Monday was a happy day for Bealby.

The caravan did seventeen miles and came to rest at last in a sloping field outside a cheerful little village set about a green on which was a long tent professing to be a theatre.... At the first stopping-place that possessed a general shop Mrs. Bowles bought Bealby a pair of boots. Then she had a bright idea. “Got any pocket money, Dick?” she asked.

She gave him half a crown, that is to say she gave him two shillings and sixpence, or five sixpences or thirty pennies—according as you choose to look at it—in one large undivided shining coin.

Even if he had not been in love, here surely was incentive to a generous nature to help and do distinguished services. He dashed about doing things. The little accident on Sunday had warned him to be careful of the plates, and the only flaw upon a perfect day’s service was the dropping of an egg on its way to the frying pan for supper. It remained where it fell and there presently he gave it a quiet burial. There was nothing else to be done with it....

All day long at intervals Miss Philips smiled at him and made him do little services for her. And in the evening, after the custom of her great profession when it keeps holiday, she insisted on going to the play. She said it would be the loveliest fun. She went with Mrs. Bowles because Mrs. Geedge wanted to sit quietly in the caravan and write down a few little things while they were still fresh in her mind. And it wasn’t in the part of Madeleine Philips not to insist that both William and Bealby must go too; she gave them each a shilling—though the prices were sixpence, threepence, two-pence and a penny—and Bealby saw his first real play.

It was called Brothers in Blood, or the Gentleman Ranker. There was a poster—which was only very slightly justified by the performance—of a man in khaki with a bandaged head proposing to sell his life dearly over a fallen comrade.

One went to the play through an open and damaged field gate and across trampled turf. Outside the tent were two paraffin flares illuminating the poster and a small cluster of the impecunious young. Within on grass that was worn and bleached were benches, a gathering audience, a piano played by an off-hand lady, and a drop scene displaying the Grand Canal, Venice. The Grand Canal was infested by a crowded multitude of zealous and excessive reflections of the palaces above and by peculiar crescentic black boats floating entirely out of water and having no reflections at all. The off-hand lady gave a broad impression of the wedding march in Lohengrin, and the back seats assisted by a sort of gastric vocalization called humming and by whistling between the teeth. Madeleine Philips evidently found it tremendous fun, even before the curtain rose.

And then—illusion....

The scenery was ridiculous; it waved about, the actors and actresses were surely the most pitiful of their tribe and every invention in the play impossible, but the imagination of Bealby, like the loving kindness of God, made no difficulties; it rose and met and embraced and gave life to all these things. It was a confused story in the play, everybody was more or less somebody else all the way through, and it got more confused in Bealby’s mind, but it was clear from the outset that there was vile work afoot, nets spread and sweet simple people wronged. And never were sweet and simple people quite so sweet and simple. There was the wrongful brother who was weak and wicked and the rightful brother who was vindictively, almost viciously, good, and there was an ingrained villain who was a baronet, a man who wore a frock coat and a silk hat and carried gloves and a stick in every scene and upon all occasions—that sort of man. He looked askance, always. There was a dear simple girl, with a vast sweet smile, who was loved according to their natures by the wrongful and the rightful brother, and a large wicked red-clad, lip-biting woman whose passions made the crazy little stage quiver. There was a comic butler—very different stuff from old Mergleson—who wore an evening coat and plaid trousers and nearly choked Bealby. Why weren’t all butlers like that? Funny. And there were constant denunciations. Always there were denunciations going on or denunciations impending. That took Bealby particularly. Never surely in all the world were bad people so steadily and thoroughly scolded and told what. Everybody hissed them; Bealby hissed them. And when they were told what, he applauded. And yet they kept on with their wickedness to the very curtain. They retired—askance to the end. Foiled but pursuing. “A time will come,” they said.

There was a moment in the distresses of the heroine when Bealby dashed aside a tear. And then at last most wonderfully it all came right. The company lined up and hoped that Bealby was satisfied. Bealby wished he had more hands. His heart seemed to fill his body. Oh prime! prime!...

And out he came into the sympathetic night. But he was no longer a trivial Bealby; his soul was purged, he was a strong and silent man, ready to explode into generous repartee or nerve himself for high endeavour. He slipped off in the opposite direction from the caravan because he wanted to be alone for a time and feel. He did not want to jar upon a sphere of glorious illusion that had blown up in his mind like a bubble....

