Alec landed a punch on the literary thorax. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, shut up!” he grunted. “Don’t you ever stop talking, Roger?”
“Yes,” Roger admitted regretfully. “When I’m asleep. It’s a great trial to me. That’s why I so much hate going to bed. But you haven’t told me why you’re up and about so early?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” responded Alec, a trifle sheepishly.
“Ah!” Roger stopped and scrutinised his companion’s face closely. “I shall have to study you, Alec, you know. Awfully sorry if it’s going to inconvenience you; but there’s my duty to the great British public, and that’s plain enough, my interesting young lover. So now perhaps you’ll tell me the real reason why you’re polluting this excellent garden with your unseemly presence at this unnecessary hour?”
“Oh, stow it, you blighter!” growled the interesting young lover, blushing hotly.
Roger regarded him with close attention.
“Notes on the habits of the newly engaged animal, male genus,” he murmured softly. “One—reverses all its habits and instincts by getting up and seeking fresh air when it might still be frowsting in bed. Two—assaults its closest friends without the least provocation. Three—turns a bright brick-red when asked the simplest question. Four—”
“Will you shut up, or have I got to throw you into a rose bed?” shouted the harassed Alec.
“I’ll shut up,” said Roger promptly. “But only on William’s account; please understand that. I feel that William would simply hate to see me land on one of his cherished rose bushes. It would depress him more than ever, and I shrink from contemplating what that might mean. In passing, how is it that you were coming from the direction of the lodge just now and not from the house?”
“You’re infernally curious this morning,” Alec smiled. “If you want to know, I’ve been down to the village.”
“So early? Alec, there must be something wrong with you, after all. And why on earth have you been down to the village?”
“To—well, if you must have it, to post a letter,” said Alec reluctantly.
“Ah! A letter so important, so remarkably urgent that it couldn’t wait for the ordinary collection from the house?” Roger mused with interest. “Now I wonder if that letter could have been addressed, let us say, to The Times? ‘Marvellous, Holmes! How could you have surmised that?’ ‘You know my methods, Watson. It is only necessary to apply them.’ Well, Alexander Watson, am I right?”
“You’re not,” said Alec shortly. “It was to my bookmaker.”
“Well, all I can say is that it ought to have been to The Times,” retorted Roger indignantly. “In fact, I don’t mind going so far as to add that it’s hardly playing the game on your part that it shouldn’t have been to The Times. Here you go laying a careful train of facts all pointing to the conclusion that this miserable letter of yours was to The Times, and then you turn round and announce calmly that it was to your bookmaker. If it comes to that, why write to your bookmaker at all? A telegram is the correct medium for conducting a correspondence with one’s bookmaker. Surely you know that?”
“Doesn’t it ever hurt you?” Alec sighed wearily. “Don’t you ever put your larynx out of joint or something? I should have thought that—”
“Yes, I should have liked to hear your little medical lecture so much,” Roger interrupted rapidly, with a perfectly grave face. “Unfortunately a previous engagement of the most pressing urgency robs me of the pleasure. I’ve just remembered that I’ve got to go and see a man about—Now what was it about? Oh, yes! I remember. A goat! Well, goodbye, Alec. See you at breakfast, I hope.”
He seized his astonished companion’s hand, shook it affectionately, and walked quickly away in the direction of the village. Alec gazed after him with open mouth. In spite of the length of their acquaintance, he had never got quite used to Roger.
A light tread on the grass behind him caused him to turn round, and what he saw supplied the reason for Roger’s hurried departure. A quick smile of appreciation flitted across his face. Then he hurried eagerly forward, and all thought of Roger was wiped from his mind. So soon are we forgotten when somebody more important comes along.
The girl who was advancing across the grass was small and slight, with large gray eyes set wide apart, and a mass of fair hair which the slanting rays of the sun behind her turned into a bright golden mist about her head. She was something more than pretty; for mere prettiness always implies a certain insipidity, and there was certainly no trace of that in Barbara Shannon’s face. On the contrary, the firm lines of her chin alone, to take only one of her small features, showed a strength of character unusual in a girl of her age; one hardly looks for that sort of thing at feminine nineteen or thereabouts.
Alec caught his breath as he hurried towards her. It was only yesterday that she had promised to marry him, and he had not quite got accustomed to it yet.
“Dearest!” he exclaimed, making as if to take her in his arms (William had long since disappeared in search of weapons with which to rout the greenfly). “Dearest, how topping of you to guess I should be waiting for you out here!”
Barbara put out a small hand to detain him. Her face was very grave and there were traces of tears about her eyes.
“Alec,” she said in a low voice, “I’ve got rather bad news for you. Something very dreadful has happened—something that I can’t possibly tell you about, so please don’t ask me, dear; it would only make me more unhappy still. But I can’t be engaged to you any longer. You must just forget that yesterday ever happened at all. It’s out of the question now. Alec I—I
