There was the faintest perceptible rustle behind him. Joan must have come in very quietly, for the door was shut and she was sitting on the corner of the writing-table,--exactly where the recently-departed Haliburton had been posing,--swinging her feet and surveying her late guardian's back. In her hand she held a pink slip of paper. Hughie never forgot the picture that she presented at that moment. She was dressed in white--something workmanlike and unencumbering--with a silver filigree belt around her waist. She wore a battered Panama hat--the sort of headgear affected by "coons" of the music-hall persuasion--with a wisp of pale blue silk twisted round it. The evening sun, streaming through the most westerly of the windows, glinted on her hair, her belt, and the silver buckles on her shoes. Hughie caught his breath. Joan spoke first. "Here's something for you, Hughie," she said. Hughie took the proffered slip of paper. It was a cheque, made out to himself and signed by Jimmy Marrable. "I think that covers all the expense to which you have been put on my account while Uncle Jimmy has been away," said Joan. Her voice sounded gruff and businesslike. Hughie examined the cheque. "Yes," he said, "it does." "It was very good of you," said Joan formally, "to advance me so much money. I had no idea you were doing it. Apparently you might never have got it back again." Hughie gazed at her curiously. He began to grasp the situation. He was to be whitewashed: the compromising past was to be decently buried, and "Temporary Loan" was to be its epitaph. "Never mind that," he said awkwardly. "All in the day's work, you know! Afraid I was a rotten trustee." Suddenly Joan's demeanour changed. "And now, my man," she said briskly, "will you be good enough to explain what you mean by compromising a lady in this way?" Hughie looked at her for a moment in dismay. Then he saw that her eyes were twinkling, and he heaved a sudden sigh of incredulous relief. He was forgiven! "Joey!" he said,--"Joey, you mean to say you're not angry?" "Furious!" replied Miss Gaymer, smiling in her old friendly fashion. "Thank God!" said Hughie. Miss Gaymer changed the subject, rather hurriedly. "There's something else I want to ask you," she said. "Will you kindly inform me what has become of my--ahem!--young man?" "Who?" said Hughie. "Oh, _that_ chap? He is gone." "Gone? Where?" "London, I should think." "Why?" "In the first place, because I told him about your--I mean--I wouldn't advise you to ask me, Joey. You see--I should hate--" "You would hate," said Miss Gaymer, coming to his rescue, "to say 'I told you so!' I know, Hughie. It's like you, and I love you for it." Hughie winced. These colloquial terms of endearment are sometimes rather tantalising. Still, he must not mind that. The girl, too, had had her disappointment, and was bearing herself bravely. At least-- "Joey," he said suddenly, "did you _really_ care for that bloke?"