He was quite sure that he had been wronged. Not to be wronged is to forego the first privilege of goodness. He had been deeply wronged by a plot,—all those butlers were in the plot or why should they have chased him,—he was much older than he really was, it had been kept from him, and in truth he was a rightful earl. “Earl Shonts,” he whispered; and indeed, why not? And Madeleine too had been wronged; she had been reduced to wander in this uncomfortable caravan; this Gipsy Queen; she had been brought to it by villains, the same villains who had wronged Bealby....

Out he went into the night, the kindly consenting summer night, where there is nothing to be seen or heard that will contradict these delicious wonderful persuasions.

He was so full of these dreams that he strayed far away along the dark country lanes and had at last the utmost difficulty in finding his way back to the caravan. And when ultimately he got back after hours and hours of heroic existence it did not even seem that they had missed him. It did not seem that he had been away half an hour.

Tuesday was not so happy a day for Bealby as Monday.

Its shadows began when Mrs. Bowles asked him in a friendly tone when it was clean-collar day.

He was unready with his answer.

“And don’t you ever use a hair brush, Dick?” she asked. “I’m sure now there’s one in your parcel.”

“I do use it sometimes, Mum,” he admitted.

“And I’ve never detected you with a toothbrush yet. Though that perhaps is extreme. And Dick—soap? I think you’d better be letting me give you a cake of soap.”

“I’d be very much obliged, Mum.”

“I hardly dare hint, Dick, at a clean handkerchief. Such things are known.”

“If you wouldn’t mind—when I’ve got the breakfast things done, Mum....”

The thing worried him all through breakfast. He had not expected—personalities from Mrs. Bowles. More particularly personalities of this kind. He felt he had to think hard.

He affected modesty after he had cleared away breakfast and carried off his little bundle to a point in the stream which was masked from the encampment by willows. With him he also brought that cake of soap. He began by washing his handkerchief, which was bad policy because that left him no dry towel but his jacket. He ought, he perceived, to have secured a dish-cloth or a newspaper. (This he must remember on the next occasion.) He did over his hands and the more exposed parts of his face with soap and jacket. Then he took off and examined his collar. It certainly was pretty bad....

“Why!” cried Mrs. Bowles when he returned, “that’s still the same collar.”

“They all seem to’ve got crumpled ’m,” said Bealby.

“But are they all as dirty?”

“I ’ad some blacking in my parcel,” said Bealby, “and it got loose, Mum. I’ll have to get another collar when we come to a shop.”

It was a financial sacrifice, but it was the only way, and when they came to the shop Bealby secured a very nice collar indeed, high with pointed turn-down corners, so that it cut his neck all round, jabbed him under the chin and gave him a proud upcast carriage of the head that led to his treading upon and very completely destroying a stray plate while preparing lunch. But it was more of a man’s collar, he felt, than anything he had ever worn before. And it cost sixpence halfpenny, six dee and a half.

(I should have mentioned that while washing up the breakfast things he had already broken the handle off one of the breakfast cups. Both these accidents deepened the cloud upon his day.)

And then there was the trouble of William. William having meditated upon the differences between them for a day had now invented an activity. As Bealby sat beside him behind the white horse he was suddenly and frightfully pinched. Gee! One wanted to yelp.

“Choc’late,” said William through his teeth and very very savagely. “Now then.”

After William had done that twice Bealby preferred to walk beside the caravan. Thereupon William whipped up the white horse and broke records and made all the crockery sing together and forced the pace until he was spoken to by Mrs. Bowles....

It was upon a Bealby thus depressed and worried that the rumour of impending “men-folk” came. It began after the party had stopped for letters at a village post office; there were not only letters but a telegram, that Mrs. Bowles read with her spats far apart and her head on one side. “Ye’d like to know about it,” she said waggishly to Miss Philips, “and you just shan’t.”

She then went into her letters.

“You’ve got some news,” said Mrs. Geedge.

“I have that,” said Mrs. Bowles, and not a word more could they get from her....

“I’ll keep my news no longer,” said Mrs. Bowles, lighting her cigarette after lunch as Bealby hovered about clearing away the banana skins and suchlike vestiges of dessert. “To-morrow night as ever is, if so be we get to Winthorpe-Sutbury, there’ll be Men among us.”

“But Tom’s not coming,” said Mrs. Geedge.

“He asked Tim to tell me to tell you.”

