"Yes," I responded. "In all Fleet Street, he's the shrewdest man in hunting out the truth. He is the _Comet_ man, and may claim to have originated the reporter-investigation branch of journalism." She was silent for a few moments. Lines appeared between her eyes. Then she took up her needlework, as if to divert her thoughts. "And Mr. Blain?" I asked at last, in want of some better topic. "How is he?" "Oh, busy as usual. He's in Paris. He went a fortnight ago upon business connected with some company he is bringing out, and has not been able to get back yet. We shall join him for a week or two, only I so much dislike the Channel crossing. Besides, it is really very pleasant here just now." "Delightful," I answered, looking round upon the peaceful scene. At the steps, opposite where we sat, was moored a motor-boat, together with Mary's punt, a light wood one with crimson cushions, while behind us was a well-kept tennis-court. Tea was brought after we had gossiped nearly an hour, and while we were taking it a boat suddenly drew up at the landing-stage, being hailed by Mary, who jumped up enthusiastically to welcome its occupants. These were two young men of rather dandified air and a young girl of twenty, smartly dressed, but not at all good-looking, whom I afterwards learnt was sister to the elder of her companions. When the boat was at last moored, and the trio landed amid much shouting and merriment, I was introduced to them. The name of sister and brother was Moberly, a family who lived somewhere up beyond Bell Weir, and their companion was a guest at their house. "We thought we'd just catch you at tea, Mrs. Blain," cried Doris Moberly as she sprang ashore. "And we are so frightfully thirsty." "Come along, then," said the elder lady. "Sit down, my dear. We have it all ready." And so the three joined us, and the circle quickly became a very merry one. "They kept us so long in the lock that I feared tea would be all over before we arrived," young Moberly said, with a rather affected drawl. He appeared to be one of those young sprigs of the city who travel first-class, read the _Times_, and ape the aristocrat. "Yes," Doris went on, "there was a slight collision between a barge and a launch, resulting in lots of strong language, and that delayed us, otherwise we should have been here half an hour ago." "Did you call on the Binsteads?" Mary asked. "You know their house-boat, the _Flame_? It's moored just at the bend, half-way between the Lock and Staines Bridge." "We passed it, but the blinds were down. They were evidently taking a nap. So we didn't hail them," Doris responded.