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He was so pleased with his explanation that his last doubt vanished and he watched Mary and John start for a walk–the fraternal relations they had established would have allowed such a thing even in London, much more in Paris–with quite a benevolent smile.

“Aunt Sarah is really quite poorly,” remarked Mary as they crossed the road and entered the Tuileries Gardens. “She’ll have to stay in all to-day and perhaps tomorrow. Isn’t it hard upon her? Paris amuses her so much.”

John expressed his sympathy.

“Now if it had been you or I,” he ended, “we shouldn’t have minded. Paris doesn’t amuse us just now.”

“Oh, but, John, we must be ready to start at any moment.”

“You can’t start without Miss Bussey,”

“I think that in a wagon-lit—-” began Mary.

“But what’s the good of talking?” cried John, bitterly. “Why is there no news from her?”

“He might have wired–John, is it possible our telegrams went astray?”

“Well, we must wait a day or two; or, if you like, we can wire again.”

Mary hesitated.

“I–I can’t do that, John. Suppose he’d received the first, and–and–“

“Yes, I see. I don’t want to humiliate myself either.”

“We’ll wait a day, anyhow. And, now, John, let’s think no more about them! Oh, well, that’s nonsense; but let’s enjoys ourselves as well as we can.”

They managed to enjoy themselves very well. The town was new to Mary, and John found a pleasure in showing it off to her. After a morning of sight-seeing, they drove in the Bois, and ended the day at the theatre. Miss Bussey, unfortunately, was no better. She had sent for an English doctor and he talked vaguely about two or three days in bed. Mary ventured to ask whether her aunt could travel.

“Oh, if absolutely necessary, perhaps; but much better not,” was the answer.

Well, it was not absolutely necessary yet, for no letter and no telegram arrived. This was the awful fact that greeted them when they came in from the theatre.

“We’ll wire the first thing to-morrow,” declared John, in a resolute tone. “Write yours to-night, Mary, and I’ll give, them to the porter–“

“Oh, not mine, please,” cried Mary, in shrinking bashfulness. “I can’t let the porter see mine!”

“Well, then, we’ll take them out before breakfast to-morrow.”

To this Mary agreed, and they sat down and wrote their dispatches. While they were so engaged Laing jumped out of a cab and entered the room. He seized an English paper, and, flinging himself into a chair, began to study the sporting news. Presently he stole a glance at Mary. It so chanced that just at the same moment she was stealing a glance at him. Mary dropped her eyes with a blush; Laing withdrew behind his paper.

“Shy, of course. Anybody would be,” he thought, with a smile.

“Did you like the piece, Mary?” asked John.

“Oh, very much. I wish Aunt Sarah could have seen it. She missed so much fun.”

“Well, she could hardly have come with us, could she?” remarked John.

“Oh, no,” said Mary.

“Well, I should rather think not,” whispered Laing, who failed to identify ‘Aunt Sarah’ with the elderly person on the trunk.

“I shouldn’t have been happy if she had,” said Mary.

“I simply wouldn’t have let her,” said John, in that authoritative tone which so well became him.

“No more would I in your place, old chap,” murmured Mr. Laing.

Mary rose.

“Thanks for all your kindness, John. Good-night.”

“I’m so glad you’ve had a pleasant day. Good-night, Mary.”

So they parted–with a good-night as calm, as decorous, as frankly fraternal as one could wish (or wish otherwise). Yet its very virtues undid it in the prematurely suspicious eyes of Arthur Laing. For no sooner was he left alone than he threw down his paper and began to chuckle.

“All for my benefit, that, eh? ‘Goodnight, Mary!’ ‘Good-night, John!’ Lord! Lord!” and he rose, lit a cigarette, and ordered a brandy-and-soda. And ever and again he smiled. He felt very acute indeed.

So vain is it for either wisdom or simplicity, candor or diplomacy–nay, for facts themselves–to struggle against a Man with a Theory. Mr. Laing went to bed no more doubting that Mary and John were man and wife than he doubted that he had ‘spotted’ the winner of the Derby. Certitude could no farther go.