"Doesn’t Silverdale do anything in that line himself?"
"Not a damn. Hates dancing except occasionally. They’re a weird couple. Nothing whatever in common, that I can see; and they’ve apparently agreed that each takes a separate road. You never see ’em together. She’s always around with this Hassendean brat—a proper young squib; and Silverdale’s turned to fresh woods in the shape of Avice Deepcar, one of the girls at the Institute."
"Serious?" Dr. Ringwood inquired indifferently.
"I expect he’d be glad of a divorce, if that’s what you mean. But I doubt if he’ll get it, in spite of all the scandal about Yvonne. If I can read the signs, she’s just keeping the Hassendean cub on her string for her own amusement, though she certainly advertises her conquest all over the shop. He’s not much to boast about: one of these young pseudo-romantic live-your-own-lifer’s with about as much real backbone as a filleted sole."
"A bit rough on Silverdale," commented Dr. Ringwood apathetically.
Trevor Markfield’s short laugh betrayed his scorn.
"A man’s an ass to get tied up to a woman. Silverdale got caught by one side of her—oh, she’s very attractive on that side, undoubtedly. But it didn’t last, apparently, for either of them—and there you are! Outside their own line, women are no use to a man. They want too much of one’s time if one marries them, and they’re the very devil, generally. I’ve no sympathy with Silverdale’s troubles."
Dr. Ringwood, obviously bored, was seeking for a fresh subject.
"Comfortable place, the Institute?" he inquired.
Markfield nodded with obvious approval.
"First-rate. They’re prepared to spend money like water on equipment. I’ve just come in from the new Research Station they’ve put up for agricultural experiments. It’s a few miles out of town. I’ve got a room or two in it for some work I’m doing in that line."
Before Dr. Ringwood could reply, the telephone bell trilled and with a stifled malediction he stepped over to the instrument.
"Dr. Ringwood speaking."
As the message came through, his face darkened.
"Very well. I’ll be round to see her shortly. The address is 26 Lauderdale Avenue, you say? . . . I’ll come as soon as I can."
He put down the telephone and turned to his guest.
"I’ve got to go out, Trevor."
Markfield looked up.
"You said 26 Lauderdale Avenue, didn’t you?" he asked. "Talk of the Devil! That’s Silverdale’s house. Nothing wrong with Yvonne, is there? Sprained her ankle, or what not, by any chance?"
"No. One of the maids turned sick, it seems; and the other maid’s a bit worried because all the family are out to-night and she doesn’t know what to do with her invalid. I’ll have to go. But how I’ll find my way in a fog like this, is beyond me. Where is the place?"
"About a couple of miles away."
"That’ll take a bit of finding," Dr. Ringwood grumbled, as he thought of the fog and his own sketchy knowledge of the local geography.
Markfield seemed to reflect for a moment or two before answering.
"Tell you what," he said at last, "I’ve got my car at the door—I’m just down from the Research Station. If you like, I’ll pilot you to Silverdale’s. I’ll manage it better than you possibly could, on a night like this. You can drive behind me and keep your eye on my tail-light. You could get home again all right, I expect; it’s easier, since you’ve only got to find your way to a main street and stick to it."
Dr. Ringwood made no attempt to dissemble his relief at this solution of his difficulties.
"That’s decent of you, Trevor. Just let me have a look at the map before we start. I’ll take it with me, and I expect I’ll manage to get home again somehow or other."
He glanced ruefully round the comfortable room and then went to the window to examine the night.
"Thicker than ever," he reported. "You’ll need to crawl through that fog."
In a few minutes, Dr. Ringwood had put on his boots, warned Shenstone to attend to the telephone in his absence, and got his car out of the garage. Meanwhile Markfield had started his own engine and was awaiting the doctor at the gate.
"Hoot like blazes the moment you lose sight of me," he recommended. "If I hear your horn I’ll stop and hoot back. That should keep us in touch if the worst comes to the worst."
He climbed into his driving-seat and started slowly down the road. Dr. Ringwood fell in behind. The fog was denser than ever, and the headlights of the cars merely illuminated its wreaths without piercing them. As soon as his car had started, Dr. Ringwood felt that he had lost touch with all the world except the tail-light ahead of him, and a few square feet of roadway immediately under his eyes. The kerb of the pavement had vanished; no house-window showed through the mist. From time to time the pale beacon of a street-lamp shone high in the air without shedding any illumination upon the ground.
Once the guiding tail-lamp almost disappeared from view. After that, he crept up closer to the leading car, shifted his foot from the accelerator to the brake, and drove on the hand-throttle. His eyes began to smart with the nip of the fog and his throat was rasped as he drew his breath. Even in the saloon the air had a lung-catching tang, and he could see shadows in it, thrown by the nimbus of the headlights in the fog.
Almost from the start he had lost his bearings and now he pinned his whole attention on Markfield’s tail-lamp. Once or twice he caught sight of tram-lines beside his wheels and knew that they were in a main thoroughfare; but this gave him only the vaguest information of their position. The sound-deadening quality of the vapour about him completed the sense of isolation. Except for the faint beat of his own engine, he seemed to be in a silent world.
Suddenly Markfield’s horn surprised him, and he had to jam on his brakes to avoid colliding with the car in front of him. A shadowy figure, hardly to be recognised as human, moved past him to the rear and vanished in the fog-wreaths. Then once more he had to concentrate his attention on the dim lamp ahead.
At last Markfield’s car slid softly alongside a pavement and came slowly to rest. Dr. Ringwood pulled up and waited until his guide got down from his seat and came back to him.
"We’re just at the turn into Lauderdale Avenue."
Dr. Ringwood made no attempt to conceal his admiration.
"That’s a pretty good bit of navigation," he said. "I didn’t notice you hesitate once in the whole trip."
"I’ve a fairly good head for locality," Markfield returned carelessly. "Now all you have to do is to turn to the left about ten yards further on. The numbering starts from this end of the road, and the even numbers are on the left-hand side. The houses are villas with big gardens, so you’ve only got to keep count of the gates as you pass them. Stick by the pavement and you’ll see the motor-entrances easily enough."
"Thanks. I doubt if I’d have got here without you, Trevor. Now what about the road home?"
"Come straight back along here. Cross three roads—counting this as No. 1. Then turn to the right and keep straight on till you cross tram-lines. That’ll be Park Road. Keep along it to the left till you’ve crossed two more sets of tram-lines and then turn to the right. That’ll be Aldingham Street, at the Blue Boar pub. You’ll find your way from there simply enough, I think. That’s the easiest way home. I brought you by a shorter route, but you’d never find it on a night like this. See you again soon. ’Night!"
Without waiting for more, Markfield strode off to his car and soon Dr. Ringwood saw the red star, his only point of contact with the real world, slip away from him and vanish in the fog. When it had gone, he let his clutch in and began to grope his way laboriously along the pavement-edge and into Lauderdale Avenue.