He took Puttler affectionately by the arm and led him into the library, and there Dick left them, knowing exactly the course of instruction that Mr. Puttler would receive; for Harry’s first act was to unlock his desk and take out the Diary. He was relieved to have Puttler off his hands for an hour or two. Dick that day was experiencing a sense of unbelievable relief. A great burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and one of his more pressing and secret troubles had been half dissipated. He ran halfway down the drive to meet Leslie’s car, and leapt on the running-board while the car was moving. “Practising for a tram-conductor,” he said cheerily. “I’ve decided on my profession, when you arrive at Fossaway Manor, mistress of all these demesnes.” “When will that be, Dick?” she asked, looking steadily ahead. “Never, I hope.” In his lightness of heart he had not kept that usual guard on his tongue, and the words were out before he could stop them. Twice he had been taken off his guard, and he would have given anything to unsay his words. Apparently she did not attach any great significance to them, for she did not turn her head, sending the car spinning to the broad gravelled place before the old porch. He jumped down when she stopped the machine and helped her alight. “I have to prepare you for a curious bird,” he said, and described Mr. Puttler with more truth than flattery. “What is he, Dick?” “He’s an accountant,” said Dick glibly. “He’s also quite an amusing fellow and full of weird information. I’m going to try a little on you. Do you know that Robinson Crusoe was a German?” “Why, of course, his father lived in Bremen,” she said, and he was still laughing when he took her into the library. In the presence of his fiancée Lord Chelford exhibited a nervousness and a _gaucherie_ which might have been understandable if he were meeting her for the first time. He had never quite overcome the novelty of his engagement, and his attitude toward her was one of awe rather than of reverence. “How do you do, Leslie?” He had never kissed her in his life; now he held her hand for a fraction of a second and dropped it as though it burnt him. “Do you know Mr. Tuttler?” “Puttler,” said the other, and Leslie looked into the melancholy eyes and read something in them that Dick had missed, and possibly Mr. Puttler’s closest associate had not seen. She did not pay him the poor compliment of feeling sorry for him, though she read in those quick-lighting deeps a craving for woman’s sympathy which nature, by her cruel handiwork, had repelled in advance. “Glad to know you, Miss Gwyn. I know your brother--Mr. Arthur Gwyn, the solicitor, isn’t it? I thought so.” “Has Arthur come?” asked Harry. “No,” said Dick. “We’re going to have tea in the drawing-room. Will you come along, Harry?” “Surely, surely,” he said hastily. “You’ll excuse me, dear----” It was an effort to employ even so banal an expression of affection.