He came down to breakfast next morning in a state of anxiety, and found Isobel in the center of a clamorous mob busy dealing out coffee and tea, while sister dealt with the porridge queue. On his plate was a folded note, which he opened. Underneath a skull and cross-bones neatly executed in red ink was a message:
"Meet me beneath the gnarled oak at eleven. All is prepared. Be silent and secret. The password is 'coffee-pot'—A FRIEND."
So all was well, after all!
Allen slipped away to the garage at the appointed time, and found the little car, with which Isobel was accustomed to terrorize the countryside, being filled with petrol by an aged chauffeur.
"Who goes there?" demanded the car's owner.
"Coffee-pot," answered Allen, in sepulchral tones.
"Pass friend, and all's well. Jump in, and we'll get away quick."
"Not too quick, please. I'm not in the Flying Corps," pleaded Allen. But Isobel—who had a wide reputation as a fearsome driver—let in the clutch with a suddenness which nearly sent Allen out over the back of the car, and they fled down the drive and disappeared amid the cheers of the few patients who happened to see them. The car went round the corner on one wheel at a speed which would have meant certain disaster had any other traffic chanced to be passing. Allen clutched at the sides of his seat lest sheer centrifugal force should deposit him head downwards in a ditch.
"It's all right," said Isobel reassuringly, as they gathered speed on the straight road.
"I'm glad to hear it," answered Allen. "Tell me when you're going to take another corner. I'm glad I'm not a nerve case."