“And you’ve kept it these two hours, Judy.”

“For your own good and peace of mind. But now the murther’s out. Come they will, your Man and my Man, pretending to a pity because they can’t do without us. But like the self-indulgent monsters they are, they must needs stop at some grand hotel, Redlake he calls it, the Royal, on the hill above Winthorpe-Sutbury. The Royal! The very name describes it. Can’t you see the lounge, girls, with its white cane chairs? And saddlebacks! No other hotel it seems is good enough for them, and we if you please are asked to go in and have—what does the man call it—the ‘comforts of decency’—and let the caravan rest for a bit.”

“Tim promised me I should run wild as long as I chose,” said Mrs. Geedge, looking anything but wild.

“They’re after thinking we’ve had enough of it,” said Mrs. Bowles.

“It sounds like that.”

“Sure I’d go on like this for ever,” said Judy. “’Tis the Man and the House and all of it that oppresses me. Vans for Women....”

“Let’s not go to Winthorpe-Sutbury,” said Madeleine.

(The first word of sense Bealby had heard.)

“Ah!” said Mrs. Bowles archly, “who knows but what there’ll be a Man for you? Some sort of Man anyhow.”

(Bealby thought that a most improper remark.)

“I want no man.”

“Ah!”

“Why do you say Ah like that?”

“Because I mean Ah like that.”

“Meaning?”

“Just that.”

Miss Philips eyed Mrs. Bowles and Mrs. Bowles eyed Miss Philips.

“Judy,” she said, “you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

“Where it’s perfectly comfortable,” said Mrs. Bowles.

And then quite maddeningly, she remarked, “Will you be after washing up presently, Dick?” and looked at him with a roguish quiet over her cigarette. It was necessary to disabuse her mind at once of the idea that he had been listening. He took up the last few plates and went off to the washing place by the stream. All the rest of that conversation had to be lost.

Except that as he came back for the Hudson’s soap he heard Miss Philips say, “Keep your old Men. I’ll just console myself with Dick, my dears. Making such a Mystery!”

To which Mrs. Bowles replied darkly, “She little knows....”

A kind of consolation was to be got from that.... But what was it she little knew?...

The men-folk when they came were nothing so terrific to the sight as Bealby had expected. And thank Heaven there were only two of them and each assigned. Something he perceived was said about someone else, he couldn’t quite catch what, but if there was to have been someone else, at any rate there now wasn’t. Professor Bowles was animated and Mr. Geedge was gracefully cold, they kissed their wives but not offensively, and there was a chattering pause while Bealby walked on beside the caravan. They were on the bare road that runs along the high ridge above Winthorpe-Sutbury, and the men had walked to meet them from some hotel or other—Bealby wasn’t clear about that—by the golf links. Judy was the life and soul of the encounter, and all for asking the men what they meant by intruding upon three independent women who, sure-alive, could very well do without them. Professor Bowles took her pretty calmly, and seemed on the whole to admire her.

Professor Bowles was a compact little man wearing spectacles with alternative glasses, partly curved, partly flat; he was hairy and dressed in that sort of soft tweedy stuff that ravels out—he seemed to have been sitting among thorns—and baggy knickerbockers with straps and very thick stockings and very sensible, open air, in fact quite mountainous, boots. And yet though he was short and stout and active he had a kind of authority about him, and it was clear that for all her persuasiveness his wife merely ran over him like a creeper without making any great difference to him. “I’ve found,” he said, “the perfect place for your encampment.” She had been making suggestions. And presently he left the ladies and came hurrying after the caravan to take control.

He was evidently a very controlling person.

“Here, you get down,” he said to William. “That poor beast’s got enough to pull without you.”

And when William mumbled he said, “Hey?” in such a shout that William for ever after held his peace.

“Where d’you come from, you boy, you?” he asked suddenly, and Bealby looked to Mrs. Bowles to explain.

“Great silly collar you’ve got,” said the Professor, interrupting her reply. “Boy like this ought to wear a wool shirt. Dirty too. Take it off, boy. It’s choking you. Don’t you feel it?”

Then he went on to make trouble about the tackle William had rigged to contain the white horse.

“This harness makes me sick,” said Professor Bowles. “It’s worse than Italy....”

