Now, what the devil ?" Shadowed by a kind of instinctive uneasiness, not yet definite or clear but more in the nature of a premonition of trouble, Flint gazed fixedly at the mechanic as the car swung round the bend in the road.

The glance was returned.
Yielding to some kind of imperative curiosity, the Billionaire leaned over the side of the car--leaned out, with his coat flapping in the stiff wind--and for a moment peered back at the disquieting workman.
Then the car swept him out of sight, and Flint resumed his seat again.
He did not know--for he had not seen it happen--that in that moment the slippery, leather-covered note-book had slid from his lolling coat pocket and had fallen with a sharp slap on the white macadam, skidded along and come to rest in the ditch.
The workingman, however, who had paused and turned to look after the speeding car, _he_ had seen all this.
A moment he stood there, peering.

Then, retracing his steps with resolution he picked up the little book and slid it into the pocket of his jeans.
Deserted was the road.

Not a soul was to be seen, save the crossing flagman, musing in his chair beside his little hut, quite oblivious to everything but a rank cob pipe.

The workman's act had not been noticed.
Nobody had observed him.