"She is the image of a man I once knew," he remarked, "but after all,
the type is not an uncommon one. You won't forget that Busher will be
in this afternoon. He is a very intelligent fellow for his class, and
you may find it worth your while to ask him a few questions. Until
Thursday, then."

"Until Thursday," Brooks repeated, mechanically.

CHAPTER XI

WHO THE DEVIL IS BROOKS?

"To be tired," declared Sydney Molyneux, sinking into a low couch, "to
be downright dead dog-tired is the most delightful thing in the world.
Will some one give me some tea?"

Brooks laughed softly from his place in front of the open fire. A long
day in the fresh north wind had driven the cobwebs from his brain, and
brought the burning colour to his cheeks. His eyes were bright, and his
laughter was like music.

"And you," he exclaimed, "are fresh from electioneering. Why, fatigue
like this is a luxury."

Molyneux lit a cigarette and looked longingly at the tea-tray set out in
the middle of the hall.

"That is all very well," he said, "but there is a wide difference
between the two forms of exercise. In electioneering one can use one's
brain, and my brain is never weary. It is capable of the most
stupendous exertions. It is my legs that fail me sometimes. Here comes
Lady Caroom at last. Why does she look as though she had seen a ghost?"

That great staircase at Enton came right into the hall. A few steps
from the bottom Lady Caroom had halted, and her appearance was certainly
a little unusual. Every vestige of colour had left her cheeks. Her
right hand was clutching the oak banisters, her eyes were fixed upon
Brooks. He was for a moment embarrassed, but he stepped forward to meet
her.

"How do you do, Lady Caroom?" he said. "We are all in the shadows here,
and Mr. Molyneux is crying out for his tea."

She resumed her progress and greeted Brooks graciously. Almost at the
same moment a footman brought lamps, and the tea was served. Lady
Caroom glanced again with a sort of curious nervousness at the young man
who stood by her side.

"You are a little earlier than we expected," she remarked, seating
herself before the tea-tray. "Here comes Sybil. She is dying to
congratulate you, Mr. Brooks. Is Arranmore here?"

"We left him in the gun-room," Molyneux answered. "He is coming
directly."

Sybil Caroom, in a short skirt and a jaunty hat, came towards Brooks
with outstretched hand.

"Delightful!" she exclaimed. "I only wish