"Young Parker? I remember young Parker." Covertly the Celebrated Actor watched the boy’s face, and what he saw there seemed to afford him satisfaction. "Where is the little dog buried?" asked the boy, quietly. "Underneath the old yew tree," said the General. "Beryl put a ring of stones around his grave this afternoon." "I see," said the boy. "Thank you. I’m sorry to have troubled you." The next instant he was gone, and it was the Actor who stopped the Soldier as he was on the point of going after him. "The boy has got his part," he remarked, cryptically. "At present he requires no prompting." "What the deuce are you talking about?" demanded the General, irritably. But the Celebrated Actor was himself once more. "Leave it to me, my dear fellow," he murmured, magnificently, throwing back his head in another of those famous gestures which were the pride and delight of countless multitudes. "Leave it entirely to me. The stage is set: very soon the curtain will ring up." He stalked to the window, and stood for a moment on the path outside, while the other two looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders. "Can’t feel, can’t think, can’t hate. That boy feels and thinks and hates—hates, I tell you, at this moment." With which Parthian shot the Celebrated Actor vanished into the night. "What on earth is the fellow driving at?" said the Soldier, peevishly. But the answer to that question was apparently beyond the scope of the Eminent Divine, and in silence the two men listened to the scrunch of the Actor’s footsteps on the gravel, growing fainter and fainter in the distance. *II* Half an hour later they were still sitting at the table. The Actor had not returned: there had been no further sign of Hugh, and the inaction was getting on the Soldier’s nerves. Twice had he risen and gone to the window: twice had he taken a few steps into the darkness outside, only to return and hover undecidedly by the fireplace. "I feel I ought to go and look for the boy," he remarked for the twentieth time. "Trayne’s such an ass." And for the twentieth time the Bishop counselled patience. "In some ways he is," he agreed: "in others he’s very shrewd. He’s got more imagination, General, than both of us put together, and real imagination is akin to genius. Leave him alone: he can’t do any harm." With a non-committal grunt, the Soldier sat down, only to rise again immediately as a tall, slight girl in white came in through the open window. There was a misty look in her eyes, and her lips were faintly tremulous, but she came straight up to the General and put a hand on his arm. The other hand, with a piece of paper clutched in it, she held behind her back. "Hugh has come back, Uncle Jim," she said. "Did you know?" "Yes, old lady, I knew. Have you seen him?" "No, I haven’t seen him. Did he—did he come for Tommy?" The General nodded. "Yes. And I told him what had happened."