"I blush. We both blush." Reggie smiled at her. "Well, nurse, two other people have called me into the Lunt case." Nurse Dauntsey cried out, and her nice face was piteous. "Take it easy and go slow, as V. Cranford says. I'm going down to Prior's Colney now to find out who I'm acting for. Oh, my dear girl, don't cry. I'm guessing it may be you. Now you be a good girl, and take Donald Gordon to him."
Nurse Dauntsey held out her hands. "Oh, Mr. Fortune, don't go against him," she cried.
Safe in his car, Reggie communed with himself. "She's a lamb. But disturbing to the intellects. Well, well. I'll have to make Brer Lomas sit up and take notice."
It was a clear cold morning of early spring, and Reggie shrank under his rugs. He had no love for east winds. He thought that there should be a close time for murders. He was elaborating a scheme by which the murder and the cricket seasons should be conterminous, when, at about twenty-five miles from London, they passed a horrible building. It was some distance from the high road, perched on the top of a small hill. It was of very red brick and very white stone, so arranged as to suggest the streaky bacon which might be made of a pig who had died in convulsions. It was ornate with the most improbable decorations, colonnades, battle-
