veiled glance at him. His face was lean, with a squarish
jaw, and the very definitely dark brows and lashes contrasted oddly with
his English-fair hair and blue-grey eyes. In one eye he wore a
horn-rimmed monocle from which depended a narrow black ribbon.

"I can't thank you enough for coming to my rescue," said Nan, after her
quick scrutiny. "It was so frightfully important that I should catch
this train."

"Was it?"

Somehow the brief question compelled an explanation, although it held no
suggestion of curiosity--nothing more than a friendly interest.

"Yes. I have a concert engagement to-morrow, and if I missed this train
I couldn't possibly make my connection at Exeter. I change on to the
South-Western line there."

"Then I'm very glad I sailed in at the crucial moment. Although you'd
have been able to reach your destination in time for the concert even had
the worst occurred to-day. You could have travelled down by an earlier
train to-morrow; if everything else had failed."

"But they've fixed a rehearsal for ten o'clock to-morrow morning."

"That certainly does complicate matters. And I suppose, in any case,
you'd rather not have to play in public immediately after a long railway
journey."

"How do you know I play?" demanded Nan. "It's just conceivable I might
be a singer!"

A distinct twinkle showed behind the monocle.

"There are quite a number of 'conceivable' things about you. But I heard
Miss Nan Davenant play several times during the war--at concerts where
special seats were allotted to the wounded. I'm sorry to say I haven't
heard you lately. I've only just come back from America."

"Oh, were you in the war?" she asked quickly.

"Why, naturally." He smiled a little. "I was perfectly sound in wind
and limb--then."

Nan flushed suddenly. She knew of one man who had taken no fighting
part. Maryon Rooke's health was apparently more delicate than anyone had
imagined, and his artistes hands were, so he explained, an asset to the
country, not to be risked like hands made of commoner clay. This holding
back on his part had been the thing that had tortured Nan more than
anything else during the long years of the war, in spite of the reasons
he had offered in explanation, not least of which was the
indispensability of his services at Whitehall--in which he genuinely
believed.

"It's simply a choice between using brains or brawn as cannon-fodder," he
used to say. "I'm serving with m