uld set forth for Italy within a few days.

"It is impossible that we can receive both here," declared Albert;
"but we will engage pleasant apartments with dear Signor Bullo at
the Hotel Victoria. They are full, or nearly so; but he will find a
corner for any friends of mine."

CHAPTER XI

MR. PETER GANNS

Mark Brendon received with mingled emotions the long letter from
Jenny Doria. It awaited him at New Scotland Yard and, as he took it
from the rack, his heart leaped before the well-remembered
handwriting. The past very seldom arose to shadow Mark's strenuous
present; but now, once more, it seemed that Robert Redmayne was
coming between him and his annual holiday. He told himself that he
had lived down his greatest disappointment and believed that he
could now permit his thoughts to dwell on Jenny without feeling much
more than the ache of an old wound. Her letter came a week before
the recipient proposed to start upon his vacation. He had intended
going to Scotland, having no mind for Dartmoor again at present; but
it was not his failure, so complete and bewildering, that had barred
a return to familiar haunts. Memory made the thought too painful and
poignant, so he designed to break new ground and receive fresh
impressions.

Then came this unexpected challenge and he hesitated before
accepting it. Yet a second reading of the woman's appeal determined
him, for Jenny wrote for herself as well as her uncle. She reminded
Brendon of his goodwill and declared how personally she should
welcome him and feel safer and more sanguine for his companionship.
She also contrived to let him know that she was not particularly
happy. The fact seemed implicitly woven into her long letter, though
another, less vitally interested in the writer, might have failed to
observe it.

Regretting only that Albert Redmayne's friend must be approached and
hoping that Mr. Peter Ganns would at least allow him a few days'
start, Brendon sought the famous American and found his direction
without difficulty. He had already visited New Scotland Yard, where
he numbered several acquaintances, and Mark learned that he was
stopping at the Grand Hotel in Trafalgar Square. On sending in his
name a messenger boy bade Brendon follow to the smoking-room.

His first glance, however, failed to indicate the great man. The
smoking-room was nearly empty on this June morning and Mark observed
nobody but a young soldier, writing letters, and a white-h