“Oh, but promise--you will promise--if you feel your love for me fading, no matter how little, to tell me about it? I couldn’t bear to think you pretended to love me when all the time you knew in your heart that in spite of yourself you were growing tired of me. So many men grow tired of their wives. Oh, yes, I have seen it again and again among my own friends--they marry, they love each other truly for a little while, then their love begins to cool, and then--oh, my darling, the bare thought of that possibility makes me feel faint and ill,” and she began to sob bitterly as she lay listless in his arms. It was now nearly dark, and they were still a long way from the village. Preston tried to comfort her, assuring her again and again of the impossibility of his ever growing tired of her, or indeed loving her less, but for a long time she remained in deep depression. And while this was happening Doctor Johnson and George Blenkiron were dining together at the former’s house in Wimpole Street. They had become extremely friendly since their first meeting at the ball at the Albert Hall, owing partly to the fact of their having interests in common, and it was but natural that during dinner mention should be made of their common friend, Preston. “I still feel anxious about Charlie Preston,” Blenkiron happened to remark. “He has changed greatly of late, yet won’t say what is the matter. To-day I heard an odd story to the effect that he has got himself into some sort of trouble. And yet I can’t think what. He is not a man who runs after women; rather, he is inclined to shun them. On the other hand he is not in monetary difficulties, that I know for a fact.” “Where did you hear the story?” Johnson asked. “At the club. Several men seemed to have heard it, yet all were vague as to the nature of the alleged trouble. I do hope, Johnson, he has not done anything foolish. He is such a good fellow.” “The last man to do anything foolish, I should say,” the doctor replied. “I like to trace to their source the origin of vague stories, because often they do much mischief though quite devoid of foundation. Couldn’t we, between us, find whence this rumor emanates?” “I think it should be possible. I will see what can be done to-morrow.” Blenkiron was fortunate next morning in coming face to face with the member of the club who had first told him the story, or the story so far as it went. Briefly, the rumor was that Captain Preston had been talking too freely about a certain lady--this was the new version--that he had been taken to task by an intimate friend of hers, also a member of the club, and that an action threatened unless Preston agreed to apologize in writing for what he had stated, and, in addition, agreed to pay a considerable sum to the man who brought the charge. “Who told you all that?” Blenkiron inquired carelessly. “Told me? I’m sure I don’t remember,” his informant replied quickly. “It is common talk. You will hear about it everywhere.”