doubt they could have tea on board. . . . He mustn't forget to buy
some decent cakes in Bordeaux. . . . Perhaps she would help him to
get it ready while Hilliard steered and pottered over his old
engines. . . . He could just imagine her bending over a tea tray,
her graceful figure, the little brown tendrils of her hair at the
edge of her tam-o'-shanter, her brown eyes flashing up to meet his
own. . . .

Dover came unexpectedly soon and Merriman had to postpone the
further consideration of his plans until he had gone on board the
boat and settled down in a corner of the smoker room. There, however,
he fell asleep, not awaking until roused by the bustle of the
arrival in Calais.

"He reached Paris just before six and drove to the Gare d'-Orsay,
where he had time for a bath and breakfast before catching the
7.50 a.m. express for Bordeaux. Again it was a perfect day, and
as the hours passed and they ran steadily southward through the
pleasing but monotonous central plain of France, the heat grew more
and more oppressive. Poitiers was hot, Angouleme an oven, and
Merriman was not sorry when at a quarter to five they came in sight
of the Garonne at the outskirts of Bordeaux and a few moments later
pulled up in the Bastide Station.

Hilliard was waiting at the platform barrier.

"Hallo, old man," he cried. "Jolly to see you. Give me one of
your handbags. I've got a taxi outside."

Merriman handed over the smaller of the two small suitcases he