Days became weeks, and the mystery of what had become of Noel Draycott was a mystery still. It had got into the papers; to the disgust of the Earl of Cantyre, it had become, in a sense, the topic of the hour. "Where is Noel Draycott?" was the question, set in staring capitals, which faced newspaper readers day after day. The usual things were said about the incapacity of Scotland Yard; and people were assured by the morning and evening Press that the whole affair was but another illustration of how ineffective our detective service really is. The official methods of dealing with his house and grounds were bad enough, but when it came to the amateur detective, his lordship drew the line. It was a subject on which he expressed himself very freely. "Think the professional is no good, do they? I can't say that I'm struck with him myself. But compared to these male and female creatures who are aping him----! There's a woman who has taken on the job of what she calls 'solving' the mystery for the _Daily Screecher_; they tell me they've had the greatest difficulty in keeping her out of the servants' hall, to say nothing of the butler's pantry; and the other day they found her under the dining-room table just as they were starting to lay the dinner. I've given instructions that all such persons are to be warned gently off the premises, and kept off. Of course, if any of them should stray by any unhappy accident into the lake, it will be a misfortune. Privacy is getting a thing of the past. From the tone some of these fellows take, you'd think it was their house, their grounds--not mine." Miss Forster had gone her own way--her uncle and many of her friends put it, her own bad way. She had gone straight from Avonham to Nuthurst, her uncle's house, which had been her home for so many years. In an interview she had insisted on having with him a very few minutes after her arrival, she had given her uncle one of the surprises of his life. "You wish me to marry Sir George Beaton?" she had informed him. "I'm not particular about your marrying George Beaton," the distracted old man declared. "There are hundreds and thousands of men in the world besides. What's the matter with Harold Reith? I thought you liked him." "I like him too much to marry him." "Of course, there's that point of view. I said to him: 'If the girl does marry you, you'll want to drown her and yourself inside six weeks.' Well, that didn't seem to cheer him." Miss Forster looked at the old gentleman with doubtful glance, as if she suspected him of malign intention. "Such a remark on your part was quite unnecessary. Major Reith is not likely to find himself in such a situation. I am going to marry Sydney Beaton." Had she actually dropped a live bomb at his feet, Mr. Hovenden could not have seemed more disturbed. "That pestilent young scoundrel! Was there ever anything like a woman for sheer impossibility?"