All seemed satisfied, but all politely suggested that passports were now becoming fashionable in England. And Guild thanked them pleasantly and drove on.
"Bush," he said to his chauffeur, "this spy scare was ridiculed by the newspapers, but it looks to me as though it were being taken rather seriously after all."
"I understand that about thirty thousand German and Austrian reservists have been arrested in England since war began?"
"I suppose the country really is swarming with spies. The paper yesterday said that there was still a great and serious leakage of military information out of England. One paper, yesterday afternoon, reported that a number of spies had already been shot in the Tower."
"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."
The car moved forward, swung to the right. About a quarter of a mile away stood a small, modern stucco dwelling behind its hedge of privet. Beyond that there were woods again and dewy uplands glimmering with furze and brake.
When they arrived they found the driveway closed by a gate.
"Never mind; I'll walk to the house," said Guild.
The smiling chauffeur leaned back and opened the tonneau door; Guild descended, looked at the iron gate between its ugly stucco posts, peered through it up the drive with its parallel rows of recently planted lime trees. Everything about the place was recent if not brand new--ugly with the ugliness of well-to-do bad taste. Red geraniums and yellow cannas had been planted in fearsome juxtaposition, salvia flanked a red brick terrace--a most unholy combination of colour. In the early morning the sun exposed the place without mercy. It was lonesome and amazingly depressing.