ed home, went to see him at his City Office.
She learnt that Mr. Wrybolt was out of town, but would certainly return
in a day or two.

Again she wrote. Again she waited in vain for a reply. On a dull
afternoon near the end of September, as she sat thinking of Lashmar and
resolutely seeing him in the glorified aspect dear to her heart and
mind, the servant announced Mr. Barker. This was the athletic young man
in whose company she had spent some time at Gorleston before Lashmar's
coming. His business lay in the City; he knew Mr. Wrybolt, and through
him had made Mrs. Woolstan's acquaintance. The face with which he
entered the drawing-room portended something more than a friendly chat.
Iris had at one time thought that this young man felt disposed to offer
her marriage; was that his purpose now, and did it account for his odd
look?

"I want to ask you," Mr. Barker began, abruptly, "whether you know
anything about Wrybolt? Have you heard from him lately?"

Iris replied that she herself wished to hear of that gentleman, who did
not answer her letters, and was said to be out of town.

"That's so, is it?" exclaimed the young man, with a yet stranger look
on his face. "You really have no idea where he is?"

"None whatever. And I particularly want to see him."

"So do I," said Mr. Barker, smiling grimly. "So do several people.
You'll excuse me, I hope, Mrs. Woolstan. I knew he was a friend of
yours, and thought you might perhaps know more about him than we did in
the City. I mustn't stay."

Iris stared at him as he rose. A vague alarm began to tremble in her
mind.

"You don't mean that anything's wrong?" she panted.

"We'll hope not, but it looks queer."

"Oh!" cried Iris. "He has money of mine. He is my trustee."

"I know that. Please excuse me; I really mustn't stay."

"Oh, but tell me, Mr. Barker!" She clutched at his coat sleeve. "Is my
money in danger?"

"I can't say, but you certainly ought to look after it. Get someone to
make inquiries at once; that's my advice. I really must go."

He disappeared, leaving Iris motionless in amazement and terror.

CHAPTER XXX

The wedding was to be a very quiet one. Lashmar would have preferred
the civil ceremony, at the table of the registrar, with musty casuals
for witnesses; but Iris shrank from this. It must be at a church, and
with a few friends looking on, or surely people would gossip. Had he
been marrying an heiress, Dyce would have called for pomp and