"I say, let's go down, Raynor," he said desperately. "I don't know
what's come over me, but my head's suddenly begun to swim, and I'm
afraid I shall keel over if I don't get out in the air. We can let the
lark you were speaking of rest until afterward. Come on, will you? By
Jove! you know, I'm in a fearful way."

And from the effort to carry out the impression of extreme giddiness a
curious thing came:

Clapping his hand to his head, and wheeling staggeringly round to make
his way to the door, he had the good or ill fortune to blunder against a
little table, upon which stood what was undoubtedly an earthenware
tobacco jar, and to send it crashing to the ground. Instantly and out of
it there rolled, on top of the quantity of spilled tobacco which had
originally been used to cover it, a little silver box, which flew open
as it fell and disgorged a photograph, a couple of letters in a woman's
hand, and a fragment of pink gauze.

Cleek had just stooped to pick these things up and to lay them back upon
the table, when a yet more curious thing happened.

"I say! You let those things alone!" snapped young Raynor excitedly; and
springing forward, whisked them out of his hand. But not before Cleek
had made a rather startling discovery: the letters were written in a
woman's hand--a hand he recognized the instant he saw it--and the
picture which accompanied them was a photograph of Margot. He had no
longer a desire to hurry downstairs.

The rudeness of his act and of his manner of speaking seemed to dawn
upon young Raynor almost as he snatched the photograph and letters, and
he hastened to apologize.

"I say, don't think me stable-bred, Barch," he said, a flush of
mortification reddening his face. "Didn't mean to rip out at you like
that, b'gad! Fact is, I was a bit excited; forgot for a moment that
you're a pal. So don't get your back up, please."

"I haven't the slightest intention of doing so, dear chap," replied
Cleek, who, it must be confessed, was a little shaken by the discovery.
"Every man has a right to cut up a bit rough when he thinks some other
fellow is going to pry into his secrets. And I reckon this is one of
your pet mashes--eh, what?"

"Yes, something like that. The latest--and a ripper. French, you know.
That's what rattled me for the moment. The dad loathes French women. I'm
extra careful to keep this one's picture out of sight. I say! Don't know
what you'll think about my manners, but I forgot all