“Nick, I won’t have you making barefaced love to a married woman under my very nose,” protested Jean equably. And the shadow of tragedy that had lowered above them a few minutes earlier broke into a spray of cheery fun and banter. “You seem very gay to-day.” The cold, sneering tones fell suddenly across the gay exchange of jokes and laughter that ensued, and the trio looked up to see the tall, lean, black-clad figure of Sir Adrian standing at the end of the path, awaiting their approach. To Jean, as to Claire, occurred the analogy of a malevolent spider on the watch. Even the man’s physical appearance seemed in some way to convey an unpleasant suggestion of resemblance--his long, thin, sharply-jointed arms and legs, his putty-coloured face, a livid mask lit only by a pair of snapping, venomous black eyes, half hidden between pouched lids that were hardly more than hanging folds of wrinkled skin, his long-lipped, predatory mouth with its slow, malicious smile. Jean repressed a little shudder of disgust as she responded to his sneering comment: “We are--quite gay, Sir Adrian. It’s a fine day, for one thing, and the sun’s shining, and we’re young. What more do we want?” “What more, indeed? Except”--bowing mockingly--“the beauty with which a good Providence has already endowed you. You are a lucky woman, Miss Peterson; your cup is full. My wife is not, perhaps”--regarding her appraisingly--“quite so beneficently dowered by Providence, so it remains for me to fill her cup up to the brim.” He paused, and as the black, pin-point eyes beneath the flabby lids detected the slight stiffening of Claire’s slender figure, his long, thin lips widened into a sardonic smile. “Yes, to the brim,” he repeated with satisfaction. “That’s a husband’s duty, isn’t it, Mr. Brennan?”--addressing Nick with startling suddenness. “You should know better than I, Sir Adrian,” retorted Nick, “seeing that you have experience of matrimony, while I have none.” “But you have hopes--aspirations, isn’t it so?” pursued Latimer suavely. There was an undercurrent of disagreeable suggestion in his tones. Nick was acutely conscious that his keenest aspiration at the moment was to knock the creature down and jump on him. “We must find you a wife, eh, Claire? Eh, Miss Peterson?” continued Sir Adrian, rubbing the palm of one bony hand slowly up and down over the back of the other. “I’m sure, Claire, you would like to see so--intimate--a friend as Mr. Brennan happily married, wouldn’t you?” “I should like to see him happy,” answered Claire with tight lips. “Just so--just so,” agreed her husband in a queer cackling tone as though inwardly amused. “Well, get him a wife, my dear. You are such friends that you should know precisely the type of woman which appeals to him.” He nodded and turned to go, gliding away with an odd shuffling gait, and muttering to himself as he went: “Precisely the type--precisely.”