"You have been playing the spy upon me, I see. Tell me just how much you saw." It was such a straightforward way of coming to the point that Max, taken aback, but rather thankful that the ground was to be cleared a little, answered at once without reserve: "I did play the spy. It was enough to make me. I saw the hansom waiting outside your door last night; the cabman mistook me for you, and told me the lady had walked away. I couldn't help putting that together with what you had told me about seeing a friend off to Liverpool, and, perhaps, going there yourself. Now, who could have helped it?" Dudley did not at once answer. He just glanced inquiringly at the face of Max while he went on tracing the pattern on the cloth. "You didn't see the lady," he said at last, not in a questioning tone, but with conviction. "No." "Well, if you had seen her you would have been satisfied that it was not her charms which were leading me astray," said he, with a faint smile. "Are you satisfied now, or do you still consider," he went on with a slight tone of mockery in his voice, "that my character requires further investigation before you can accept me for a brother-in-law?" Max moved uneasily again. "What rot, Horne!" said he, impatiently. "You know very well I've always wanted you to marry Doreen. I've said so, lots of times. I still say it was natural I should want to understand your queer goings-on last night. And now--and now--" "And now that you don't understand them any better than before, you are ready to take it for granted it's all right?" broke in Dudley, with the same scoffing tone as before. Max grew very red, began to speak, glanced at Dudley, and got up. "Yes, I suppose that's about the size of it," said he, stiffly. "And are you going down with me to-night? I can catch the seven o'clock train." "Oh, yes, I suppose so. I'll meet you at Charing Cross." Max's enthusiasm on his friend's behalf had been much damped by his behavior, and he gave him a nod, turned on his heel and left him without another word. He gave up trying to understand the mystery which hung about Dudley, and left it to Doreen and to his father to unravel. The two young men did not meet again, therefore, until seven that evening, when they took their seats in the same smoking-carriage. Max felt quite glad that the presence of a couple of strangers prevented any talk of a confidential sort between himself and Dudley, who on his side seemed perfectly contented to puff at his pipe in silence. Dudley's letter had evidently been received, and well received, for at the station the two friends found the dog-cart waiting to take them the mile and a half which lay between the station and The Beeches. At the house itself, too, the front door flew open at their approach, and Mr. Wedmore himself stood in the hall to welcome them. Queenie was there. Mr. Wedmore was there. But there was never a glimpse of Doreen.