Left alone, Willoughby Braddock found that his appetite for tea had deserted him. Claire, grateful for his services, had rather extended herself over the buttered toast, but it had no appeal for him. He lighted a cigarette and went out to fiddle with the machinery of his two-seater, always an assistance to thought. But even the carburettor, which had one of those fascinating ailments to which carburettors are subject, yielded him no balm. He was thoroughly upset and worried. He climbed into the car and gave himself up to gloomy meditation, and presently voices down the road announced the return of Kay and Sam. They were chatting away in the friendliest possible fashion--from where he sat, Willoughby Braddock could hear Kay’s clear laugh ringing out happily--and it seemed to Mr. Braddock, though he was no austerer moralist than the rest of his generation, that things were in a position only to be described as a bit thick. He climbed down and waited on the pavement. “Why, hullo, Willoughby,” said Kay. “This is fine. Have you just arrived? Come in and have some tea.” “I’ve had tea, thanks. That girl Claire gave me some, thanks.... I say, Sam, could I have a word with you?” “Say on,” said Sam. “In private, I mean. You don’t mind, Kay?” “Not a bit. I’ll go in and order tea.” Kay disappeared into the house; and Sam, looking at Mr. Braddock, observed with some surprise that his face had turned a vivid red and that his eyes were fastened upon him in a reproachful stare. “What’s up?” he asked, concerned. Willoughby Braddock cleared his throat. “You know, Sam----” “But I don’t,” said Sam, as he paused. “----you know, Sam, I’m not a--nobody would call me a---- Dash it, now I’ve forgotten the word!” “Beauty?” hazarded Sam. “It’s on the tip of my tongue--Puritan. That’s the word I want. I’m not a Puritan. Not strait-laced, you know. But, really, honestly, Sam, old man--I mean, dash it all!” Sam stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I still don’t quite get it, Bradder,” he said. “What exactly is the trouble?” “Well, I mean, on the premises, old boy, absolutely on the premises--is it playing the game? I mean, next door to people who are pals of mine and taking Kay to the theatre and generally going on as if nothing was wrong.” “Well, what is wrong?” asked Sam patiently. “Well, when it comes to the vicar beetling in and complaining about women in your bedroom----” “What?” “He said he heard her.” “Heard a woman in my bedroom?” “Yes.” “He must be crazy. When?” “Just now.” “This beats me.” “Well, that was what he said, anyway. Dashed unpleasant he was about it too. Oh, and there’s another thing, Sam. I wish you’d ask that man of yours not to call me brother. He----” “Great Cæsar!” said Sam. He took Willoughby Braddock by the arm and urged him toward the steps. His face wore a purposeful look. “You go in, like a good chap, and talk to Kay,” he said. “Tell her I’ll be in in a minute. There’s something I’ve got to look into.”