“Yes; Chiddingford, near Haslemere. It was a pretty place, too, called ‘The Grange.’ Fenella fell in love with it, and made me buy it right away.” “Is anyone living there now?” “It is let to someone. I don’t think that I heard the name. The agent knows. When the trouble came I told him to do what he could with it, and not to bother me with it any more. After a while he wrote and asked if I would mind it being let to a foreigner? I told him he might let it to a devil so long as he did not worry me.” Lord Castleton paused awhile, and asked the next question in a hesitating way. He felt embarrassed, and showed it: “Tell me one thing more, old fellow--if--if you don’t mind.” “My dear Castleton, I’ll tell you anything you like.” “How did you sign the letter?” Onslow’s face looked sad as he answered: “I signed it by another old pet name we both understood. We had pet names--people always have when they are first married,” he added with embarrassment. “Of course,” murmured the sympathetic Castleton. “One such name lasted a long time. An old friend of my father’s came to see us, and in a playful moment he said I was a ‘sad dog.’ Fenella took it up and used to call me ‘Doggie,’ and I often signed myself ‘Frank Doggie’--as men usually do.” “Of course,” again murmured Castleton, as if such a signature was a customary thing. Then he added, “And on this occasion?” “On this occasion I used the name that seemed full of happiest memories. ‘Frank Doggie’ may seem idiotic to an outsider, but to Fenella and myself it might mean much.” The two men sat silent awhile, and then Castleton asked softly: “I suppose it may be taken for granted that Lady Francis never got the letter?” “I take it, it is so; but it is no matter now, I refused to speak with her just before I met you. I did not know then what I know now--and she will never speak to me again.” He sighed as he spoke, and turned away. Then he went to the rail of the yacht and leaned over with his head down, looking into the still blue water beneath him. “Poor old Frank!” said Castleton to himself. “I can’t but think that this matter may come right yet. I must find out what became of that letter, in case Lady Francis never got it. It would prove to her that Frank----” His train of thought suddenly stopped. A new idea seemed to strike him so forcibly that it quite upset him. Onslow, who had come over from the rail, noticed it. “I say, Castleton, what is wrong with you? You have got quite white about the gills.” “Nothing--nothing,” he answered hastily. “I am subject to it. They call it heart. Pardon me for a bit, I’ll go to my bunk and lie down,” and he went below.