“Ah!” he cried and suddenly darted off across the turf, going inelegantly and very rapidly, with peculiar motions of the head and neck as he brought first the flat and then the curved surface of his glasses into play. Finally he dived into the turf, remained scrabbling on all fours for a moment or so, became almost still for the fraction of a minute and then got up and returned to his wife, holding in an exquisite manner something that struggled between his finger and his thumb.

“That’s the third to-day,” he said, triumphantly. “They swarm here. It’s a migration.”

Then he resumed his penetrating criticism of the caravan outfit.

“That boy,” he said suddenly with his glasses oblique, “hasn’t taken off his collar yet.”

Bealby revealed the modest secrets of his neck and pocketed the collar....

Mr. Geedge did not appear to observe Bealby. He was a man of the super-aquiline type with a nose like a rudder, he held his face as if it was a hatchet in a procession, and walked with the dignity of a man of honour. You could see at once he was a man of honour. Inflexibly, invincibly, he was a man of honour. You felt that anywhen, in a fire, in an earthquake, in a railway accident when other people would be running about and doing things he would have remained—a man of honour. It was his pride rather than his vanity to be mistaken for Sir Edward Grey. He now walked along with Miss Philips and his wife behind the disputing Bowleses, and discoursed in deep sonorous tones about the healthiness of healthy places and the stifling feeling one had in towns when there was no air.

The Professor was remarkably active when at last the point he had chosen for the encampment was reached. Bealby was told to “look alive” twice, and William was assigned to his genus and species; “The man’s an absolute idiot,” was the way the Professor put it. William just shot a glance at him over his nose. The place certainly commanded a wonderful view. It was a turfy bank protected from the north and south by bushes of yew and the beech-bordered edge of a chalk pit; it was close beside the road, a road which went steeply down the hill into Winthorpe-Sutbury, with that intrepid decision peculiar to the hill-roads of the south of England. It looked indeed as though you could throw the rinse of your teacups into the Winthorpe-Sutbury street; as if you could jump and impale yourself upon the church spire. The hills bellied out east and west and carried hangers, and then swept round to the west in a long level succession of projections, a perspective that merged at last with the general horizon of hilly bluenesses, amidst which Professor Bowles insisted upon a “sapphire glimpse” of sea. “The Channel,” said Professor Bowles, as though that made it easier for them. Only Mr. Geedge refused to see even that mitigated version of the sea. There was something perhaps bluish and level, but he was evidently not going to admit it was sea until he had paddled in it and tested it in every way known to him....

“Good Lord!” cried the Professor. “What’s the man doing now?”

William stopped the struggles and confidential discouragements he was bestowing upon the white horse and waited for a more definite reproach.

“Putting the caravan alongside to the sun! Do you think it will ever get cool again? And think of the blaze of the sunset—through the glass of that door!”

William spluttered. “If I put’n tother way—goo runnin’ down t’hill like,” said William.

“Imbecile!” cried the Professor. “Put something under the wheels. Here!” He careered about and produced great grey fragments of a perished yew tree. “Now then,” he said. “Head up hill.”

William did his best.

“Oh! not like that! Here, you!”

Bealby assisted with obsequious enthusiasm.

It was some time before the caravan was adjusted to the complete satisfaction of the Professor. But at last it was done, and the end door gaped at the whole prospect of the Weald with the steps hanging out idiotically like a tongue. The hind wheels were stayed up very cleverly by lumps of chalk and chunks of yew, living and dead, and certainly the effect of it was altogether taller and better. And then the preparations for the midday cooking began. The Professor was full of acute ideas about camping and cooking, and gave Bealby a lively but instructive time. There was no stream handy, but William was sent off to the hotel to fetch a garden water-cart that the Professor with infinite foresight had arranged should be ready.

The Geedges held aloof from these preparations,—they were unassuming people; Miss Philips concentrated her attention upon the Weald—it seemed to Bealby a little discontentedly—as if it was unworthy of her—and Mrs. Bowles hovered smoking cigarettes over her husband’s activities, acting great amusement.

“You see it pleases me to get Himself busy,” she said. “You’ll end a Camper yet, Darlint, and us in the hotel.”

The Professor answered nothing, but seemed to plunge deeper into practicality.

