always loved someone the
more if he or she gave him the opportunity to practise his
inquisitiveness upon them.

After Rachel Seddon he cared more, perhaps, for Francis Breton than
anyone in the world. He had also of late been interested in Roddy, who
was a far better fellow than he had expected.

One puzzle, meanwhile, obstinately and continually beset him. What had
happened to Breton during this last year? Something, or in surer
probability someone, had been behind him. Christopher might have
flattered himself that he had been the influence, but he knew that, if
that had been so, Breton's attitude to him would have implied it. Breton
was fond of him, but did not owe that to him. Who then was it?

On one of these November days he invited a friend and Breton to luncheon
together.

Christopher's geniality and the supreme importance of the war over
everything else helped amiability. Christopher's little house in Harley
Street showed, beyond its consulting-room, a cheerful Philistine
appreciation of comfort and love. There was old silver, there were old
prints, sofas, soft carpets, book-cases, whose glass coverings were
more important than their contents. Also a luncheon that was the most
artistic thing that the house contained, save only the wine.

At the side of the round gleaming table Christopher sat smiling, and
soon Breton told the friend about India and the friend told Breton about
Africa.

Meanwhile Christopher watched Breton. He knew Breton very well and, in
the old days, he would have said that that nervous excitement that the
man sometimes betrayed meant that he was on the edge of some most
foolish action.

He knew that light in the eyes, that excited voice, that
restlessness--these things had meant that Breton's self-control was
about to break.

To-day there were all these signs, and Christopher knew that after
luncheon Breton would escape him.

Breton did escape him, went off somewhere in a hurry; no, Christopher
could not drive him--he was going in the opposite direction.

Whilst Christopher drove, first down to Eaton Square, then back to 104
Portland Place, he was wondering about Breton....

II

It seemed that, on this afternoon, he was unduly sensitive to
impression. The house struck him with a chill, deserted air. There
seemed to be no one about as Norris led him up to the Duchess's rooms,
the old portraits grinned at him, as though they would have him to know
that, very soon, the house