothers suffered from it. They were
pretty bad, but they're coming all right. It's generally a
question of time, I think."

"I hope so," Miss Coburn rejoined, and quietly but decisively
changed the subject.

They began to compare notes about London, and Merriman was sorry
when, having filled his tank and pushed his bicycle to the road,
he could no longer with decency find an excuse for remaining in
her company. He bade her a regretful farewell, and some hall-hour
later was mounting the steps of his hotel in Bordeaux.

That evening and many times later, his mind reverted to the
incident of the lorry. At the time she made it, Miss Coburn's
statement about the shell-shock had seemed entirely to account
for the action of Henri, the driver. But now Merriman was not
so sure. The more he thought over the affair, the more certain
he felt that he had not made a mistake about the number plate,
and the more likely it appeared that the driver had guessed what
he, Merriman, had noticed, and resented it. It seemed to him
that there was here some secret which the man was afraid might
become known, and Merriman could not but admit to himself that
all Miss Coburn's actions were consistent with the hypothesis
that she also shared that secret and that fear.

And yet the idea was grotesque that there could be anything serious
in the altering of the number plate of a motor lorry, assuming that
he was not mistaken. Even if the thing had been done, it was a
trivial matter and, so far as he could see, the motives for it, as