f fabric that could only have come out of some Eastern
bazaar; there was a faint, curious scent of sandal-wood and of dried
rose-leaves. And on the mantelpiece, where, in English households, a
marble clock generally stands, reposed a peculiarly ugly Hindu god,
cross-legged, hideous of form, whose baleful eyes seemed to follow all
our movements.

"Yes," I admitted, reflectively. "I think he fits in--here. Dr.
Lorrimore said he had been in India for some years, didn't he? He
appears to have brought some of it home with him."

"I suppose this is his drawing-room," said Miss Raven. "Now, if only
it looked out on palm-trees, and--and all other things that one
associates with India."

"Just so," said I. "What it does look out on, however, is a typical
English garden on which, at present, about a ton of rain is
descending. And we are nearly three miles from Ravensdene Court!"

"Oh, but it won't keep on like that, for long," she said. "And I suppose,
if it does, that we can get some sort of a conveyance--perhaps, Dr.
Lorrimore has a brougham that he'd lend us."

"I don't think that's very likely," said I. "The country practitioner,
I think, is more dependent on a bicycle than on a brougham. But here
is Dr. Lorrimore."

I had just caught sight of him as he entered his garden by a door set
in its ivy-covered wall. He ran hastily up the path to the
house--within a minute or two, divested of his mackintosh, he opened
the door of our room.

"So glad you were near enough to turn in here for shelter!" he
exclaimed, shaking hands with us warmly. "I see that neither of you
expected rain--now, I did, and I went out prepared."

"We made for the first door we saw," said Miss Raven. "But we'd no
idea it was yours, Dr. Lorrimore. And do tell me!--the Chinese," she
continued, in a whisper. "Is he your man-servant?"

Lorrimore laughed, rubbing his hands together. That day he was not in
the solemn, raven-hued finery in which he had visited Ravensdene
Court; instead he wore a suit of grey tweed, in which, I thought, he
looked rather younger and less impressive than in black. But he was
certainly no ordinary man, and as he stood there smiling at Miss
Raven's eager face, I felt conscious that he was the sort of somewhat
mysterious, rather elusive figure in which women would naturally be
interested.

"Man-servant!" he said, with another laugh. "He's all the servant I've
got. Wing--he's too or three other monosyllabic patronymics, but W