A year passed rapidly away, during which time Guest’s visits were pretty constant to Benchers’ Inn, or to that institution where the new curator seemed to have thrown himself with so much spirit into his work that Guest often came to the conclusion that he must have treated his past after the fashion suggested by the admiral’s sister. For there were no friendly confidences, and it was only a supposition that Stratton might be well informed as to the doings of the family abroad.

At last one morning, after being expectant and on thorns for weeks, Guest made his way to Bayswater, sending the cabman by a circuitous route, so as to pass through Bourne Square.

The family had not returned, but there were painters at work; and excited by this, he rang at Miss Jerrold’s, was shown up, and as soon as he had shaken hands the old lady tightened her lips and shook her head at him.

“All my good advice thrown away, boy,” she said. “Now no deceit; you’ve heard news?”

“Indeed, no,” he cried. “I only came through the square.”

“On purpose?”

“Well, yes, and saw that there were men at work painting.”

“Pooh!” ejaculated Miss Jerrold. “That may mean my brother is going to let the house.”

“But Sir Mark is not going to let the house, Miss Jerrold?”

“Of course not. Yes; you are right: they will be back in about a week.”

“In a week?” cried Guest joyously.

“Yes. I wanted to see you, though. How about your friend, Mr Stratton: he has forgotten all that mad nonsense, I suppose?”

Guest was silent for a few moments while the old lady looked at him inquiringly.

“You do not know Malcolm Stratton as I do,” he said sadly. “He has never mentioned Miss Myra Jerrold’s name—”

“Mrs Dale’s or Barron’s,” said the lady sternly, but Guest shook his head.

“Since the wedding day, but if I know anything of my friend she has never since been out of his thoughts.”

The tears started to Miss Jerrold’s eyes.

“Poor boy,” she said sadly. “But he must not think of her. My brother had certain thoughts about getting the marriage cancelled, but Myra will not hear of it.”

“Surely she does not care for this man?”

“I don’t know, my dear boy. She is a mystery to me. I tried to talk to her several times when I was near, but she closed my lips at once. I am nobody now. I can pretty well manage her father, but—who in the world can this be?” she cried hastily. “I’m not at home.”

She rose to ring the bell, but there were steps already on the stairs, and the servant, looking a little startled, opened the door.

“Mr Stratton, ma’am. He says—”

Stratton was already at the door, looking pale, but with a red spot burning in each cheek.

“You here, Guest!” he said excitedly. “Miss Jerrold, pray ask your niece to see me, if only for a minute.”

“My niece, Mr Stratton,” said the old lady coldly, “is in Paris.”

“No, no,” he cried. “They reached Charing Cross not half an hour ago.”

“Stratton, old man,” whispered Guest, “for goodness sake, contain yourself. Indeed they are not here.”

“Hah!” cried Stratton excitedly as a cab drew up to the door; and he grasped how he had, in his excitement, outstripped with a fast hansom the slow four-wheeled cab; and without giving aunt or friend another thought he dashed downstairs and out to the cab door.

Myra was looking eagerly up at the house as the front door opened, and Edie heard her give a hoarse gasp as she shrank back into the corner of the seat with her face convulsed by a spasm at the unexpected sight of Stratton.

It was only momentary. By the time he reached the cab door, flung it open, and held out his hand, she had drawn herself up, and it was a calm, dignified, graceful woman of the world who gave the trembling man her hand to help her to alight.

“Ah, Mr Stratton,” she said, and her vo............