Roland Bleke stepped stiffly out onto the tennis-lawn. His progress
rather resembled that of a landsman getting out of an open boat in
which he has spent a long and perilous night at sea. He was feeling
more wretched than he had ever felt in his life. He had a severe cold.
He had a splitting headache. His hands and feet were frozen. His eyes
smarted. He was hungry. He was thirsty. He hated cheerful M. Feriaud,
who had hopped out and was now busy tinkering the engine, a gay
Provencal air upon his lips, as he had rarely hated any one, even
Muriel Coppin's brother Frank.

So absorbed was he in his troubles that he was not aware of Mr.
Windlebird's approach until that pleasant, portly man's shadow fell on
the turf before him.

"Not had an accident, I hope, Mr. Bleke?"

Roland was too far gone in misery to speculate as to how this genial
stranger came to know his name. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Windlebird,
keen student of the illustrated press, had recognized Roland by his
photograph in the Daily Mirror. In the course of the twenty yards' walk
from house to tennis-lawn she had put her husband into possession of
the more salient points in Roland's history. It was when Mr. Windlebird
heard that Roland had forty thousand pounds in the bank that he sat up
and took notice.

"Lead me to him," he said simply.

Roland sneezed.