“On these occasions,” Mr. Fentolin continued, “we do not make use of a drawing-room. My niece will come in here presently. You are looking at my books, I see. Are you, by any chance, a bibliophile? I have a case of manuscripts here which might interest you.” Hamel shook his head. “Only in the abstract, I fear,” he answered. “I have scarcely opened a serious book since I was at Oxford.” “What was your year?” Mr. Fentolin asked. “Fourteen years ago I left Magdalen,” Hamel replied. “I had made up my mind to be an engineer, and I went over to the Boston Institute of Technology.” Mr. Fentolin nodded appreciatively. “A magnificent profession,” he murmured. “A healthy one, too, I should judge from your appearance. You are a strong man, Mr. Hamel.” “I have had reason to be,” Hamel rejoined. “During nearly the whole of the time I have been abroad, I have been practically pioneering. Building railways in the far West, with gangs of Chinese and Italians and Hungarians and scarcely a foreman who isn’t terrified of his job, isn’t exactly drawing-room work.” “You are going back there?” Mr. Fentolin asked, with interest. Hamel shook his head. “I have no plans,” he declared. “I have been fortunate enough, or shall I some day say unfortunate enough, I wonder, to have inherited a large legacy.” Mr. Fentolin smiled. “Don’t ever doubt your good fortune,” he said earnestly. “The longer I live--and in my limited way I do see a good deal of life--the more I appreciate the fact that there isn’t anything in this world that compares with the power of money. I distrust a poor man. He may mean to be honest, but he is at all times subject to temptation. Ah! here is my niece.” Mr. Fentolin turned towards the door. Hamel rose at once to his feet. His surmise, then, had been correct. She was coming towards them very quietly. In her soft grey dinner-gown, her brown hair smoothly brushed back, a pearl necklace around her long, delicate neck, she seemed to him a very exquisite embodiment of those memories which he had been carrying about throughout the afternoon. “Here, Mr. Hamel,” his host said, “is a member of my family who has been a deserter for a short time. This is Mr. Richard Hamel, Esther; my niece, Miss Esther Fentolin.” She held out her hand with the faintest possible smile, which might have been of greeting or recognition. “I travelled for some distance in the train with Mr. Hamel this afternoon, I think,” she remarked. “Indeed?” Mr. Fentolin exclaimed. “Dear me, that is very interesting--very interesting, indeed! Mr. Hamel, I am sure, did not tell you of his destination?” He watched them keenly. Hamel, though he scarcely understood, was quick to appreciate the possible significance of that tentative question.