"Well, perhaps——" The old man paused doubtfully. "You see, Mr. Ferguson told me to keep this most carefully." "Was Mr. Ferguson the man who sold you the shares?" "Yes. Mr. Arthur Ferguson, of 20, Plumpton Street, in the City. He was stopping down here for a few days, and he dined with us once or twice." Hewson rose abruptly and went to the window. He had not the pleasure of Mr. Arthur Ferguson’s acquaintance, but he was already tasting die pleasures of his first—and last—interview with that engaging gentleman. Dined—had he? "Will you come over with me to Barnstaple this afternoon?" "Good heavens, daddy!" came a voice from outside. "What are you going to Barnstaple for? You know this heat will upset you." Hewson swung round as the girl came in from the garden. She was wearing a floppy sun-bonnet, and it suddenly struck him that she was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen. No wonder the old chap had tried to get a bit more money with the idea of giving her a good time. "I’ve got to go up to London, Miss Crossley——" was it his imagination, or did her face fall a little?—"to get some more clothes. And there’s a little matter of business I’m going to attend to for your father. The point is that he doesn’t know me—none of you know me. And in the hard-headed, suspicious world in which I live, before you entrust a valuable document to another man you want to know something about him. Now, the bank manager at Barnstaple does know me, and I suggested that your father should come over and see him." "It sounds very mysterious," laughed the girl. "But all I know is that if daddy goes to Barnstaple in this heat, he’ll have the most awful head. Suppose—" she paused doubtfully—"suppose I came? Daddy could give me the document, and then when I’d seen the bank manager I could give it to you." Hewson turned away to hide the too obvious delight he felt at the suggestion, and glanced inquiringly at his host. "Perhaps that would be the best solution, Mr. Crossley," he murmured. "If it isn’t troubling your daughter too much." The old man chuckled. "If she only knew what it was for, she wouldn’t mind the trouble. It’s a secret, don’t forget, Mr. Hewson. Now, girlie, take that envelope, and when the bank manager has told you that our kind friend here isn’t a burglar, or an escaped convict"—he chuckled again—"give it to him to take to London. But you’re not to look inside." She kissed him lightly, and turned to Hewson. "We can just catch the local train," she said, a trifle abruptly. "We’ll go through the short cut." She was silent during the walk to the station, and it was not until they were in the train that she looked at him steadily and spoke. "What is this mystery, Mr. Hewson?" "I think your father said it was a secret, didn’t he?" he answered, lightly. "Is it something to do with money?" "It is." She stared out of the window: then impulsively she laid a hand on his arm.