Captain Willoughby’s white teeth flashed in a smile of cordial agreement. “The same here. I’ve spent a good deal of time down here at Seabourne during the last year or two, but I haven’t often had the good luck to get weather like we are experiencing now. It’s almost equal to the Riviera. Been far to-day?” “No,” answered Bannister, with a shake of the head, “I’ve taken matters very easily to-day. Purposely! I came down here for a thorough rest and I intend to stick to my resolve. I’m a firm believer in the idea of a restful holiday.” Willoughby grinned. “Mind you keep it up all the time you’re here, then! I always think that those intentions are very similar to ‘New Year’ resolutions. They’re something like keeping a Diary, for instance. You know what I mean. Everything goes swimmingly from the first of January until about Epiphany. We carefully chronicle our petty personalities for just those few days—then our enthusiasm wanes and the remaining days in our Diary calendar are usually quite innocent of ink or even indelible pencil.” He tossed away the end of his cigarette. “But I expect you’ve been guilty of that sort of thing yourself?” “Perhaps not as much as you think. I’ve a lot of will-power. I can discipline myself to do things that are irksome—as a rule what I mean to do—I do. It’s my way,” Bannister concluded rather abruptly. As he spoke one of the maids came from the Hotel and crossed the grass to where he was sitting. By his chair she stopped. Bannister turned and looked up at her. “Yes?” he questioned. “Are you wanting me?” “Pardon me, sir,” came her reply, “but you _are_ Mr. Bannister, aren’t you? There’s somebody here wants to speak to you—I was to tell you it was very important, he said, sir.” Bannister knitted his brows, as though puzzled at the interruption; the maid waited by his chair, irresolutely. “Are you sure he asked for me by _name_?” he demanded. “Yes, sir—he said it quite distinctly—the name was ‘Bannister’ all right, sir.” “Who is it?” he asked again. “Do you know him at all?” The maid hesitated a moment before giving him her answer. Then she spoke rather haltingly. “As a matter-of-fact, sir, I think it’s Sergeant Godfrey from the Seabourne Police Station—I know him you see, sir, through seeing him about the town.” “Sergeant Godfrey from the Police Station,” frowned Bannister, “what the dickens does he want me for—at this time of the evening?” He looked at the maid’s face as though he expected to find there the answer to his question. “I don’t know, sir, only as I told you before he said that it was very important.” “Oh very well, then,” exclaimed Bannister, with an expression of infinite resignation, “but tell him where I am and ask him to come along out here if he wants me as badly as you suggest.” She turned quickly and tripped back across the lawn. Bannister grunted to himself something inaudible and noticed that Willoughby was watching him closely.