"You? You'll have to be my—er—sister."
"Oh, never! I simply won't be your sister. That's entirely too respectable. A pretty vagabond you'll have me! You'll be giving e a green umbrella and a copy of Baedeker next. I'll be something devilish and French or I'll be Hermia. Yvonne—that's my name—Yvonne Deschamps, compagnon de voyage of the Philidor aforesaid."
"No," he protested.
"Why not?"
He shook his head. "I don't like the idea," he said thoughtfully.
"But I insist."
He looked down at her for a moment, measuring her with his eye, and then smiled and shrugged a shoulder with an air of accepting the inevitable. And then as the thought came to him.
"Your car—could the wreck be identified?"
"Its number. We must find that and destroy it."
They went down the hill together and, eyed by the curious peasants, sauntered down the track where Markham, after some searching among the bushes, found the number of the machine still clinging to the ruins of the radiator. This he unstrapped and slipped into his knapsack, presently joining Hermia, who was making her peace with the gate-keeper.