something, caught and handed it to her. She stared at my empty
palm.

"Your gurgle, I think."

"Oh," she said, laughing, "you are mad. But I like you. Now,
why is that?"

"Personal charm," said I. "The palmist who sits where the
draughts are in the Brown Park Hotel, West Central, said I had a
magnetism of my own."

"There you are. I never believed in palmistry."

"She also told me to beware of lifts, and a fellow trod on one of
my spats in the one at Dover Street the very next morning.
Hullo!"

Pomfret slowed gradually down and stopped. I turned to the girl.

"This is what we pay the boy sixteen shillings a week for."

"What's the matter?"

"Petrol's run out. I'm awfully sorry. The silly serf must have
forgotten to fill up before I started."

"My dear Hare, what shall we do?"

I made a rapid calculation.