Under the urgency of Professor Bowles Bealby stumbled and broke a glass jar of marmalade over some fried potatoes, but otherwise did well as a cook’s assistant. Once things were a little interrupted by the Professor going off to catch a cricket, but whether it was the right sort of cricket or not he failed to get it. And then with three loud reports—for a moment Bealby thought the mad butlers from Shonts were upon him with firearms—Captain Douglas arrived and got off his motor bicycle and left it by the roadside. His machine accounted for his delay, for those were the early days of motor bicycles. It also accounted for a black smudge under one of his bright little eyes. He was fair and flushed, dressed in oilskins and a helmet-shaped cap and great gauntlets that made him, in spite of the smudge, look strange and brave and handsome, like a Crusader—only that he was clad in oilskin and not steel, and his moustache was smaller than those Crusaders wore; and when he came across the turf to the encampment Mrs. Bowles and Mrs. Geedge both set up a cry of “A-Ah!” and Miss Philips turned an accusing face upon those two ladies. Bealby knelt with a bunch of knives and forks in his hand, laying the cloth for lunch, and when he saw Captain Douglas approaching Miss Philips, he perceived clearly that that lady had already forgotten her lowly adorer, and his little heart was smitten with desolation. This man was arrayed like a chivalrous god, and how was a poor Bealby, whose very collar, his one little circlet of manhood, had been reft from him, how was he to compete with this tremendousness? In that hour the ambition for mechanism, the passion for leather and oilskin, was sown in Bealby’s heart.

“I told you not to come near me for a month,” said Madeleine, but her face was radiant.

“These motor bicycles—very difficult to control,” said Captain Douglas, and all the little golden-white hairs upon his sunlit cheek glittered in the sun.

“And besides,” said Mrs. Bowles, “it’s all nonsense.”

The Professor was in a state of arrested administration; the three others were frankly audience to a clearly understood scene.

“You ought to be in France.”

“I’m not in France.”

“I sent you into exile for a month,” and she held out a hand for the captain to kiss.

He kissed it.

Someday, somewhere, it was written in the book of destiny Bealby should also kiss hands. It was a lovely thing to do.

“Month! It’s been years,” said the captain. “Years and years.”

“Then you ought to have come back before,” she replied and the captain had no answer ready....

When William arrived with the water-cart, he brought also further proofs of the Professor’s organizing ability. He brought various bottles of wine, red Burgundy and sparkling hock, two bottles of cider, and peculiar and meritorious waters; he brought tinned things for hors d’oeuvre; he brought some luscious pears. When he had a moment with Bealby behind the caravan he repeated thrice in tones of hopeless sorrow, “They’ll eat um all. I knows they’ll eat um all.” And then plumbing a deeper deep of woe, “Ef they don’t they’ll count um. Ode Goggles’ll bag um.... E’s a bagger, ’e is.”

It was the brightest of luncheons that was eaten that day in the sunshine and spaciousness above Winthorpe-Sutbury. Everyone was gay, and even the love-torn Bealby, who might well have sunk into depression and lethargy, was galvanized into an activity that was almost cheerful by flashes from the Professor’s glasses. They talked of this and that; Bealby hadn’t much time to attend, though the laughter that followed various sallies from Judy Bowles was very tantalizing, and it had come to the pears before his attention wasn’t so much caught as felled by the word “Shonts.”... It was as if the sky had suddenly changed to vermilion. All these people were talking of Shonts!...

“Went there,” said Captain Douglas, “in perfect good faith. Wanted to fill up Lucy’s little party. One doesn’t go to Shonts nowadays for idle pleasure. And then—I get ordered out of the house, absolutely Told to Go.”

(This man had been at Shonts!)

“That was on Sunday morning?” said Mrs. Geedge.

“On Sunday morning,” said Mrs. Bowles suddenly, “we were almost within sight of Shonts.”

(This man had been at Shonts even at the time when Bealby was there!)

“Early on Sunday morning. Told to go. I was fairly flabbergasted. What the deuce is a man to do? Where’s he to go? Sunday? One doesn’t go to places, Sunday morning. There I’d been sleeping like a lamb all night and suddenly in came Laxton and said, ‘Look here, you know,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to oblige me and pack your bag and go. Now.’ ‘Why?’ said I. ‘Because you’ve driven the Lord Chancellor stark staring mad!’”

“But how?” asked the Professor, almost angrily, “how? I don’t see it. Why should he ask you to go?”

“I don’t know!” cried Captain Douglas.

“Yes, but—!” said the Professor, protesting against the unreasonableness of mankind.

