d stared, then shrugged, and returned to the window to watch a
brand-new French motor-car drawn up before a modern mansion across the
avenue.

The butler returned presently, saying that Mr. Siward was at home and
would receive them in the library above, as he was not yet able to pass
up and down stairs.

"I didn't know he was as ill as that," muttered Fleetwood, as he and
Plank followed the old man up the creaking stairway. But Gumble, the
butler, said nothing in reply.

Siward was sitting in an arm-chair by the window, one leg extended, his
left foot, stiffly cased in bandages, resting on a footstool.

"Why, Stephen!" exclaimed Fleetwood, hastening forward, "I didn't know
you were laid up like this!"

Siward offered his hand inquiringly; then his eyes turned toward Plank,
who stood behind Fleetwood; and, slowly disengaging his hand from
Fleetwood's sympathetic grip, he offered it to Plank.

"It is very kind of you," he said. "Gumble, Mr. Fleetwood prefers rye,
for some inscrutable reason. Mr. Plank?" His smile was a question.

"If you don't mind," said Plank, "I should like to have some tea--that
is, if--"

"Tea, Gumble, for two. We'll tipple in company, Mr. Plank," he added.
"And the cigars are at your elbow, Billy," with another smile at
Fleetwood.

"Now," said the latter, after he had lighted his cigar, "what is the
matter, Stephen?"

Siward glanced at his stiffly extended foot. "Nothing much." He reddened
faintly, "I slipped. It's only a twisted ankle."

For a moment or two the answer satisfied Fleetwood, then a sudden,
curious flash of suspicion came into his eyes; he glanced sharply at
Siward, who lowered his eyes, while the red tint in his hollow cheeks
deepened.

Neither spoke for a while. Plank sipped the tea which Wands, the second
man, brought. Siward brooded over his cup, head bent. Fleetwood made
more noise than necessary with his ice.

"I miss you like hell!" said Fleetwood musingly, measuring out the
old rye from the quaint decanter. "Why did you drop the Saddle Club,
Stephen?"

"I'm not riding; I have no use for it," replied Siward.

"You've cut out the Proscenium Club, too, and the Owl's Head, and the
Trophy. It's a shame, Stephen."

"I'm tired of clubs."

"Don't talk that way."

"Very well, I won't," said Siward, smiling. "Tell me what is
happening--out there," he made a gesture toward the window; "all the
gossip the newspapers miss. I've talked Dr. Grisby to death; I've talke