hands and a shawl or cloth tightening about his mouth. All that he next attempted to say was lost to himself and to the world. He gave one vigorous kick with his long legs; before he could give a second his feet were held as firmly as his hands, and he felt what must have been a handkerchief being tied uncomfortably tightly round his ankles, while his wrists were still held in a grasp that suggested something professional.
Professor Higginson's thoughts were drawn out of their daily groove. His brain raced and pulsed, then halted, and projected one clear decision—which was to sit quite quiet and do nothing.
The driver's back showed a black square against the lamp-lit rain. He heard, or would hear, nothing. He paid no heed to the motions within, but steered furiously through the storm. For ten good minutes nothing changed.
The beating rain outside blurred the window-panes, and the pace at which they drove forbade the Philosopher any but the vaguest guesses at the road and the whereabouts.
The public lights of the town had long since been left behind; rapid turns had begun to suggest country lanes, when, after a sharper
