"Later," said she, "I asked him, 'Who's your friend that you didn't introduce yesterday?' 'Well,' said Dr. Foe, 'I didn't introduce him because I thought you mightn't like it. He's rather an outsider. His name's Farrell.' 'Farrell,' I said--'But isn't that--wasn't he--?' 'Yes, he is, and he was,' Dr. Foe told me very gravely. 'That's just it.' I couldn't help asking how, after what had happened, they came to be travelling in company. 'That's the funny part of it,' was the answer; 'he's trying to make some kind of--well, of a reparation.' I thought better of Dr. Foe, Roddy. . . . It seems so _mean_, somehow, that after what you've told me, Dr. Foe should be-what shall I say?--accepting this reparation from a man who happens to be rich!" Constantia repeated this, in effect, some two or three nights later. We had danced through a waltz together and agreed to sit out another. We sat it out, under a palm. It was somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood of Queen's Gate, and a fashionable band, tired of modernist tunes, was throbbing out the old _Wiener Blatter_. . . . If Constantia remembered that sacred tune, she gave no sign of it. "I thought better--somehow--of your friend," said Constantia. I gave her a sort of guessing look. "You may take it from me, Con," I said, "that the trouble's not there. I'm worried about Jack. I haven't heard from him for months. But he's not of that make, whatever he is." "Are you sure?" she asked. "I feel that I'd like to know. If you are right, why were he and this Mr. Farrell such close friends?" "Farrell's pretty impossible, I agree," said I. Constantia opened her fan and snapped it. "Impossible?" said she. "Well, I don't know. . . . Dr. Foe introduced him, later on . . . and what do you think Mamma said? She said that she had supposed them at first sight to be relatives. There was a trick about the eyes and the corner of the brow. . . . You are quite sure," she added irrelevantly, "that Dr.--that your friend--would be above--?" "I swear to you, Con," I assured her. "I know Jack Foe inside and out." She had opened her fan again very deliberately; and as deliberately she closed it. "No man ever knew that of a man," she said; "nor no woman either. . . . You're a rotter, Roddy--but you're rather a dear." NIGHT THE THIRTEENTH. ESCAPE. Somewhere in the bustle of landing and scrimmage past the Customs, Miss Denistoun lost sight of the two travellers; and with that, for a time, she goes out of the story.