At half-past seven on the morning of Saturday, June the twenty-first, there drew up before it a long, low two-seater car.
The landlord, a sharp-faced little man with kindly eyes and a shrewd mouth, came to the door.
"Looks like you've been travelling all night, sir," he remarked pleasantly.
"It looks right," said Dick Bellamy. "I want a house called The Myrtles."
Turning to the north, the landlord waved his hand towards the right.
"Two mile, mebbe more, mebbe less. Lies in a bit of a hollow. But you won't see no myrtles—less they've growed in the night—just a low stone house with a bit of a copse back o't. Mr. Melchard you're seekin', like? He's a girt man wi' the teeth," said the landlord, chuckling.
"Big eater?" asked Dick.
"Dentist's my meanin', sir. They do say he keeps seven shops in Millsborough district, and never drew tooth in his life. Just drives round so free, takin' t'money. But I reckon, if you're goin' to t'Myrtles, you know the gentleman."
"I'm going to leave my car here. Don't know how long, but I'll pay you five shillings a day. I want some food and I've only got five minutes. Can you manage it?"
Waiting, he scribbled a note in pencil, tore the leaf from his notebook, demanded an envelope, addressed it, and attacked the cold beef and beer hurriedly set before him.