"No, sir," said Mudd, "he don't take scarcely anything in the bar of the hotel, but he was sitting last night till closing-time in the Bricklayer's Arms."

"Oh, that's where he was," said Bobby. "How did you find out?"

"Well, sir," said Mudd, "I was in there myself in the parlour, having a drop of hot water and gin with a bit of lemon in it. It's a decent house, and the servants' room in this hotel don't please me, nor Mr. Anderson's man. I was sitting there smoking my pipe when in he came to the bar outside. I heard his voice. Down he sits and talks quite friendly with the folk there and orders a pint of beer all round. Quite affable and friendly."

"Well, there's no harm in that," said Bobby. "I've often done the same in a country inn. Did he stick to beer?"

"He did," said Mudd grimly. "He'd got that ten-pound note I was fool enough to let him have. Yes, he stuck to beer, and so did the chaps he was treating."

"The funny thing is," said Bobby, "that though he knows we have his money—and, begad, there's nearly eleven thousand of it—he doesn't kick at our taking it—he must have known we cut open that portmanteau—but comes to you for money like a schoolboy."

"That's what he is," said Mudd. "It's my belief, Mr. Robert, that he's getting younger and younger; he's artful as a child after sweets. And he knows we're looking after him, I believe, and he doesn't mind, for it's part of his amusement to give us the slip. Well, as I was saying, there he sat talking away and all these village chaps listening to him as if he was the Sultan of Turkey laying down the law. That's what pleased him. He likes being the middle of everything; and as the beer went down the talk went up—till he was telling them he'd been at the battle of Waterloo."

"Good Lord!"

"They didn't know no different," said Mudd, "but it made me crawl to listen to him."

"The bother is," said Bobby, "that we are dealing, not only with a young man, but with the sort of young man who was young forty years ago. That's our trouble, Mudd; we can't calculate on what he'll do because we haven't the data. And another bother is that his foolishness seems to have increased by being bottled so long, like old beer, but he can't come to harm with the villagers, they're an innocent lot."

"Are they?" said Mudd. "One of the chaps he was talking to was a gallows-looking chap. Horn's his name, and a poacher he is, I believe. Then there's the blacksmith and a squint-eyed chap that calls himself a butcher; the pair of them aren't up to much. Innocent lot! Why, if you had the stories Mr. Anderson's man has told me about this village the hair would rise on your head. Why, London's a girl-school to these country villages, if all's true one hears. No, Mr. Robert, he wants looking after here more than anywhere, and it seems to me the only person who has any real hold on him is the young lady."

"Miss Rossignol?"

"Yes, Mr. Robert, he's gone on her in his foolish way, and she can twist him round her finger like a child. When he's with her he's a different person, out of sight of her he's another man."

"Look here, Mudd," said the other, "he can't be in love with her, for there's not a girl he sees he doesn't cast his eye after."

"Maybe," said Mudd, "but when he's with her he's in love with her; I've been watching him and I know. He worships her, I believe, and if she wasn't so sensible I'd be afeard of it. It's a blessing he came across her; she's the only hold on him, and a good hold she is."

"It is a blessing," said Bobby. Then, after a pause, "Mudd, you've always been a good friend of mine, and this business has made me know what you really are. I'm bothered about something—I'm in love with her myself. There, you have it."

"With Miss Rossignol?"

"Yes."

"Well, you might choose worse," said Mudd.

"But that's not all," said Bobby. "There's another girl—Mudd, I've been a damn fool."

"We've all been fools in our time," said Mudd.

"I know, but it's jolly unpleasant when one's follies come home to roost on one. She's a nice girl enough, Miss Delyse, but I don't care for her. Yet somehow I've got mixed up with her—not exactly engaged, but very near it. It all happened in a moment, and she's coming down here; I had a letter from her this morning."

"Oh, Lord!" said Mudd, "another mixture. As if there wasn't enough of us in the business!"

