beyond Borleywood in the middle of breakfast, when, Trevatt being busy, I took my cycle, and on my way back thought I would look in upon Valori. I found him out—riding, Mrs. Oakenfall said; adding that he had picked up wonderfully, and seemed to have quite regained his spirits. As I rode homewards the long avenue looked more ghost-haunted than usual, and I was glad to turn out of it and enjoy the free-wheeling afforded by the switchback road leading straight into Burkfield. Before me stretched the heather-bordered track, and presently the wind sang in my ears with the swift rush down, up, and down again over the rolling sandy ridges. Exhilarated with the motion and by the resinous breath of the pines, so light-hearted did I feel that I could have even forgiven Smithson some of his peculiarities, and, nearing the derelict farm, was half inclined to call and wipe off a visit—perhaps the final one, as he was now practically well again. Just as I had decided to do this I topped the last ridge before the long, level Burkfield Road, and for the first time saw that I was not alone upon it. Another cyclist had just completed the switchback, and as I overhauled him rapidly I recognised Valori, pedalling gently in the same direction. The school-master appeared delighted to see me, and I remembered afterwards how cheery was his manner, and what a colour glowed in his cheeks from the exercise.
"You are not out for pleasure, doctor?"
"No, indeed. I have only had half a breakfast; just got back from one visit, and I'm thinking of making another over there." I pointed to the farm just ahead.
He made the stock remark of a man who had never known what it is not to be able to take a meal in peace nor to go to bed devoutly praying that he may be allowed at least four hours of unbroken peace: "I should not like to be a doctor."
"A dog's life; only a degree less miserable than that of a sailor," was my stock rejoinder.
"Is anyone living at the farm there?" he inquired after a pause.
"Oh, yes! An artist. By the by, he's a great traveller, and knows the Continent well; you might like to make his acquaintance. There he is, by Jove!"
I had just caught sight of Smithson sitting at the door with a book (the inevitable Trench novel, I suppose) in his hand. Although we were talking naturally our approach must have been fairly silent, for even as I spoke Smithson looked up with a start, as if only just aware of us. I had risen on the pedal to dismount, and was just about to call "Good-morning" to him, when there was a loud crash behind me, and craning my neck, I saw poor Valori lying in a heap, with his cycle fallen in the ditch. I was beside him in a second, and so deathly pale did he look, that at first I was inclined to think the heart trouble had asserted itself and that he was quite dead; but he still breathed, and dragging him to one side, I called to Smithson to bring some water. I waited a minute or two, and then, as no reply came, ran up the three or four steps into the little front garden, only to find it deserted; there was the chair, certainly, with a book and pipe lying beside it; indeed, but for this evidence I might have imagined that my vision of Smithson had been an optical illusion. Almost equally annoyed as amazed, I walked to the door and tried it. It was fast locked! Now, I was determined that Smithson should not fool me in this way, so I alternately kicked at the door, and kept up such a din against it with my fists, shouting the while, that none but a person of stony deafness could have failed to hear me. The door, which by reason of its age was none of the strongest, began to show signs of yielding to my onslaught, when the Levite apparently gave place to the Samaritan, and Smithson appeared on the threshold with a jug in his hand, which he offered me, with the cool inquiry, "Do you want some water, doctor?" I could have flung it in his face, but swallowing the speech that was on the tip of my tongue I took it in silence.
Valori had not regained consciousness, and although I held nitrite of amyl to his nostrils, the slight pulse was scarcely improved, and I was turning back to insist on Smithson giving him temporary shelter when the jog-trot of an approaching cart sounded very musically to me. It was the Borleywood carrier, one Leathersole, who pulled up on seeing the state of affairs, and between us we laid poor Valori in the bottom of the cart, and storing the two machines inside, set out to return. All the time there was no further sign of Smithson, although I could feel that he was watching me from behind the closed window. On the way to Borleywood I continued my treatment, which I was relieved to find successful just before we arrived there; so,
