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Charlie glanced over his shoulder, stood a moment irresolute, then walked away more soberly than usual towards the bridge, where he was a constant and welcome visitor.

V

“There are plenty of fine chaps in the world who aren’t to be recognised as such at first sight,” drawled Bertie Richmond to his young cousin, Molly Erle, who was sitting with her feet on the fender on a very cold winter evening.

“I’m sure of that,” said Mrs. Richmond from the other side of the fire, with a tender glance at her husband’s loosely knit figure. “I never thought there was an inch of heroism in you, Bertie darling, till that day when we went punting and we got upset. How brave you were! I’ve never forgotten it. It was the beginning of everything.”

“It sounds as if it were nearer being the end,” remarked Molly, who systematically avoided all sentiment. “I don’t believe myself that any man can be actually heroic and yet not betray it somehow.”

“You’re wrong,” said Bertie.

“I don’t think so,” said Molly. She could be quite as obstinate as most women, and this was a point upon which she was very decided.

“I’ll prove it,” said Bertie, with quiet determination. “There’s a chap coming with the crowd of sportsmen to-morrow who is the bravest and, I think, the best fellow I ever met. I shan’t tell you who he is. I’ll leave you to find out–if you can. But I don’t believe you will.”

“I am quite sure I can tell the difference between a looker-on, a mere loafer, and a man who does,” said Molly, with absolute confidence.

“Bet you you don’t!” murmured Bertie Richmond, smiling at the ceiling. “I know the woman’s theory so jolly well.”

Molly smiled also.

“I’ll take your bet, whatever it is, Bertie,” she said.

Bertie shook his head.

“No, I don’t bet on a dead cert,” he said comfortably. “I’ll even tell you the fellow’s heroic deeds, and then you’ll never spot him. I met him first in South Africa. He saved my life twice. Once he carried me nearly a mile under fire, and got wounded in the process. Another time he sat all night under fire holding a fellow’s artery. Since then he has been knocking about in odd corners, doing splendid things in the dark, as it were, for he is horribly modest. The last I heard of him was from my friend Captain Raglan. He travelled on Raglan’s ship from Calcutta, One night in the Mediterranean something went wrong in the engine-room. Two of the boat’s engineers were badly scalded. They managed to get away, but a wretched stoker was too hurt to escape, and this fellow–this hero of mine–went down into a perfect inferno and got him out. Not only that, he went back afterwards with one of the engineers to direct him, and worked like a bull till the mischief was put right. There was danger of an explosion every moment, but he never lost his nerve for an instant. When it was over everyone concerned was sworn to secrecy, and not a passenger on board that boat knew what had actually taken place. As I said before, he is not the sort of chap anyone would credit with that sort of heroism. I shan’t tell you what he is like in other respects.”

“I probably know,” said Molly. “I came home on Captain Raglan’s ship in the autumn.”

“What! You were on board?” exclaimed Bertie. “What a rum go! You will meet one or two old friends, then. And the hero is probably known to you already, though I’m sure you have never taken him for such.”

“Oh, you’re quite wrong!” laughed Molly. “I have known him and detected his splendid qualities for quite a long while. He is nice, isn’t he? I am glad he is coming.”

She took up her book with slightly heightened colour, and began to turn over its pages.

Bertie Richmond stared at her in silence for some moments.