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“You’ll have to be careful with it,” he warned, as he passed the weapon to Harley. “She’s a tricky bit of ironmongery, and it isn’t registered.”

“I know enough about guns not to shoot myself,” replied Harley, keeping a triumphant note from his tones with an effort. “I’ll let you have the thing tomorrow. Is she loaded.”

“There’s a full clip in her. Watch the safety-catch.”

“I see.”

“She kicks a bit. You want to watch that.”

“Thanks. Do you usually keep this thing in the car?”

“Yes. Very handy in case I pick up a hard shot, like some I saw over in Napier. Besides, you can’t leave things like that around in a boarding-house. The landlady or the housemaid would raise a shriek sometime or other.”

Roy chuckled, and Harley, his hands trembling uncontrollably, slipped the pistol into his coat pocket.

“Bit different, travelling this road now, eh?” asked Roy, driving the car at top speed on the straight stretches between Stratford and Inglewood. “We’ve got it all to ourselves.”

Harley murmured his agreement.

Both men were very tired when at last the car came to a stop before the Harley bungalow. It was shortly after one o’clock in the morning, and a light rain was falling. There were no lights visible in any of the scattered suburban houses.

Harley alighted stiffly.

“I won’t ask you in for a drink, Roy,” he said. “The place will be all———”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Harley,” interrupted the driver heartily. “I’ll be getting home. I’m a bit peckish, and tired to death.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Harley, in self-reproach. “We haven’t eaten all day!”

“We haven’t,” agreed Roy. “I’m beginning to notice it.”