“Very.” I had not noticed that young Bayliss was looking either more or less fit than usual, but I answered as I did because the old gentleman seemed so very anxious that I should. He was evidently gratified. “Yes,” he said, “he's looking very fit indeed. I think his trip has benefited him hugely. And I think--Yes, I think he is beginning to forget his--that is to say, I believe he does not dwell upon the--the recent happenings as he did. I think he is forgetting; I really think he is.” “Indeed,” said I. It struck me that, if Herbert Bayliss was forgetting, his memory must be remarkably short. I imagined that his father's wish was parent to the thought. “He has--ah--scarcely mentioned our--our young friend's name since his return,” went on the doctor. “He did ask if you had heard--ah--by the way, Knowles, you haven't heard, have you?” “No.” “Dear me! dear me! That's very odd, now isn't it.” He did not say he was sorry. If he had said it I should not have believed him. If ever anything was plain it was that the longer we remained without news of Frances Morley the better pleased Herbert Bayliss's parents would be. “But I say, Knowles,” he added, “you and he must meet, you know. He doesn't hold any ill-feeling or--or resentment toward you. Really he doesn't. Herbert! Oh, I say, Herbert! Come here, will you.” Young Bayliss turned. The doctor whispered in my ear. “Perhaps it would be just as well not to refer to--to--You understand me, Knowles. Better let sleeping dogs lie, eh? Oh, Herbert, here is Knowles waiting to shake hands with you.” We shook hands. The shake, on his part, was cordial enough, perhaps, but not too cordial. It struck me that young Bayliss was neither as “fit” nor as forgetful as his fond parents wished to believe. He looked rather worn and nervous, it seemed to me. I asked him about his tramping trip and we chatted for a few moments. Then Bayliss, Senior, was called by Lady Carey and Handliss to join the discussion concerning the tournament rules and the young man and I were left alone together. “Knowles,” he asked, the moment after his father's departure, “have you heard anything? Anything concerning--her?” “No.” “You're sure? You're not--” “I am quite sure. We haven't heard nor do we expect to.” He looked away across the course and I heard him draw a long breath. “It's deucedly odd, this,” he said. “How she could disappear so entirely I don't understand. And you have no idea where she may be?” “No.” “But--but, confound it, man, aren't you trying to find her?” “No.” “You're not! Why not?” “You know why not as well as I. She left us of her own free will and her parting request was that we should not follow her. That is sufficient for us. Pardon me, but I think it should be for all her friends.” He was silent for a moment. Then his teeth snapped together. “I'll find her,” he declared, fiercely. “I'll find her some day.” “In spite of her request?” “Yes. In spite of the devil.”