"Oh, yes!
Tuesday will suit me just as well."
"That's all right, then.
Splendid.
I must hurry along."
Clare went home to find her one faithful domestic standing on the doorstep looking out for her.
"There you are, miss.
Such a to-do.
They've brought Rover home.
He went off on his own this morning, and a car ran clean over him."
Clare hurried to the dog's side.
She adored animals, and Rover was her especial darling.
She felt his legs one by one, and then ran her hands over his body.
He groaned once or twice and licked her hand.
"If there's any serious injury, it's internal," she said at last. "No bones seem to be broken."
"Shall we get the vet to see him, Miss?"
Clare shook her head.
She had little faith in the local vet.
"We'll wait until tomorrow.
He doesn't seem to be in great pain, and his gums are a good color, so there can't be much internal bleeding.
Tomorrow, if I don't like the look of him, I'll take him over to Skippington in the car and let Reeves have a look at him.
He's far and away the best man."
On the following day, Rover seemed weaker, and Clare duly carried out her project.
The small town of Skippington was about forty miles away, a long run, but Reeves, the vet there, was celebrated for many miles around.
He diagnosed certain internal injuries but held out good hopes of recovery, and Clare went away quite content to leave Rover in his charge.
There was only one hotel of any pretensions in Skippington, the County Arms.
It was mainly frequented by commercial travelers, for there was no good hunting country near Skippington, and it was off the track of the main roads for motorists.
Lunch was not served till one o'clock, and as it wanted a few minutes of that hour, Clare amused herself by glancing over the entries in the open visitors' book.
Suddenly she gave a stifled exclamation.
Surely she knew that handwriting, with its loops and whirls and flourishes?
She had always considered it unmistakable.
Even now she could have sworn - but of course it was clearly impossible.
Vivien Lee was at Bournemouth.
The entry itself showed it to be impossible: Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Brown, London.
But in spite of herself her eyes strayed back again and again to that curly writing, and on an impulse she could not quite define she asked abruptly of the woman in the office:
"Mrs. Cyril Brown?
I wonder if that is the same one I know?"
"A small lady?
Reddish hair?
Very pretty.
She came in a red two-seater car, madam.
A Peugeot, I believe."
Then it was!
A coincidence would be too remarkable.
As if in a dream, she heard the woman go on:
"They were here just over a month ago for a weekend, and liked it so much that they have come again.
Newly married, I should fancy."
Clare heard herself saying:
"Thank you.
I don't think that could be my friend."