Chichester Barnard stared at the printed notice in the death column, then let the newspaper slip from his fingers to the floor. On looking up he caught the direct gaze of Duncan Fordyce, who had entered the smoking-room some time before, and was observing his changing countenance with some secret astonishment. “Hello, Fordyce,” Barnard pulled himself together. “Sorry I didn’t see you before, but this confounded paper gave me a shock.” “No bad news I hope?” inquired Duncan, placing a stamp on the letter he took from his pocket. “Just read the notice of my aunt’s death,” and as Duncan murmured some conventional condolences, he added, “Aunt Margaret was very decent to me, but since her second marriage, I’ve seen very little of her. She was really only my aunt by courtesy; her first husband having been my uncle, Dimintry Barnard. Admiral Lawrence wasn’t adverse to picking up a rich widow; I reckon he’ll inherit a pot of money now. How is your sister today?” “Rather tired after the Walbridge dance,” Duncan yawned, then laughed. “Washington hours are too much for me. I don’t see how the men here go out to entertainments and do their work.” “They try it for a couple of years, and then give up society, at least the dancing end of it. Has Miss Langdon recovered from her indisposition of last night?” “She was down bright and early this morning,” replied Duncan indifferently. “She appeared to be all right and in good spirits.” “That’s fine. By the way, she will be sorry to hear of Mrs. Lawrence’s death; she was the Admiral’s secretary for several years.” “Indeed,” Duncan yawned again. “Is Admiral Lawrence still on the active list?” “Oh, no, he retired five or six years ago. Where are you going?” as Duncan rose. “Haven’t decided; think I’ll stroll around the Speedway.” “Wait a moment and I’ll go with you,” volunteered Barnard, and Duncan halted uncertainly. “I must write a line to Admiral Lawrence and ask if there’s anything I can do; it won’t take me long.” He was as good as his word, and after dispatching the hastily scrawled note by a messenger, he and Duncan left the Metropolitan Club and turned down Seventeenth Street. It was the first time that Duncan had had more than five minutes conversation alone with Barnard since their meeting, and he found him a far more agreeable companion than he had anticipated. Barnard, when he chose, was a brilliant talker, and his comments on the world in general and Washington in particular elicited amused chuckles from Duncan as they strolled along the picturesque driveway which skirts the Potomac River. But strive as he would, he could not drag Duncan out of his shell; every time he skillfully led the conversation to the Fordyces and their plans for the future, Duncan retired into his habitual reserve. Returning up Eleventh Street, Barnard paused at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue. “You know Madame Yvonett, Miss Langdon’s aunt, do you not?” he asked.