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."
