Rupert bowed his head. He made up his mind to make a clean breast of everything, to tell his father about Ruby Strode and his love for her. But just as he was about to speak Dale interrupted him. "I’m afraid you’ll have to start by going back to town to-morrow morning. Sir Reginald left to-day and he said he was afraid it would be necessary for you to go up. It will only be for a couple of days, I expect, and you’ll come straight back here, won’t you?" Rupert nodded. "Of course—I’ll go if necessary, but I can’t see why I should be wanted. I’ve told Sir Reginald all I know." Dale cleared his throat uneasily. "It’s not Sir Reginald, it’s the officials at the bank and—Scotland Yard has charge of the affair. They want you to give them an exact account of your movements, what you did and where you went on the day you received and lost the cheque. It’s the least you can do under the circumstances, my boy. You see, if the money’s not recovered, I shall have to make it good." Rupert nodded and said no more. His heart sank again. Yes, unless the bank recovered the money, whether his father was legally liable or not, Rupert knew that if it meant selling the old homestead and everything he possessed in the world to pay Sir Reginald, he would do so. After all, perhaps he had won only to lose. Before going to bed that night he knocked at the door of Marjorie’s room, and he sat on the edge of her bed just as he had been accustomed to do in the old days when they were boy and girl together with not a thought in the world to trouble them, happy and contented in the life and work of the moorlands. At first they talked of little things, things which had lost their importance to Rupert, but still went to make up life for Marjorie. Then she fell to questioning him, asking him about his life in London, and if he were happy. "Somehow, you’ve changed," she confessed. "You don’t look as well or so jolly as you used to. There’s nothing seriously wrong, is there, old boy?" He shook his head. "I’m all right. I’ve a secret which I want to tell you soon, but it’s one that makes me happy, and I hope it will make you happy, too.... Of course, now you’ll guess, but don’t say anything. While I’m away I don’t want you to be too much alone with Despard. He’s all right, but he’s a man’s man—the sort of fellow who makes love to every pretty woman he sees. He can’t help it, you know." Marjorie sat up in her bed and laughed. "Is that a man’s man?" Rupert did not reply, but continued: "Last night, as I was coming back from Post Bridge Hall, I saw you and young Crichton pass me on the bridge. I don’t want to interfere, dear, but, somehow, I wondered whether—it looked as though you cared for one another, perhaps——"