"I think we shall have to thresh this out! It is naturally a shock, but Miss Gifford's acquaintance with this person is very slight. She took a violent dislike to him at first sight, so you need not fear that she will feel any personal distress. That is so, isn't it? That's the real position?" Claire nodded a quick assent. "Yes, yes. I met him twice, and I hated him from the first; but my friend believes..." Her voice broke, and she struggled for composure, her chin quivering with pitiful, child-like distress. "He is engaged to be _married_ to my friend!" A deep murmur of anger came simultaneously from both hearers. The real Major Carew straightened himself with an air of determination. "Engaged to her? Under my name? This is too strong! And in the name of wonder, what for? I'm nobody. I've nothing. I'm the most insignificant of fellows, and chronically hard up. What had he to gain by taking my name?" "You are a gentleman, and he is not. Everything is comparative. He wanted to impress my friend, and he knew you so well that it was easy to pretend, and make up a good tale. He _said_ he was hard up. He--he-- borrowed money!" "From the girl?" Again came that deep murmur of indignation. "What an unspeakable cur, and--excuse me, what a poor-spirited girl to have anything to do with him after that! Could you do nothing to prevent her making such a fool of herself?" "Nothing. I tried. I tried hard, but--" Erskine looked at her with his keen, level glance. "And she borrowed from you to supply his needs? No, never mind, I won't ask any more questions, but I know! I know!" His eyes hardened again as he turned towards the other man. "Carew, this is pure swindling! We shall have to worry this out!" "I believe you, my boy!" said the Major tersely. He turned to Claire and added more gently, "Tell us some more about this fellow, Miss Gifford! Describe him! Would you recognise him if you met again?" "Oh, yes. At once. He is tall and dark, good-looking, I suppose, though I detest his type. Very dark eyes. Large features." The Major ruminated, finding apparently no clue in the description. "Tall. Dark. Large features! I know about a hundred men to whom that description might apply. Could you think of anything more definite?" Claire ruminated in her turn; recalled the image of Cecil's lover, and tried to remember the details of his appearance. "He has very thick hair, and brushes it straight across his forehead. His eyebrows are very short. He has a high colour, quite red cheeks." Major Carew made a short, choking sound; lay back in his chair, and stared aghast. This time it was evident that the description awoke a definite remembrance, but he appeared to thrust it from him, to find it difficult to give credence to the idea. "Impossible!" he murmured to himself. "Impossible! High colour, you say; short eyebrows. When you say `short,' what exactly do you mean?"