"I have heard so, sir," said the chauffeur smilingly.
He was a blond, good-looking young fellow. Always his lips seemed to rest in pleasant curves as though his reveries were agreeable.
A few hideously modern detached villas were passed, then hedges, walls, a wood, a modern bridge.
"How near are we to Westheath now?" asked Guild, leaning forward in his seat.
"We are there, sir." And the smiling chauffeur slowed the car to a standstill at a cross-roads where furze and broom grew rankly over the heath and a few rather tawdry villas appeared among the trees beyond.
Guild looked at his watch. It was only a little after seven, an unearthly hour for a call upon any young girl, not to mention one to whom he was personally unknown.
A policeman still wearing his waterproof night cloak, came leisurely across to learn what was wanted.
"I am looking for the villa of Miss Girard—Miss Karen Girard," explained Guild.
"Hyacinth Villa, Number 169. Take the road to the right. It is the only house."
"Thank you."