From Axminster to Combe Regis the line runs through country asattractive as any that can be found in the island, and the train, asif in appreciation of this fact, does not hurry over the journey. Itwas late afternoon by the time we reached our destination.

　　The arrangements for the carrying of luggage at Combe Regis border onthe primitive. Boxes are left on the platform, and later, when hethinks of it, a carrier looks in and conveys them into the valley andup the hill on the opposite side to the address written on the labels.

　　The owner walks. Combe Regis is not a place for the halt and maimed.

　　Ukridge led us in the direction of the farm, which lay across thevalley, looking through woods to the sea. The place was visible fromthe station, from which, indeed, standing as it did on the top of ahill, the view was extensive.

　　Half-way up the slope on the other side of the valley we left the roadand made our way across a spongy field, Ukridge explaining that thiswas a short cut. We climbed through a hedge, crossed a stream andanother field, and after negotiating a difficult bank, topped withbarbed wire, found ourselves in a garden.

　　Ukridge mopped his forehead, and restored his pince-nez to theiroriginal position from which the passage of the barbed wire haddislodged them.

　　"This is the place," he said. "We've come in by the back way. Savestime. Tired, Millie?""A little, dear. I should like some tea.""Same here," I agreed.

　　"That'll be all right," said Ukridge. "A most competent man of thename of Beale and his wife are in charge at present. I wrote to themtelling them that we were coming to-day. They will be ready for us.

　　That's the way to do things, Garny old horse. Quiet efficiency.

　　Perfect organisation."We were at the front door by this time. Ukridge rang the bell. Thenoise echoed through the house, but there was no answering footsteps.

　　He rang again. There is no mistaking the note of a bell in an emptyhouse. It was plain that the competent man and his wife were out.

　　"Now what?" I said.

　　Mrs. Ukridge looked at her husband with calm confidence.

　　"This," said Ukridge, leaning against the door and endeavouring tobutton his collar at the back, "reminds me of an afternoon in theArgentine. Two other cheery sportsmen and myself tried for three-quarters of an hour to get into an empty house where there looked asif there might be something to drink, and we'd just got the door openwhen the owner turned up from behind a tree with a shot-gun. It was alittle difficult to explain. As a matter of fact, we never did whatyou might call really thresh the matter out thoroughly in all itsaspects, and you'd be surprised what a devil of a time it takes topick buck-shot out of a fellow. There was a dog, too."He broke off, musing dreamily on the happy past, and at this momenthistory partially repeated itself. From the other side of the doorcame a dissatisfied whine, followed by a short bark.