They were silent for some time, smoking steadily. Then Duncombe reverted
once more to his wanderings.

"You remember the story they told me at the Cafe, Andrew," he said. "It
was a lie, of course, but was Miss Poynton anything of an artist?"

"To the best of my belief," Andrew answered, "she has never touched a
brush or a pencil since she left school."

Duncombe looked out into the gathering twilight.

"It is a devil's riddle, this!" he said slowly. "Why did she go to that
place at all?"

"God only knows!" Andrew murmured.

Duncombe's teeth were hard set. A paper-knife, which he had caught up
from the table, snapped in his fingers. There was something in his
throat which nearly choked him.

"Phyllis Poynton," Andrew continued, "was as sweet and pure a woman as
ever breathed. She must have loathed that place. She could only have
gone there to seek for her brother, or----"

"Or for whom?"

"For those who knew where he was."

Duncombe turned his head.

"Andrew!"

"Yes, old chap!"

"Let me look at her photograph again."

Andrew drew it from his pocket and passed it over. Duncombe studied it
for several moments under the lamplight.

"You are right, Andrew," he said slowly. "For her the other things would
not be possible. I wonder----"

His fingers clung to the photograph. He looked across at his friend.
There was a slight flush in his face. He spoke nervously.

"Andrew," he said, "I'm afraid it sounds a bit brutal, but--this
photograph is no use to you just now, is it, until your eyes get better.
Will you lend it me?"

"I couldn't," Andrew answered quietly. "I can't see it now of course,
but I like to feel it in my pocket, and it will be the first thing I
shall look at when the doctor lets me take off these beastly
glasses--if ever he does. Until then--well, I like to feel I've got it.
That's all!"

They both smoked furiously for several moments without looking at one
another. Duncombe spoke first.

"Andrew!"

"Well?"

"If she comes back--shall you ever ask her to marry you?"

"I don't know, George. I'm poor, and I'm twelve years older than she is.
I don't know."

There was another silence. Then the conversation drifted back once more
to the one subject which was monopolizing the thought of both of them.

"I tell you what seems to me to be the most extraordinary part of the
whole business," Duncombe said. "First the brother disappears. Then
without a word to any one the sister also rush