Godfrey, so she told herself, with a touch of unreason not usual with her, would almost certainly turn up all right--even if, as she was inclined to believe possible, he had met with some kind of accident. But Oliver, her beloved, the only human being in the world that really mattered to her--what was wrong with him? Long after she had gone to bed each evening she had heard him, during the last three nights, wandering restlessly about the house. After the first almost painful rush of joy which had come over her when he had suddenly walked into her presence last Thursday night, she had regretted, with unceasing bitter regret, his return home. It was so horribly apparent to her, his mother, that Laura, _belle dame sans merci_, held him in thrall. "If you don't mind, mother, I think I shall go up to town to-day and see the Scotland Yard people. I think--don't you?--it would-be a comfort to Laura." There was a harassed, questioning note in his voice which surprised Mrs. Tropenell. As a rule Oliver always knew exactly what he meant to do. She answered slowly, reluctantly (she hated so much his being mixed up in this odd, mysterious matter of Godfrey's temporary disappearance!): "Perhaps it would be. Still, I think Laura ought to communicate with Godfrey's cousins. Of course I know he didn't care for them. Still, after all, those people are his only near relations." "That old Mr. Privet, Pavely's confidential clerk, is going up to town to-day," observed Oliver inconsequently. "I thought he and I might travel together, and that while he goes to the hotel, I can go to Scotland Yard." And then Mrs. Tropenell roused herself to try and give what help she could. "Lord St. Amant knows the new Commissioner of Police very well," she said. "They met in India. Ask him to give you a note of introduction, Oliver. He's in town just now, you would certainly find him, either at his rooms or at his club." There came a faint flush over her face. By her plate there lay Lord St. Amant's daily letter. On Mondays London letters always arrived by the second post, but yesterday her old friend had had a late-fee stamp put on his letter, so that she might get it the first thing this morning. He had suggested that Sir Angus Kinross--that was the name of the new Commissioner--should be approached. He had even offered--and it was good of him, for he hated taking trouble and he had always disliked Godfrey Pavely--to go to Scotland Yard himself. Oliver was still standing, though his breakfast was only half eaten, and he was looking at his mother with that rather impatient, strained look on his face to which she had by now become accustomed. "That's a good idea," he said. And she felt glad that any idea proposed by her should seem to be good. Yesterday her son, who was always so kindly, so respectful in his manner to her, had--yes, snubbed her--when she had proposed something which it had seemed to her would be of use.