"I have not; I am giving you what spare moments I have." "You are--now. But at Casterwell Miss Bellairs, I guess, will see a good deal more of you than I shall. The moth and the candle, eh?" "Not at all, Aldean; your simile is quite inapt. I am not a moth, neither can Miss Bellairs be compared to a candle. She is not the kind of girl to scorch any poor butterfly that flutters round her." "All right, old chap, you needn't take one quite so seriously. But as you do, I may as well be serious too. Do you know I am thinking of getting married?" "No; that's news to me. And whom do you intend to honour so far, may I ask?" "Miss Ostergaard, if she concurs." Aldean heaved a huge sigh. "By George! she's a ripping girl." "Certainly, you might do worse," replied Laurence, musingly. "She's a very good girl, and clever too. Does she reciprocate?" "I don't know; she laughs at me." "That may be just her method of showing her affection. She will be hard to please if she is not satisfied with a titled Hercules like you." "Oh, I don't think she bothers in the least about the title," said his lordship, dolefully, "she is quite a radical, a--a--what do you call it--Anarchist, you know. Dr. Drabble has been converting her. He's a proselytising beast, that Drabble." "Oh, that's all rubbish. 'In the spring a young girl's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love'--not anarchy." "But it isn't spring," said the literal Aldean, "and Miss Ostergaard isn't the girl to marry for rank." "Then make love to her properly, and she'll marry you for love." "I wish I could; but I'm not a clever chap like you, Mallow." "My dear boy, I'm not clever; on the contrary, I'm a fool--a perfect fool, for do I not love Miss Bellairs like an idiot, when all the while I know well she is going to marry this Carson man from India?" "So she is; that's queer," said Aldean, reflectively. "Queer! how do you mean?" "Oh, nothing, old man. I am thinking of this murder case; and the fact of both men coming from India struck me, that's all. You see Carson's just on his way home now." "Is he? I didn't know that," said Mallow, alertly. "Yes; Miss Slarge--you know, the Babylonian, mark-of-the-beast woman--told me that her sister in Bombay had written Carson was on his way home by the P. and O. liner _Pharaoh_." "The _Pharaoh_ arrived some time back," said Mallow, gloomily. "He must be at Casterwell by this time." "He was not there two days ago when I ran up to town." "Well, it must be quite two weeks since the _Pharaoh_ arrived. What an ardent lover the chap must be. I wish I stood in his shoes, that's all. I wouldn't let the grass grow under them on the way to my 'own true love'--not that Miss Bellairs can strictly be said to stand in that relation to a man she has never set eyes upon. The very fact that she has to marry him should be sufficient to make her hate him." "By Jove! What a rum go it would be if Carson turned out to be the man murdered in Athelstane Place!"