"I was staying in Norfolk awhile," he said, "with some cousins, and I met a friend of yours." He looked intently at Hemming as he spoke, and Hemming started eagerly in his chair. But in a moment he sat quiet again. "More than one, for that matter," continued Tarmont. "There was Major Anderson,--he talked a great deal of you one night, after some one had mentioned wars, and that sort of thing,---and there was an old chap who argued about you with an old dame, the same evening. Really, your memory seemed to bulk large in their eyes." He paused, and smiled at his companions. "Oh, I forgot," he added; "there was a lady--very pretty, too--who stopped playing ping-pong with me to listen to what they were saying about Captain Hemming. Of course she didn't give that for a reason." "What was her name?" asked Hemming. Tarmont shook his head, and, producing his cigarette-case, lit a mild, fat Turkish. "I'm no good at names," he said, "but she seemed to be about twenty-eight in age, and was beautifully set up, a trifle on the thin side--and had ripping fine eyes, and hair with copper in it." Even Hemming laughed. "You must have spent all your precious time staring at her," remarked Potts. "Well, I did," confessed the artist, "for I was in love with her, man. Even now, whenever I draw a girl I make her waist and her arms. As for the look in her eyes--my dear fellow, I can never forget it." "What sort of a look was it?" asked Akerly, hugely amused. "A look of longing," replied Tarmont, in tragic tones. "It was deucedly disconcerting, too, for the man she happened to be talking to. It always made me feel as if I had a hole in the middle of my chest, through which she could see some chap whom she was anxious to embrace. We all noticed that Anderson didn't like it at all." Potts and Akerly roared with laughter. "You should be a novelist," said Potts. Akerly ordered a round-bellied, wicker-covered flask. But Hemming only pondered over what he heard. It was close upon two o'clock in the morning when Hemming got back to the Wellington. He found O'Rourke snug in his bed, smiling even in his sleep. He closed the bedroom doors softly, stirred up the fire, and sat down to his story. Still the wind galloped through the square, slashing the tree-tops, and riding against the house-fronts. It was dawn when Hemming laid aside his pen, knocked the smouldering heel from his pipe, and went wearily to bed. CHAPTER III. A ROLLING STONE