giving instructions to Hastings. His usual debonnair manner was on him
once again, his laziness, his careless insouciance. He was even at
this moment deeply engaged in flicking off a grain of dust from the
immaculate Mechlin ruff at his wrist. The heavy lids had fallen over the
tell-tale eyes as if weighted with fatigue, the mouth appeared ready for
the laugh which never was absent from it very long.

It was only Ffoulkes's devoted eyes that were sharp enough to pierce the
mask of light-hearted gaiety which enveloped the soul of his leader at
the present moment. He saw--for the first time in all the years that
he had known Blakeney--a frown across the habitually smooth brow, and
though the lips were parted for a laugh, the lines round mouth and chin
were hard and set.

With that intuition born of whole-hearted friendship Sir Andrew guessed
what troubled Percy. He had caught the look which the latter had thrown
on Armand, and knew that some explanation would have to pass between the
two men before they parted to-night. Therefore he gave the signal for
the breaking up of the meeting.

"There is nothing more to say, is there, Blakeney?" he asked.

"No, my good fellow, nothing," replied Sir Percy. "I do not know how you
all feel, but I am demmed fatigued."

"What about the rags for to-morrow?" queried Hastings.

"You know where to find them. In the room below. Ffoulkes has the key.
Wigs and all are there. But don't use false hair if you can help it--it
is apt to shift in a scrimmage."

He spoke jerkily, more curtly than was his wont. Hastings and Tony
thought that he was tired. They rose to say good night. Then the three
men went away together, Armand remaining behind.

CHAPTER XII. WHAT LOVE IS

"Well, now, Armand, what is it?" asked Blakeney, the moment the
footsteps of his friends had died away down the stone stairs, and their
voices had ceased to echo in the distance.

"You guessed, then, that there was... something?" said the younger man,
after a slight hesitation.

"Of course."

Armand rose, pushing the chair away from him with an impatient nervy
gesture. Burying his hands in the pockets of his breeches, he began
striding up and down the room, a dark, troubled expression in his face,
a deep frown between his eyes.

Blakeney had once more taken up his favourite position, sitting on the
corner of the table, his broad shoulders interposed between the lamp and
the rest of the room. He was apparently