ugent, though not intending to do so, saw the
grimace out of the tail of his eye, and frowned slightly when the car
had passed.

"Old Mallory's daughter," he murmured. "She has done her hair up and
lengthened her dress since last year, and she appears to have been
infected with the paternal antipathy. I must not forget that Mr. Vincent
Mallory, formerly of the Foreign Office, is a resident in this Arcadian
spot. He might, under certain circumstances, become a factor to be
reckoned with."

Aloud he said to his chauffeur, who had come down with the car some days
in advance: "Dixon, do you know who that young gentleman was who was
walking with Miss Mallory?"

"It's Mr. Beauchamp, sir," was the reply. "Son of Mrs. Beauchamp, who
lives in Lorne Villas. He's a lieutenant in the Navy, I've heard,
commanding a torpedo-boat at Plymouth. He is at home on leave just at
present, sir."

"Thank you, Dixon; you are always a mine of information," Nugent said
with the suave urbanity he always used towards inferiors.

But under his breath he added, "A curious combination, and one that may
be worth watching."

The house in which Mr. Travers Nugent enjoyed his summer leisure lay on
the hill beyond the western limits of the town. Though he spoke of it as
a cottage, it was really a luxurious bachelor abode, standing in a
secluded garden and removed from the main road to Exmouth by a
serpentine drive, not, of course, to be compared with the noble avenue
at the Manor House, but long enough to separate the owner of The Hut
from the madding crowd by quite a respectable distance.

Descending at his front door, Mr. Nugent passed through a porch
smothered in purple clematis into a small, square hall, deliciously cool
and shaded. Here he was met by a quiet-looking man of middle age, with a
face like a sphinx, and wearing a black cutaway coat. Nugent was not
one to make his confidential servant the receptacle of more secrets than
he could help, but he knew that if he chose to do so this
personification of reticence and discretion would never betray them.

"Well, Sinnett?" he said. They neither of them wasted words at any time
in their communications.

"I heard the car, sir," was the reply. "I know you like to be prepared
for visitors. Mr. Levison is waiting to see you in the smoke-room."

"Good! I will see him directly," said Nugent, glancing at the closed
door of the room indicated. Then, dropping his voice, he added, "Come
out into the