Jean, frankly hungry after her spin in the car through the invigorating moorland air, yielded without further protest, and tea resolved itself into a jolly little _tête-à-tète_ affair, partaken of in the shelter of the verandah, with the glorious vista of the Moor spread out before her delighted eyes. Burke was in one of those rare moods of his which never failed to inspire her with a genuine liking for him--when the unruly, turbulent devil within him, so hardly held in check, was temporarily replaced by a certain spontaneous boyishness of a distinctly endearing quality--that “little boy” quality which, in a grown man, always appeals so irresistibly to any woman. The time slipped away quickly, and it was with a shock of astonishment that Jean realised, on glancing down at the watch on her wrist, that over an hour and a half had gone by while they had been sitting chatting on the verandah. “Geoffrey! Do you know it’s nearly six o’clock! I’m certain something must have happened. Judy and the Holfords would surely be here by now if they hadn’t had an accident of some sort.” Burke looked at his own watch. “Yes,” he acquiesced slowly. “It is--getting late.” A look of concern spread itself over Jean’s face. “I think we ought to get the car out again and go and see if anything has happened,” she said decisively. “They may have had a spill. Were they coming by motor?” “No. Judy drove down to Newton Abbot in the dog-cart, and the Holfords proposed hiring some sort of conveyance from a livery stable.” “Well, I expect they’ve had a smash of some kind. I’m sure we ought to go and find out! Was Judy driving that excitable chestnut of yours?” He shook his head. “No--a perfectly well-conducted pony, as meek as Moses. We’ll give them a quarter of an hour more. If they don’t turn up by then, I’ll run the car out and we’ll investigate.” The minutes crawled by on leaden feet. Jean felt restless and uneasy and more than a trifle astonished that Burke should manifest so little anxiety concerning his sister’s whereabouts. Then, just before the quarter of an hour was up, there came the shrill tinkle of a bicycle bell, and a boy cycled up to the gate and, springing off his machine, advanced up the cobbled path with a telegram in his hand. Jean’s face blanched, and she waited in taut suspense while Burke ripped open the ominous orange-coloured envelope. “What is it?” she asked nervously. “Have they--is it bad news?” There was a pause before Burke answered. Then, he handed the flimsy sheet to her, remarking shortly: “They’re not coming.” Jean’s eyes flew along the brief message. “_Returning to-morrow. Am staying the night with Holfords. Judy_.” Her face fell. “How horribly disappointing!” Her glance fluttered, regretfully to the faint disc of the moon showing like a pallid ghost of itself in a sky still luminous with the afternoon sunlight.