"That's a good name for it, 'business.' I feel as if I was helping to run a sort of beastly factory, a mad sort of show where we're trying to condense folly and make it consume its own smoke—an illicit whisky-still, for we're trying to hide our business all the time, and it gives me the jim-jams to think that at any moment a client may turn up and see him like that. I feel sometimes, Mudd, as fellows must feel when they have the police after them."

"Don't talk of the police," said Mudd, "the very word gives me the shivers. When is she coming, Mr. Robert?"

"Miss Delyse? She's coming by the 3.15 train to-day to Farnborough station, and I've got to meet her. I've just booked her a room here. You see how I am tied. If I was here alone she couldn't come, because it wouldn't be proper, but having him here makes it proper."

"Have you told her the state he's in?"

"Yes. She doesn't mind; she said she wished everyone else was the same—she said it was beautiful."

They were talking in Bobby's room, which overlooked the garden of the hotel, and glancing out of the window now, he saw Cerise.

Then he detached himself from Mudd. He reached her as she was passing through the little rambler-roofed alley that leads from the garden to the bowling-green. There is an arbour in the garden tucked away in a corner, and there is an arbour close to the bowling-green; there are several other arbours, for the hotel-planner was an expert in his work, but these are the only two arbours that have to do with our story.

Bobby caught up with the girl before she had reached the green, and they walked together towards it, chatting as young people only can chat with life and gaiety about nothing. They were astonishingly well-matched in mind. Minds have colours just like eyes; there are black minds and brown minds and muddy-coloured minds and grey minds, and blue minds. Bobby's was a blue mind, though, indeed, it sometimes almost seemed green. Cerise's was blue, a happy blue like the blue of her eyes.

They had been two and a half days now in pretty close propinquity, and had got to know each other well despite Uncle Simon, or rather, perhaps, because of him. They discussed him freely and without reserve, and they were discussing him now, as the following extraordinary conversation will show.

"He's good, as you say," said Bobby, "but he's more trouble to me than a child."

Said Cerise: "Shall I tell you a little secret?"

"Yes."

"You will promise me surely, most surely, you will never tell my little secret?"

"I swear."

"He is in loff with me—I thought it was maman, but it is me." A ripple of laughter that caught the echo of the bowling-alley followed this confession.

"Last night he said to me before dinner, 'Cerise, I loff you.'"

"And what did you say?"

"Then the dinner-gong rang," said Cerise, "and I said, 'Oh, Monsieur Pattigrew, I must run and change my dress.' Then I ran off. I did not want to change my dress, but I did want to change the conversation," finished Cerise.

Then with a smile, "He loffs me more than any of the other girls."

"Why, how do you know he loves other girls?"

"I have seen him look at girls," said Cerise. "He likes all the world, but girls he likes most."

"Are you in love with him, Cerise?" asked Bobby, with a grin.

"Yes," said Cerise candidly. "Who could help?"

"How much are you in love with him, Cerise?"

"I would walk to London for him without my shoes," said Cerise.

"Well, that's something," said Bobby. "Come into this little arbour, Cerise, and let's sit down. You don't mind my smoking?"

"Not one bit"

"It's good to have anyone love one like that," said he, lighting a cigarette.

"He draws it from me," said Cerise.

"Well, I must say he's more likeable as he is than as he was; you should have seen him before he got young, Cerise."

"He was always good," said she, as though speaking from sure knowledge; "always good and kind and sweet."

"He managed to hide it," said Bobby.

"Ah yes—maybe so—there are many old gentlemen who seem rough and not nice, and then underneath it is different."

"How would you like to marry uncle?" asked he, laughing.

"If he were young outside as he is young inside of him—why, then I do not know. I might—I might not."

Then the unfortunate young man, forgetting all things, even the approaching Julia, let his voice fall half a tone; he wandered from Uncle; Simon into the question of the beauty of the roses.

The conversation flagged a bit, then he was holding one of her fingers.

Then came steps on the gravel. A servant.

"The fly is ready to take you to the station, sir."

It was three o'clock.