a heap of magazines and newspapers, and, as he said, we had nothing to do but drop on our padded seats, put our toes under the table, and go away in luxurious idleness. We went—but when that train moved out of Newcastle and started on its long journey southward, neither Madrasia nor myself had the faintest idea as to where we were going. I think it was much to our credit—especially to hers—that we made no inquiry, and allowed Parslewe to do just as he liked with us. Certainly I had some vague, shadowy idea as to our destination; probably it was Palkeney Manor, or to some place where somebody—Sperrigoe, perhaps—lived who had some connection with it. But then—I did not know where Palkeney Manor was; Pawley, to be sure, had referred to it as being in the Midlands, but the Midlands are wide-stretching.
Anyway, we remained in that express until, after we had had lunch, it ran into Peterborough. There Parslewe, without notice, bundled us out. He treated us to one of his sardonic grins when he had shepherded us on to the platform.
"This is where we begin to travel," he re-
