The sun was slipping behind the hills, with the broad smile of a tyrant who fully enjoys the joke, when Desmond drew up before his own verandah and slid to the ground. "Thank God that's over!" he muttered audibly. But he did not at once enter the house. His first care, as always, was for the horse he rode; and with him it was no mere case of the "merciful man," but of sheer love for that unfailing servant of the human race. He accompanied Badshah Pasand to the stable, superintended the removal of his saddle, and looked him carefully all over. That done, he issued explicit orders for his treatment and feeding: the great charger--as though fully aware of his master's solicitude,--nuzzling a mouse-coloured nose against his shoulder the while. Arrived in the comparative coolness of the hall, he shouted for a drink, and a bath. Then, turning towards the drawing-room, promised himself a few minutes blessed relaxation in the depths of his favourite chair. But passing between the gold-coloured curtains he saw that which checked his advance, and banished all thought of relaxation from his brain. Harry Denvil--whose buoyancy and simplicity of heart had led Desmond to christen him the Boy--sat alone at Evelyn's bureau, his head between his hands, despair in every line of his figure. Desmond regarded him thoughtfully, marvelling that the sounds of his own arrival should have passed unheard. Then he went forward, and laid his hand on the Boy's shoulder. "Harry! I don't seem to recognise _you_ in that attitude. Anything seriously wrong?" Denvil started, and revealed a face of dogged dejection. "You here?" he said listlessly. "Never heard you come in." "That's obvious. But--about yourself?" The Boy choked down a sigh. "Why the deuce should I bore you with myself, when you're hot and tired? I've been a confounded fool; if not worse, and the devil's in the luck wherever I turn." But Desmond waited in expectant silence for the Boy's trouble to overflow. While he waited, the coveted "drink" arrived, and he emptied the long tumbler almost at a gulp. The station had run out of ice--a cheerful habit of Frontier stations; but at least the liquid was cool and stinging. "Well?" he said at length, Denvil having returned to his former attitude. "I want something more explicit. How am I to help you, if you slam the door in my face?" "Don't see how you can help me. I've only been ... a great many kinds of a fool: and _you_----" "Well, what of me? I've been plenty of kinds of fool in my time, I assure you. Money's the backbone of your trouble, no doubt. Nothing worse, I hope?" Denvil's honest eyes met his own without flinching.