been
sent down to deal with Boche prisoners. And being a man of discernment
it is more than likely he would have evolved something quite good, but
for the sudden and unexpected arrival of old Mr. Sutton himself. . . .

"Good Heavens! What are you doing here, my dear boy?" he cried,
striding across the room, and shaking Vane's hand like a pump handle.

"How'd you do, sir," murmured Vane. "I--er--have come down to inquire
about these confounded conscientious prisoners--Boche objectors--you
know the blighters. Question of standardising their rations, don't you
know. . . . Sort of a committee affair. . . ."

Vane avoided the eye of the commercial traveller, and steered rapidly
for safer ground. "I was thinking of coming out to call on Mrs. Sutton
to-morrow."

"To-morrow," snorted the kindly old man. "You'll do nothing of the
sort, my boy. You'll come back with me now--this minute. Merciful
thing I happened to drop in. Got the car outside and everything. How
long is this job, whatever it is--going to take you?"

"Three or four days," said Vane hoping that he was disguising any
untoward pleasure at the suggestion.

"And can you do it equally well from Melton?" demanded Mr. Sutton. "I
can send you in every morning in the car."

Vane banished the vision of breakers ahead, and decided that he could
do the job admirably from Melton.

"Then come right along and put your bag in the car." The old
gentleman, with his hand on Vane's arm, rushed him out of the
smoking-room, leaving the commercial traveller pondering deeply as to
whether he had silently acquiesced in a new variation of the confidence
trick. . . .

"We've got Joan Devereux staying with us," said Mr. Sutton, as the
chauffeur piled the rugs over them. "You know her, don't you?"

"We have met," answered Vane briefly.

"Just engaged to that fellow Baxter. Pots of money." The car turned
out on to the London road, and the old man rambled on without noticing
Vane's abstraction. "Deuced good thing too--between ourselves. Sir
James--her father, you know--was in a very queer street. . . . Land,
my boy, is the devil these days. Don't touch it; don't have anything
to do with it. You'll burn your fingers if you do. . . . Of course,
Blandford is a beautiful place, and all that, but, 'pon my soul, I'm
not certain that he wouldn't have been wiser to sell it. Not certain
we all wouldn't be wiser to sell, and go and live in furnished rooms at
Margate.