Meantime, Eustace was in the seventh heaven. For the last few days he had gone about singing, and Lancaster was rather exasperated. It seemed unfair that Jarman should have all the happiness, and he should have nothing but trouble. Then he blamed himself for being selfish. Jarman had been, and was, a good friend to him, and Jarman had known Mildred for many years. He, Frank, had not even spoken to her, so it was ridiculous and ungrateful of him to be jealous of his best friend on such slight grounds. He did all he knew to preserve a cheerful face, but at times grew gloomy. Eustace put his fit of the dismals down to a too vivid realisation of his danger. He would not allow Frank to speak more than was necessary about the murder, as he did not wish him to brood over it. But he was not idle, and one morning announced that he was going to to town. "I'll be away for the day," he said, "so you can make yourself comfortable, Frank. Look out that Darrel doesn't see you." "Darrel has gone back to town," said Lancaster, "so one of the young Arrows told me. He returns in a month." "Mildred will be glad he has gone. He was always hanging round her." "Why didn't you put a stop to that?" "I have not the right as yet. You see, I am not formally engaged to Mildred, and will not be, until I have discovered the assassin." "Why not denounce me, and bring about the engagement at once?" said Frank, with some bitterness. Jarman stared. "Because in the first place you are innocent, and in the second I should not like to build up my life's happiness on your ruin. I thought you knew me better than that, my friend." "Forgive me. I am a beast," said Lancaster, penitently. "But the fact is, I--I--"--he gulped down the truth--"I am not myself." "Don't wonder at it, considering the fix you are in. Cheer up. I may learn something to-day likely to give me a clue to the truth." "From whom?" "From your friend, Fairy Fan." Lancaster jumped up from the breakfast-table. "What?" "You look surprised, but it is so. I am going to see her to-day--by appointment!" and he displayed a perfumed note. Frank glanced over it, and discovered that Miss Berry would be pleased to see Mr. Leonard Grant at her rooms in Bloomsbury at one o'clock on that day. "Why did you write to her?" asked Frank, handing this back. "The use of my _nom de plume_ should tell you that," replied Jarman. "I want to have a quiet chat with that lady, so I wrote as Leonard Grant--under which name I produce my sketches--and asked her if I could do one for her. As I have a certain reputation, she seems inclined to entertain the idea." "Why didn't you write under your own name?" "What an ass you are, Frank! Firstly, the _nom de plume_ is required to intimate who will write the sketch, since Eustace Jarman is unknown as a dramatist. Secondly, did I write in my own name I might give myself into the hand of Berry. He must have learnt from Starth that I am your friend, and thus might seek to know too much."