Sir Henry waited for the closing of the door. Then he leaned forward for several moments. He had scarcely the appearance of a man returned from a week or two of open-air life and indulgence in the sport he loved best. The healthy tan of his complexion was lessened rather than increased. There were black lines under his eyes which seemed to speak of sleepless nights, and a beard of several days' growth was upon his chin. He drank the cocktail which Mills presently brought him, at a gulp, and watched with satisfaction while the mixer was vigorously shaken and a second one poured out. “We've had a rough time, Mills,” he observed, as he set down the glass. “Until this morning it scarcely left off blowing.” “I'm sorry to hear it, sir,” was the respectful reply. “If I may be allowed to say so, sir, you're looking tired.” “I am tired,” Sir Henry admitted. “I think, if I tried, I could go to sleep now for twenty-four hours.” “You will pardon my reminding you, so far as regards your letters, that there is no post out tonight, sir,” Mills proceeded. “I have prepared a warm bath and laid out your clothes for a change.” “Capital!” Sir Henry exclaimed. “It isn't a letter that's bothering me, though, Mills. There are just a few geographical notes I want to make. You know, I'm trying to improve the fishermen's chart of the coast round here. That fellow Groocock--Jimmy Dumble's uncle--very nearly lost his motor boat last week through trusting to the old one.” “Just so, sir,” Mills replied deferentially, placing the empty glass upon his tray. “If you'll excuse me, sir, I must get back to the dining room.” “Quite right,” his master assented. “They won't be out just yet, will they?” “Her ladyship will probably be rising in about ten minutes, sir--not before that.” Sir Henry nodded a little impatiently. Directly the door was closed he rose to his feet, stood for a moment listening by the side of his fishing cabinet, then opened the glass front and touched the spring. With the aid of a little electric torch which he took from his pocket, he studied particularly a certain portion of the giant chart, made some measurements with a pencil, some notes in the margin, and closed it up again with an air of satisfaction. Then he resumed his seat, drew a folded slip of paper from his breast pocket, a chart from another, turned up the lamp and began to write. His face, as he stooped low, escaped the soft shade and was for a moment almost ghastly. Every now and then he turned and made some calculations on the blotting-paper by his side. At last he leaned back with a little sigh of relief. He had barely done so before the door behind him was opened. “Are we going to stay in here, Mummy, or are we going into the drawing-room?” Nora asked. “In here, I think,” he heard Philippa reply. Then they both came in, followed by Helen. Nora was the first to see him and rushed forward with a little cry of surprise.