Marlowe's clerk--who was
taking those Schultz and Bowen papers for him to America--had written
that he would call. To-day was Friday; no doubt the man was sailing from
Southampton to-morrow.

He crossed the lawn, entered the drawing-room, and found Mr. Jno. Peters
with an expression on his ill-favoured face, which looked like one of
consternation, of uneasiness, even of alarm.

"Morning, Mr. Peters," said Mr. Bennett. "Very good of you to run down.
Take a seat, and I'll just go through the few notes I have made about
the matter."

"Mr. Bennett," exclaimed Jno. Peters. "May--may I speak?"

"What do you mean? Eh? What? Something to say? What is it?"

Mr. Peters cleared his throat awkwardly. He was feeling embarrassed at
the unpleasantness of the duty which he had to perform, but it was a
duty, and he did not intend to shrink from performing it. Ever since,
gazing appreciatively through the drawing-room windows at the charming
scene outside, he had caught sight of the unforgettable form of Billie,
seated in her chair with the sketching-block on her knee, he had
realised that he could not go away in silence, leaving Mr. Bennett
ignorant of what he was up against.

One almost inclines to fancy that there must have been a curse of some
kind on this house of Windles. Certainly everybody who entered it seemed
to leave his peace of mind behind him. Jno. Peters had been feeling
notably happy during his journey in the train from London, and the
subsequent walk from the station. The splendour of the morning had
soothed his nerves, and the faint wind that blew inshore from the sea
spoke to him hearteningly of adventure and romance. There was a jar of
pot-pourri on the drawing-room table, and he had derived considerable
pleasure from sniffing at it. In short, Jno. Peters was in the pink,
without a care in the world, until he had looked out of the window and
seen Billie.

"Mr. Bennett," he said, "I don't want to do anybody any harm, and, if
you know all about it, and she suits you, well and good; but I think it
is my duty to inform you that your stenographer is not quite right in
her head. I don't say she's dangerous, but she isn't compos. She
decidedly is _not_ compos, Mr. Bennett!"

Mr. Bennett stared at his well-wisher dumbly for a moment. The thought
crossed his mind that, if ever there was a case of the pot calling the
kettle black, this was it. His opinion of Jno. Peters' sanity went down
to zero.

"What are you talk