Disappointed in his visit to the inn, Guest went back to his own chambers, where his first act on reaching his room, with its lookout over the old rookery, was to take out his pocketbook, and carefully examine a photograph—a proof intrusted to his care that day—and which he instantly pressed to his lips several times before restoring it to its envelope, and returning it to his breast.

His next proceeding was to light his pipe, lie back, and think over Miss Jerrold’s words; and the more he thought over them the more they seemed to fit with the situation.

One thought begat another till he grew startled at the growth emanating from Miss Jerrold’s suggestion.

Stratton had always been greatly attached to him, he knew, but he did not always confide in him; he had a way of being extremely reticent, especially over money matters, and he recalled a little upset they had once had about a time when Stratton was hard pressed to get his rent ready and had raised the money in what he (Guest) had dubbed a disreputable way—that is to say, he had borrowed from “a relative” instead of from his friend.

“The old lady’s right,” mused Guest, after a long period of thinking, during which his ideas seemed to ripen. “Mr Brettison must know, and depend upon it, he, being such a particular, high-souled man, was angry with Stratton, and would not come to the wedding. Of course; I remember now, Stratton did say that morning that Brettison was off, out collecting. Now, how to find out where he has gone.”

No idea came, for Brettison was one of the most erratic and enthusiastic of beings. Being very wealthy, and living in the simplest way, money was no object; and he would go off anywhere, and at any cost, to obtain a few simple and rare plants for his herbarium. As Guest mused over the matter, he recollected that Stratton said something about the south; but whether it was south of England, France, or Italy, he could not remember.

“Might be the South Pole,” he muttered pettishly. “Fancy that old chap having nothing better to do with his money than spend it over weeds!”

“Now, if I had half,” he said, after refilling his pipe, “I could go to the old admiral and say—Oh, what a fool I am!”

But somehow that idea about Brettison and his money seemed to pervade his brain for the next few days, and to be mixed up with Stratton and his troubles. He recollected the money lying in crisp banknotes upon the table, and recalled that it was a heavy sum. That was an entirely fresh view to take; could Stratton have borrowed that money from Brettison? Likely enough, and that might have caused the estrangement. People did not like lending money. They would offer to do so, but when the demand was made they were a little bitter.

“‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,’” muttered Guest, quoting from his favourite author, and then adding, “if you can help it.”

“Bah! That upsets the idea of the lady in the case,” he muttered impatiently. “What a fool I am! As if it was likely that poor old Mal would try to make his quietus with a bare bodkin—modernised into a six-shooter—because old Brettison was huffed at his borrowing money. I must pump it out of the poor fellow somehow.”

That evening he went to Stratton’s chambers, but could get no reply; and he waited about on the stairs till, growing uneasy and suspicious once more, he knocked again, and listened at the letter slit.

Just then he heard steps, and the occupant of the upstairs chambers ascended to the landing.

“How do?” he said. “Mr Stratton’s out. I met him on the Embankment not half an hour ago.”

That swept away the black, mental cobwebs once more for a time about Guest’s brain, and he went away relieved—but not before writing his intention of dropping in about ten that night, and thrusting his card in at the slit—to dine at his club, after which he went into the library to read up some old legal cases, and think about Edie.

He was punctual to the time appointed in Benchers’ Inn, but there was no light in Stratton’s window, none in Brettison’s, and he waited till eleven in the expectation of seeing his friend come back.

At the above hour he became convinced that Stratton had returned early and gone to bed, so he went to his own chambers vexed and irritated, after dropping another card into the letter-box, making an appointment for the next evening at seven.

“Take him out for a bit of dinner. He seems to be very busy just now, or else he is behaving very sensibly and taking exercise to get back his strength.”

Guest went to Benchers’ Inn the next evening at seven, but the outer door was closed, and after waiting for some time he went off to his club and wrote a letter begging Stratton to make an appointment to see him.

Next day glided by and there was no reply. The chambers were still closed, and the Brades had not seen their occupant; neither had Mr Brettison come back.

Guest made light of the matter, and then went and called on the admiral, who promptly begged him to stay to dinner, but the young man refused, glanced at Edie, and stayed.

This delayed the visit which he had intended to pay Miss Jerrold, but he went to her on the following day to report his ill success, and then to the great institution where his friend ruled over the natural history specimens.

To his surprise Stratton was not there, one of the officials informing him that his chief had taken a month’s vacation to recover his health.

“He seemed so broken down, sir, by study, that the committee suggested it.”

“And never said a word to me,” thought Guest. “Well, the man who says poor old Mal is mad is a fool, but he certainly does act very queerly. Never mind. He’ll come all right in time.”

More days glided by, and Guest became alarmed, for he could get no tidings of Stratton. The chambers were always closed, and no notice was taken of the letters; so he went to Bourne Square on business—he made a point of going there on business whenever he could—and was shown into the drawing room, where Myra greeted him very kindly, though he noted a peculiar, anxious, inquiring look in her eyes two or three times before she rose and left the room.

“Now, Mr Guest,” said Edie as soon as they were alone, “you have something to communicate?”

“Something I want to say, but don’t be quite so businesslike.”

“I must,” she said sharply. “Now tell me: something from—about Mr Stratton.”

He told her of his ill success, and she frowned.

“We don’t want his name mentioned here, and we take not the slightest interest in him; but as you are interested, and as news, of course you can tell me anything. But isn’t his conduct very strange?”

“More than strange.”

“And you can’t find Mr Brettison either?”

“No; but I’m not surprised at that. He’s collecting chickweed and ‘grundsel,’ as Mrs Brade calls it, somewhere. But I shall be glad when he comes back.”

Edie sat thoughtfully for a few minutes.

“You see, directly you cannot get to see him because his doors are shut you begin to think something is wrong.”

“Naturally.”

“And that’s absurd, Percy—Mr Guest.”

“No; no; don’t take it back again like that,” he pleaded.

“Mr Guest,” she said emphatically. “Now look here: he must come to his chambers sometimes, because he would want his letters.”

“Possibly,” said the visitor coldly, for that formal “Mr Guest” annoyed him.

“And he communicates with the people at the institution.”

“Yes, but he has given them no fresh address.”

“Then naturally they write to his chambers, and Mal—this man gets his letters from time to time. There’s nothing shocking the matter. He is avoiding you, and wants to break off the intimacy.”

“Then he is not going to,&rdqu............