to sit down and
pen an acceptance, he went out in the dusk and posted it.

The next day was favoured with ideal weather for an _al fresco_
entertainment, and when the guests assembled at the appointed hour it
was at once evident that Violet's picnic tea had been hailed as a
popular function. Every one who had been asked put in an appearance, to
the number of about a hundred. Hired conveyances deposited a mixed
assortment of residents and season visitors from Ottermouth; a few
old-fashioned barouches brought representatives of such of the
neighbouring county families as had deigned to recognize the Birmingham
magnate; while motor cars in plenty accounted for many of the arrivals.

Among the latter was Mr. Travers Nugent, well-groomed and debonair in
his grey suit, and wearing an orchid in his button-hole from one of his
own glasshouses at The Hut. On descending from his car he exchanged
his motor-cap for a feather-weight Panama, and smilingly confronted the
group at the main entrance. Mr. Mallory, who had arrived earlier, took
particular notice of that smile, which lasted only just so long as it
was wanted for the purpose of responding to the welcome of his host and
hostesses. As soon as he had shaken hands with Violet and Miss Sarah
Dymmock and Mr. Maynard, Nugent effaced himself unobtrusively among the
guests, and Mr. Mallory's observant eyes following him perceived that
the smile had given place to a look of preoccupation.

This in turn was chased away by a sudden start and a gleam of
satisfaction when, among the last arrivals, Leslie Chermside was seen
making his way on foot up the drive. Thence onward Mr. Travers Nugent's
air of self-absorption left him; turning to those of his acquaintances
nearest him he laid himself out to amuse and interest.

"Now, what does that portend?" the keen old diplomatist muttered under
his breath. "It was almost as though Nugent had been afraid that
Chermside was not coming, and that he was gratified when at length he
appeared. I wonder what is the bond, if bond it is, between the young
soldier with the mysterious blank in his life and the clever gentleman
with so many irons in the fire that he ought to have burned his fingers
long ago. There is something in the wind, but is the youngster from
India a dupe or confederate? I would give a good deal to know."

At the word from jovial Montague Maynard the now completed party set out
for the picnic ground, a chorus of approval going up