“I’d had a word or two with him in the train. Nothing to speak of. About occupying two corner seats—always strikes me as a cad’s trick—but on my honour I didn’t rub it in. And then he got it into his head we were laughing at him at dinner—we were a bit, but only the sort of thing one says about anyone—way he works his eyebrows and all that—and then he thought I was ragging him.... I don’t rag people. Got it so strongly he made a row that night. Said I’d made a ghost slap him on his back. Hang it!—what can you say to a thing like that? In my room all the time.”

“You suffer for the sins of your brother,” said Mrs. Bowles.

“Heavens!” cried the captain, “I never thought of that! Perhaps he mistook me....”

He reflected for a moment and continued his narrative. “Then in the night, you know, he heard noises.”

“They always do,” said the Professor nodding confirmation.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“A sure sign,” said the Professor.

“And finally he sallied out in the early morning, caught the butler in one of the secret passages—”

“How did the butler get into the secret passage?”

“Going round, I suppose. Part of his duties.... Anyhow he gave the poor beggar an awful doing—awful—brutal—black eye,—all that sort of thing; man much too respectful to hit back. Finally declared I’d been getting up a kind of rag,—squaring the servants to help and so forth.... Laxton, I fancy, half believed it.... Awkward thing, you know, having it said about that you ragged the Lord Chancellor. Makes a man seem a sort of mischievous idiot. Injures a man. Then going away, you see, seems a kind of admission....”

“Why did you go?”

“Lucy,” said the captain compactly. “Hysterics.”

“Shonts would have burst,” he added, “if I hadn’t gone.”

Madeleine was helpful. “But you’ll have to do something further,” she said.

“What is one to do?” squealed the captain.

“The sooner you get the Lord Chancellor certified a lunatic,” said the Professor soundly, “the better for your professional prospects.”

“He went on pretty bad after I’d gone.”

“You’ve heard”

“Two letters. I picked ’em up at Wheatley Post Office this morning. You know he hadn’t done with that butler. Actually got out of his place and scruffed the poor devil at lunch. Shook him like a rat, she says. Said the man wasn’t giving him anything to drink—nice story, eh? Anyhow he scruffed him until things got broken....

“I had it all from Minnie Timbre—you know, used to be Minnie Flax.” He shot a propitiating glance at Madeleine. “Used to be neighbours of ours, you know, in the old time. Half the people, she says, didn’t know what was happening. Thought the butler was apoplectic and that old Moggeridge was helping him stand up. Taking off his collar. It was Laxton thought of saying it was a fit. Told everybody, she says. Had to tell ’em Something, I suppose. But she saw better and she thinks a good many others did. Laxton ran ’em both out of the room. Nice scene for Shonts, eh? Thundering awkward for poor Lucy. Not the sort of thing the county expected. Has her both ways. Can’t go to a house where the Lord Chancellor goes mad. One alternative. Can’t go to a house where the butler has fits. That’s the other. See the dilemma?...”

“I’ve got a letter from Lucy, too. It’s here”—he struggled—“See? Eight sheets—pencil. No Joke for a man to read that. And she writes worse than any decent self-respecting illiterate woman has a right to do. Quivers. Like writing in a train. Can’t read half of it. But she’s got something about a boy on her mind. Mad about a boy. Have I taken away a boy? They’ve lost a boy. Took him in my luggage, I suppose. She’d better write to the Lord Chancellor. Likely as not he met him in some odd corner and flew at him. Smashed him to atoms. Dispersed him. Anyhow they’ve lost a boy.”

He protested to the world. “I can’t go hunting lost boys for Lucy. I’ve done enough coming away as I did....”

Mrs. Bowles held out an arresting cigarette.

“What sort of boy was lost?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Some little beast of a boy. I daresay she’d only imagined it. Whole thing been too much for her.”

“Read that over again,” said Mrs. Bowles, “about losing a boy. We’ve found one.”

“That little chap?”

“We found that boy”—she glanced over her shoulder, but Bealby was nowhere to be seen—“on Sunday morning near Shonts. He strayed into us like a lost kitten.”

“But I thought you said you knew his father, Judy,” objected the Professor.

“Didn’t verify,” said Mrs. Bowles shortly, and then to Captain Douglas, “read over again what Lady Laxton says about him....”

Captain Douglas struggled with the difficulties of his cousin’s handwriting.

Everybody drew together over the fragments of the dessert with an eager curiosity, and helped to weigh Lady Laxton’s rather dishevelled phrases....