Weevil was trying to look contemplative, but succeeding badly. He was digging new ground and striking roots everywhere. There was nothing for it but to admit his mistake. He was old and forgetful. He had probably been thinking of some one else. Of course Philip Lascelles went into the Navy. He had heard nothing of him for years, and was very glad to hear he had risen to the rank of captain. "Then there was a daughter. Only one, I think?" Mr. Bellamie continued, in his pleasant conversational way. "That's right," agreed Weevil, longing to add something descriptive, but not venturing. He was not going to be caught again. "Edith?" suggested the visitor. "I think the name was Edith." "No," cried Weevil determinedly--he could not resist it; "Katherine. She was the godmother of Boodles--Tita, I mean--and the child was named after her." "Yes, it is my mistake this time. Katherine of course," agreed Mr. Bellamie. "But I am certain she was the eldest child, and she married young and went to India. She must have been in India when your grandchild was born." "She came over for the ceremony. Harold was her favourite brother, and when she heard of Tita's birth she came to London as fast as she could," cried Weevil, not realising what a wild thing he was saying. "To London!" murmured Mr. Bellamie. "The child was baptised at St. Michael's, Cornhill?" he added swiftly. "No, in Hendon church." "I thought you said she was born in Lausanne at the Hotel Gibbon?" "So she was," gasped Weevil, perspiring and distraught. "I mean she was buried in Hendon churchyard." "What! the little girl--Boodles!" said Mr. Bellamie, laughing gently. "No, my wife. We were married there." Weevil did not know what he was saying. The pictures and ornaments, which had been his undoing, were dancing about before his eyes. "You are getting confused," said the gentle visitor. "I understood you to say you were married at St. George's, Hanover Square." "Ah, but I used to go to Hendon," said Weevil eagerly, nodding, and grinning, and speaking the truth at last. "I used to walk out there on Sundays and holidays, and have bread and cheese in a tea-garden at Edgware, and then go on by Mill Hill and Arkley and round to Barnet, and back across Hampstead Heath to my lodgings in Kentish Town. I was very fond of that walk, but I couldn't do it now, sir. It would be much too far for an old man like me."