"Of course not." He set off swiftly toward the point indicated, but on reaching it cast about vainly for anything in the nature of a handkerchief. In the midst of which futile quest a change of tempo in the motor's impatient drumming surprised him. Startled, he looked up. Too late: the girl was in the seat, the car in motion--already some yards from the point at which he had left it. Dismayed, he strode forward, raising his voice in perturbed expostulation. "But--I say--!" Over the rear of the seat a grey gauntlet was waved at him, as tantalizing as the mocking laugh that came to his ears. He paused, thunderstruck, appalled by this monstrosity of ingratitude. The machine gathered impetus, drawing swiftly away. Yet in the stillness the farewell of the grey girl came to him very clearly. "Good-by!" with a laugh. "Thank you and good-by--_Handsome Dan!_" III "HANDSOME DAN" Standing in the middle of the road, watching the dust cloud that trailed the fast disappearing motorcar, Mr. Maitland cut a figure sufficiently forlorn and disconsolate to have distilled pity from the least sympathetic heart. His hands were thrust stiffly at full arm's length into his trousers pockets: a rumpled silk hat was set awry on the back of his head; his shirt bosom was sadly crumpled; above the knees, to a casual glance, he presented the appearance of a man carefully attired in evening dress; below, his legs were sodden and muddied, his shoes of patent-leather, twin wrecks. Alas for jauntiness and elegance, alack for ease and aplomb! "Tricked," observed Maitland casually, and protruded his lower lip, thus adding to the length of a countenance naturally long. "Outwitted by a chit of a girl! Dammit!" But this was crude melodrama. Realizing which, he strove to smile: a sorry failure. "'Handsome Dan,'" quoted he; and cocking his head to one side eyed the road inquiringly. "Where in thunder d'you suppose she got hold of _that_ name?" Bestowed upon him in callow college days, it had stuck burr-like for many a weary year. Of late, however, its use had lapsed among his acquaintances; he had begun to congratulate himself upon having lived it down. And now it was resurrected, flung at him in sincerest mockery by a woman whom, to his knowledge, he had never before laid eyes upon. Odious appellation, hateful invention of an ingenious enemy! "'Handsome Dan!' She must have known me all the time--all the time I was making an exhibition of myself.... 'Wentworth'? I know no one of that name. Who the dickens can she be?" If it had not been contrary to his code of ethics, he would gladly have raved, gnashed his teeth, footed the dance of rage with his shadow. Indeed, his restraint was admirable, the circumstances considered. He did nothing whatever but stand still for a matter of five minutes, vainly racking his memory for a clue to the identity of "Miss Wentworth."