“Yes,” said Mr. Carmyle, “it is a good many years since I have taken a real holiday. My doctor seemed to think I was a trifle run down. It seemed a good opportunity to visit America. Everybody,” said Mr. Carmyle oracularly, endeavouring, as he had often done since his ship had left England, to persuade himself that his object in making the trip had not been merely to renew his acquaintance with Sally, “everybody ought to visit America at least once. It is part of one's education.” “And what are your impressions of our glorious country?” said Sally rallying. Mr. Carmyle seemed glad of the opportunity of lecturing on an impersonal subject. He, too, though his face had shown no trace of it, had been embarrassed in the opening stages of the conversation. The sound of his voice restored him. “I have been visiting Chicago,” he said after a brief travelogue. “Oh!” “A wonderful city.” “I've never seen it. I've come from Detroit.” “Yes, I heard you were in Detroit.” Sally's eyes opened. “You heard I was in Detroit? Good gracious! How?” “I--ah--called at your New York address and made inquiries,” said Mr. Carmyle a little awkwardly. “But how did you know where I lived?” “My cousin--er--Lancelot told me.” Sally was silent for a moment. She had much the same feeling that comes to the man in the detective story who realizes that he is being shadowed. Even if this almost complete stranger had not actually come to America in direct pursuit of her, there was no disguising the fact that he evidently found her an object of considerable interest. It was a compliment, but Sally was not at all sure that she liked it. Bruce Carmyle meant nothing to her, and it was rather disturbing to find that she was apparently of great importance to him. She seized on the mention of Ginger as a lever for diverting the conversation from its present too intimate course. “How is Mr. Kemp?” she asked. Mr. Carmyle's dark face seemed to become a trifle darker. “We have had no news of him,” he said shortly. “No news? How do you mean? You speak as though he had disappeared.” “He has disappeared!” “Good heavens! When?” “Shortly after I saw you last.” “Disappeared!” Mr. Carmyle frowned. Sally, watching him, found her antipathy stirring again. There was something about this man which she had disliked instinctively from the first, a sort of hardness. “But where has he gone to?” “I don't know.” Mr. Carmyle frowned again. The subject of Ginger was plainly a sore one. “And I don't want to know,” he went on heatedly, a dull flush rising in the cheeks which Sally was sure he had to shave twice a day. “I don't care to know. The Family have washed their hands of him. For the future he may look after himself as best he can. I believe he is off his head.”