"Mrs. Tracy has just had a baby," she announced, turning over the leaves. But it was not under the T’s that she looked. Mendle, Morgan, Morrison ... Morrison, John, 9, Castle Road.... Thoughtfully she closed the book, and put it back in its proper place. Then she crossed the room, and kissed her father lovingly on his bald head. "You’re a dear old thing," she whispered. "Go and play billiards with the general...." A few minutes later she was driving her little runabout towards Castle Road. An onlooker, had he been able to see under the thick veil she wore, would have been struck with the likeness of the small determined face to that of old John Frenton. Like her father—once she came to a decision, she required some stopping. And since her fiancé had left after lunch she had become more and more uneasy, more and more certain that something was being kept from her—something thing which concerned the Honourable Herbert pretty closely. And if it concerned him, it concerned her: she, as she had told him, had brought him into the firm.... Castle Road proved to be a better neighbourhood than she had expected. Most of the hands preferred to live nearer to the works, and this street struck her as being more suitable for well-to-do clerks. But she was far too preoccupied to worry overmuch with such trifles. John Morrison and the truth were what she wanted. She left the car at the end of the street, and walked to Number 9. Yes. Mr. Morrison was at home. A disapproving sniff preceded the opening of a sitting-room door, which closed with a bang behind her. She heard the steps of the landlady going down the stairs, and then she took an uncertain pace forward. "... I ..." she stammered. Undoubtedly the man in evening clothes facing her was John Morrison, but he looked so different. And whoever had heard of a factory hand getting into a smoking jacket for dinner? ... And the room.... The prints on the walls: the big roll-top desk: golf clubs in the corner, and to cap everything—a gun-case. "I think there must be some mistake," she said, haltingly. "I must apologize.... I..." She turned as if to leave the room.... "I hope not, Miss Frenton." She gave a little start: she had hoped he had not recognized her. "Won’t you come and sit down by the fire and tell me what I can do for you?" After a moment’s hesitation she did as he said. "You must admit, Mr. Morrison," she loosened her veil as she spoke, "that there is some excuse for my surprise." The man glanced round the room with a slight smile. "Yes," he murmured. "I can understand it causing you a slight shock. Had I known you were coming I would have tried to make it less—er—startling." "What on earth are you doing in the works?" she asked, curiously. "My poor concerns will keep, Miss Frenton." A charming smile robbed the words of any offence. "I don’t think it was to discuss me that you came to-night. My note, I suppose. Am I to be rebuked?"