And again Mr. Sheldrake pressed offers of assistance upon Old Wheels, which again were firmly declined. The man of the world departed in no pleasant humour. His jealousy was aroused. Who was this friend, of whom the child had said that she loved him dearly, dearly, and that Lily loved him also? He had half a suspicion, and he was determined to know. Then his thoughts reverted to Lily's behaviour to himself. "Does she suspect," he mused, in his own elegant vernacular, "that I'm not acting on the square, and is she holding off on purpose to draw me on? In one word, David Sheldrake, is the girl a model of simplicity--or artfulness? Any way, she is a witch, and has set me on fire, I _will_ have her! I could almost make up my mind to marry her." A serious consideration for such a man as he, who look upon girls merely as the playthings of an hour, and in whose mind womanly virtue and goodness are like dead wood in a forest. That, in case he made up his mind to such a contingency, there would be a doubt of success, was too manifestly ridiculous to be entertained for a moment. As he mused, he saw Alfred coming towards him. The young man did not see Mr. Sheldrake at first, and that gentleman stepped aside to observe Alfred's manner, in which he seemed to detect something more marked than usual. Alfred was walking quickly and nervously, looking over his shoulder hurriedly this way and that, as if some one were dogging him. Once a dog ran, barking, out of a house, and Alfred turned round swiftly with a white face and an exclamation of fright. Mr. Sheldrake watched these symptoms of agitation with remarkable keenness, and as Alfred passed clapped him on the shoulder. A cry of alarm escaped from Alfred's trembling lips, for Mr. Sheldrake's salutation was sudden and violent; seeing who it was, however, Alfred smiled and drew a long breath of relief. "Who did you think it was, Alf?" asked Mr. Sheldrake, to whom Alfred's manner seemed to be in some way a satisfaction. "I didn't know, you clapped me on the shoulder so suddenly." "You gave a cry," observed Mr. Sheldrake, with assumed carelessness, "for all the world as if I were a detective officer. Don't start; I'm not. That's one comfort, isn't it?" "I don't see how it is a comfort," said Alfred half sullenly, and yet with an air which showed that he wished not to offend his companion; "I'm nervous, that's the fact. Been smoking and drinking a little too much; I shall be all right next Tuesday, after the City and Suburban's run." "Going to Epsom to see the race?" "Yes; I hope you'll do what you promised." "We'll talk of that presently. You've got the tip, of course?" "Yes, and a good one; but there's something else I'm going to do if you'll stand my friend once more." "A new system?" "Well, not exactly that: but a plan which _must_ prevent the chance of loss."