"No," she answered, slowly. "I am to be enlightened, please." "Have you spoken to Strongley about it?" he asked, after a pause. She raised her eyebrows. "I asked _Mr._ Strongley what was the matter with the men, after lunch to-day." "I stand corrected." With an expressionless face John Morrison held out a heavy silver cigarette box to her, but she shook her head. "No, thank you," she said curtly, and he replaced the box on the table. "But please smoke yourself, if you want to." "And what did Mr. Strongley say?" asked the man. "Nothing." She stared at the fire with a little frown. "He didn’t seem to know: but he said he’d find out and ring me up. He hasn’t done so, and I want to know, Mr. Morrison—know the truth. There’s something radically wrong down there. What is it?" John Morrison thoughtfully lit a cigarette and leaned against the mantelpiece, staring down at her. "May I ask you one or two questions, Miss Frenton: questions which, though they may sound impertinent, are not intended in that spirit?" "Yes." She looked up at him steadily. "But I don’t promise to answer." "How long ago did you meet Herbert Strongley?" "About a year." "And how long was it before you got engaged to him?" She shifted a little in her chair. "Not very long," she said at length. He did not press the point: though a faint smile hovered for a moment on his lips. "Not very long," he repeated, softly. "Are you quite sure, Miss Frenton—and this is a very important question—are you quite sure that you haven’t made a mistake?" "It may be important, but it’s one I absolutely refuse to answer." She faced him angrily. "What business is it of yours?" "Absolutely none—at the moment," he said, quietly. "But you’ve come to me to find out what the trouble is. And if you have not made any mistake with regard to your engagement, I advise you to carry out the suggestion contained in my note. Get your fiancé away from Frenton’s, and keep him away, both before and after your marriage. It will come, I imagine, as a blow to your father, but you can easily turn it into a company." "You mean—that the men don’t like Herbert?" She forced herself to ask the question. "I mean," he answered, deliberately, "that the men loathe and detest him, and that only the love they have for you and your father has staved off trouble up till now. And even that love will fail to avert a crisis after—well, after the regrettable episode that happened yesterday." "What was it?" she demanded, and her voice sounded dead to the man.