“Here are you, living, unchaperoned, in the house of a bachelor----” “Cousins are different,” she said promptly. “Nobody suggests that the third secretary is Mrs. Carter-Corrillo’s cousin. That would make a difference. Besides, everybody knows how much you dislike me.” “I don’t dislike you,” after a moment’s thought; “but if you think I do, why do you stay?” “I have a mission,” she said, with a finality of tone that brought the subject out of discussion. Gordon broke the news of his impending departure after breakfast the next morning. “I am thinking of running up to Scotland to have a shot at the birds,” he said. He felt rather like a liar. “What have they been doing?” she asked, her grey-blue eyes wide. “Nothing. One shoots them at this season of the year. You have game laws in Australia, I suppose?” “I don’t know. I have shot wallaby and dingo and rabbits and things, but never birds. To Scotland? That’s an awful long way. Gordon, I shall be worried about you. There was a railway accident in the newspapers this morning. You’ll send me a wire?” “From every station,” he said sarcastically, and was ashamed of himself when she thanked him so warmly. “I’m glad--that is my eccentricity, a horrid fear that people I like are in railway accidents. Of course, I could always wire to the stationmaster to enquire about you, or to your hotel.” Slowly it dawned upon Gordon Selsbury that in an unguarded and fatally foolish moment he had enormously complicated a situation already far from simple. To escape, to offer excuses, even to laugh off her anxiety, simulated or real, was impossible. A solution came to him and was instantly rejected. It came again because it was, in all the circumstances, the only solution. But it was one that could only be applied at the cost of his self-respect. Almost he cursed Heloise or whoever was the fool who had suggested this mad excursion. Trenter was laying out his master’s clothes for dinner when Gordon strolled into his dressing-room. “Um ... don’t go, Trenter. When did you have your holiday?” “First week in April, sir.” Gordon considered. “Do you know Scotland?” “Yes, sir; I’ve been with several house parties for the September shooting.” “Good. The fact is, Trenter, I’m going away on a--a peculiar mission. It is a secret even from my most intimate friends. There are reasons, very excellent reasons with which I need not trouble you, and which you certainly would not understand, why I should go secretly to one place whilst I am supposed to be at another.” Trenter aimed wildly, but scored on the target at the first shot. “A lady, sir?” he ventured respectfully, meaning no harm--offering, in fact, a tribute to the known chivalry of the Selsburys. “No!” There was reason enough for the large and angry blush that darkened Gordon’s face. “No, of course not. Business. Nothing at all to do with a lady.” “I’m sorry, sir,” said Trenter, and was.