The captain’s face brightened. “I believe Vyner would let me go,” he replied. “I could go in a few days’ time, at any rate. And, by the way—Joan!” “Eh?” said Hartley. “Write to your brother-in-law at Highgate, and send her there for a time,” said the captain. “Write and ask him to invite her. Keep her and young Vyner apart before things go too far.” “I’ll see how things go for a bit,” said Hartley, slowly. “It’s awkward to write and ask for an invitation. And where do your ideas of fate come in?” “They come in all the time,” said the captain, with great seriousness. “Very likely my difficulty was made on purpose for us to think of a way of getting you out of yours. Or it might be Joan’s fate to meet somebody in London at her uncle’s and marry him. If she goes we might arrange to go up together, so that I could look after her.” “I’ll think it over,” said his friend, holding out his hand. “I must be going.” “I’ll come a little way with you,” said the captain, leading the way into the house. “I don’t suppose Peter will be in yet, but he might; and I’ve had more of him lately than I want.” He took up his hat and, opening the door, followed Hartley out into the road. The evening was warm, and they walked slowly, the captain still discoursing on fate and citing various instances of its working which had come under his own observation. He mentioned, among others, the case of a mate of his who found a wife by losing a leg, the unfortunate seaman falling an easy victim to the nurse who attended him. “He always put it down to the effects of the chloroform,” concluded the captain; “but my opinion is, it was to be.” He paused at Hartley’s gate, and was just indulging in the usual argument as to whether he should go indoors for a minute or not, when a man holding a handkerchief to his bleeding face appeared suddenly round the corner of the house and, making a wild dash for the gate, nearly overturned the owner. “It looks like our milkman!” said Hartley, recovering his balance and gazing in astonishment after the swiftly retreating figure. “I wonder what was the matter with him?” “He would soon know what was the matter with him if I got hold of him,” said the wrathful captain. Hartley opened the door with his key, and the captain, still muttering under his breath, passed in. Rosa’s voice, raised in expostulation, sounded loudly from the kitchen, and a man’s voice, also raised, was heard in response. “Sounds like my bo’sun,” said the captain, staring as he passed into the front room. “What’s he doing here?” Hartley shook his head. “Seems to be making himself at home,” said the captain, fidgeting. “He’s as noisy as if he was in his own house.” “I don’t suppose he knows you are here,” said his friend, mildly. Captain Trimblett still fidgeted. “Well, it’s your house,” he said at last. “If you don’t mind that lanky son of a gun making free, I suppose it’s no business of mine. If he made that noise aboard my ship—”