"They have," said I, "and they're perfect dears. They've built up a fairy-tale around you and have taken long leases in it and are terribly anxious that the estate shan't be put into liquidation." "That's rather neat," she said. "I thought so, myself," said I. Stretched in an arm-chair she looked for some minutes into the glow of the wood fire. Then she turned her head quickly. "You haven't given me away?" "My good girl!" I protested, "what do you take me for?" She laughed. "That's all right. I opened out to you last year about Andrew. You remember? You were very sympathetic. I was in an unholy sort of fog about myself then. I'm in clear weather now. I know my own mind. He's the only man in the world for me. I suppose I've made it obvious. Hence the solicitude of these pet lambs--and your appointment as Investigator. Well, my dear Tony, what do they want to know?" "They're straining their dear simple ears to catch the strain of wedding bells and they can't do it. So they're worried." "Well, you can tell them not to worry any longer. There aren't going to be any wedding bells. They've made sentimental idiots of themselves. General Lackaday and I aren't marrying folks. The question hasn't arisen. We're good intimate friends, nothing more. He's no more in love with me than I am with him. Savvy?" I savvied. But-- "That's for the pet lambs," said I. "What for me?" "I've already told you." "And that's the end of it?" "As far as you are concerned--yes." "As you will," I said. I put a log on the fire and took up a book. All this was none of my business, as I had explained to Evadne. "I'm sorry you're not interested in my conversation," she remarked after a while. "You gave me to understand that it was over--as far as I was concerned." "Never mind. I want to tell you something." I laid down my book and lit a cigar. "Go ahead," said I. It was then that she told me of her last interview with Lackaday. Remember I had not yet read his version. "It's all pretty hopeless," she concluded. For myself I knew nothing of the reasons that bade him adopt the attitude of the Mysterious Unknown--except his sensitiveness on the point of his profession. He would rather die than appear before her imagination in the green silk tights of Petit Patou. I asked tentatively whether he had spoken much of his civilian life. "Very little. Except of his knowledge of Europe. He has travelled a great deal. But of his occupation, family and the rest, I know nothing. Oh yes, he did once say that his father and mother died when he was a baby and that he had no kith or kin in the world. If he had thought fit to tell me more he would have done so. I, of course, asked no questions." "But all the same," said I, "you're dying to know the word of the enigma." She laughed scornfully. "I know it, my friend." "The deuce you do!" said I, thinking of Petit Patou and wondering how she had guessed. "What is it?" "A woman of course."