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He turned his head at that, and looked for an instant straight into her eyes.

“She is still the one woman, dear,” he said, very tenderly. “Always remember that.”

She shook her head in protest. Her lips were quivering too much for speech.

Babbacombe drove slowly on in silence.

At last the hand upon his knee pressed slightly.

“You can have her if you like, Jack,” Cynthia murmured. “She’s going mighty cheap.”

He freed his hand for a moment to grasp hers.

“I shall follow her to London,” he said, “and woo her there.”

She smiled at him gratefully and began to speak of other things.

The doctor was out, to her evident relief. Babbacombe wanted to go in search of another, but she would not be persuaded.

“I’m sure it will be all right to-morrow. If not, I shall be in town, and I can go to a doctor there. Please don’t make a fuss about it. It’s too absurd.”

Reluctantly he abandoned the argument, and they followed the hounds in the motor instead.

VIII

Babbacombe’s guests departed upon the following day. Cynthia was among the first to leave. With a flushed face and sparkling eyes she made her farewells, and even Babbacombe, closely as he observed her, detected no hint of strain in her demeanour.

Returning from the station in the afternoon after speeding some of his guests, he dropped into the local bank to change a cheque. The manager, with whom he was intimate, chanced to be present, and led him off to his own room.

“By the way,” he said, “we were just going to send you notice of an overdraft. That last big cheque of yours has left you a deficit.”

Babbacombe stared at him. He had barely a fortnight before deposited a large sum of money at the bank, and he had not written any large cheque since.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “What cheque?”

The manager looked at him sharply.

“Why, the cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds, which your agent presented yesterday,” he said. “It bore your signature and was dated the previous day. You wrote it, I suppose?”

Babbacombe was still staring blankly, but at the sudden question he pulled himself together.

“Oh, that! Yes, to be sure. Careless of me. I gave him a blank cheque for the Millsand estate expenses some weeks ago. It must have been that.”

But though he spoke with a smiling face, his heart had gone suddenly cold with doubt. He knew full well that the expenses of which he spoke had been paid by West long before.

He refused to linger, and went out again after a few commonplaces, feeling as if he had been struck a stunning blow between the eyes.

Driving swiftly back through the park, he recovered somewhat from the shock. There must be–surely there would be!–some explanation.

Reaching West’s abode he stopped the motor and descended. West was not in and he decided to wait for him, chafing at the delay.

Standing at the window, he presently saw the man coming up the path. He moved slowly, with a certain heaviness, as though weary.

As he opened the outer door, Babbacombe opened the inner and met him in the hall.

“I dropped in to have a word with you,” he said.

West paused momentarily before shutting the door. His face was in shadow.

“I thought so,” he said. “I saw the motor.”

Babbacombe turned back into the room. He was grappling with the hardest task he had ever had to tackle. West followed him in absolute silence.

With an immense effort, Babbacombe spoke:

“I was at the bank just now. I went to get some cash. I was told that my account was overdrawn. I can’t understand it. There seems to have been some mistake.”

He paused, but West said nothing whatever. The light was beginning to fail, but his expressionless face was clearly visible. It held neither curiosity nor dismay.

“I was told,” Babbacombe said again, “that you cashed a cheque of mine yesterday for two hundred and fifty pounds. Is that so?”