She stopped short, her dark brows meeting in a fierce frown, for the unknown man had come up beside her and spoken to her. “Excuse me!” he said. Lexy only looked at him, but he did not wither and perish under her scorn. “I’ve _got_ to speak to you,” he said. “It’s—look here! I’ve been waiting outside the house all morning. Look here, please! You’re Lexy, aren’t you?” This was a little too much! “If you don’t stop bothering me this instant—” she began hotly, but he paid no heed. “_Where’s Miss Enderby?”_ he cried. Lexy grew very pale. Those were the words she had heard over the telephone last night, and this was the same voice. For a moment she was silent, staring at him, while he looked back at her, his blue eyes searching her face with a look of desperate entreaty. All her doubts vanished. She had not been wrong. She had been right—she was sure of it. She knew that something had happened—something inexplicable and dreadful. “Please tell me!” he said. “You don’t know—you can’t know—she told me you were her friend.” “But who are you?” cried Lexy. His face flushed under the sunburn. “I—” he began, and stopped. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he went on. “I’d like to, but, you see, I can’t. If you’ll just tell me where Car—Miss Enderby is! She’s safe at home, isn’t she? She—of course she is! She _must_ be! She—she is, isn’t she?” “Well,” said Lexy slowly, “I don’t see how I can tell you anything at all. I don’t know what right you have to ask any questions. I don’t know who you are, or anything about you.” “No,” he replied, “I know that; but, after all, it’s not much of a question, is it—just if Miss Enderby’s all right?” Lexy felt very sorry for him, in his obvious struggle to speak quietly and reasonably. She wanted to answer him promptly and candidly, for his sake and for her own, because she felt sure that he could tell her something about Caroline; but she had promised Mrs. Enderby to say nothing. “It’s so silly!” she thought, exasperated. “If I could tell him, I might find out—” “Find out what? Hadn’t Caroline written to say that she had gone away to get married? In a day or two, probably to-morrow, they would learn all the details from Caroline herself. This unhappy young man couldn’t know anything. Indeed, he was asking for information. Who could he possibly be? A rival suitor? Lexy remembered Caroline’s pitifully restricted life. _Two_ suitors of whom she had never heard? It wasn’t possible! “No,” she thought. “There’s something queer—something wrong!” “Look here!” the young man said again. “Aren’t you going to answer me? Just tell me she’s all right, and—” “What makes you think she isn’t?” asked Lexy cautiously. He looked straight into her face. “You’re playing with me,” he said. “You’re fencing with me, to make me give myself away; and it’s a pretty rotten thing to do!” “Rotten?” Lexy repeated indignantly. “Rotten, not to answer questions from a perfect stranger?”