"Oh, yes, for me, too." Cleborne folded his arms, crossed one leg over the other, and blew a long cloud of smoke. "Look here, Mr. Fessenden," he said, "that's what I want to speak to you about--Maryland attractions." He spoke with evident embarrassment. "May Belle--Miss Cresap--and I saw you yesterday, sitting on the wall at the end of the lane to White Cottage." "Hum! You did?" "Yes. We were out for an early morning walk. Of course, then, we know you didn't go to Baltimore--not on the morning train, at any rate." "Well?" Impatience showed in Fessenden's tone, and the other went on quickly: "We were out for a stroll again this evening, and--you may think it's none of my business, but we saw _her_. She was at the window as we passed the house." "You seem to be fond of walking." "It was entirely an accident both times. But it won't do, Mr. Fessenden." "May I ask _what_ won't do?" "I don't want to be impertinent, sir--you're an older man than I--but, of course, it's easy enough to guess that you've been going over to White Cottage because _she's_ there. Isn't that so?" "Certainly it's so. But is there any harm in that?" "There may not be any harm _yet_, but won't there be?" "This is ridiculous. Betty isn't much more than a child--a very charming one, I admit." "Who?" demanded Cleborne, "Betty?" "Betty Landis, man. Aren't you talking about her?" "Never heard of her," returned the other shortly. "I'm talking about you know whom, Mr. Fessenden. I'm sorry I spoke. I wanted to give you a friendly hint that you should let another man look after his--his _own_ himself. I don't care to be laughed at in this way." "What the devil do you mean?" Cleborne pushed back his chair savagely. "I'm through," he snapped. As good as his word, he stalked off to join May Belle. VIII Dawn was reddening the leaves of the oak outside the window when Fessenden awoke. From the great bay below the house came the ruffle of water--the wind was freshening. But it was not the mutter along the shore, nor the tang of the salt air, that had aroused him. What could that idiot, Cleborne, have been driving at in his talk of Betty? No, Cleborne had declared he had never heard of her. Then whom could his dark hints be about? Was the Virginian a subtle joker, acting at the instigation of Polly or Mrs. Dick? It was not unlikely. And did Madge Yarnell's peculiar conduct have any connection with the matter? While he was still puzzling over Cleborne's words, he fell asleep, and when he awoke again, at a more reasonable hour, his mind instantly became too full of plans for the day's excursion with Betty to hold any conflicting thoughts. At eight o'clock he ate his eggs, toast, and coffee, solving the problem of presenting a sufficient excuse for his proposed day's absence by the simple process of not attempting it.