er called me into the study to take Josephine, he
said: 'Is this Timmy?' And then after that he just went straight on about
Betty, as if I wasn't there. He said that if he got through, he meant to
wait--he didn't mind how long, if only Betty would say 'Yes' in the end."

"Has he been here since Betty came home?" asked Radmore abruptly.

Somehow this revelation astonished and discomfited him very much. It had
never occurred to him that Betty might marry.

"No," said Timmy. "He has never come again, for he's in Mesopotamia; but
he writes to Betty, and then she writes back to him. You see he was a
friend of George's--that makes her like him, I suppose."

They drove on for a while in silence, and then Timmy enquired, rather
anxiously: "You won't tell Betty I've told you, will you, Godfrey? I
don't think she wants anyone to know. He sent me a lovely picture
postcard once--it was to Timmy Tosswill, Esq.--and then I asked Betty
whether she meant to marry him, as he was such a nice sort of man. She
was awfully angry with me for knowing about it, and she began to cry. So
you won't say anything to her, will you?"

"No, of course I won't," said Radmore hastily.

They were now emerging on the wide sweep of down commanding the little
old country town which stands to the whole world as the racing capital of
England. To their left, huge and gaunt against the night sky, rose the
Grand Stand.

"Where does Trotman hang out?" asked Radmore. "Shan't we have a devil of
a difficulty in knocking him up?"

"I don't think we shall," said his small companion, confidently. "You see
there must always be some sick animal for someone to sit up with. I'd
rather be nurse to a dog than to a woman, wouldn't you?"

They turned into the steep road leading into the town, flashing past
shuttered villas set in gardens, till they reached a labyrinth of quaint,
narrow, walled thoroughfares dating from the 18th century.

"We're very near now," said Timmy. "Isn't it funny, Godfrey, to feel that
everybody's asleep but us?" They had come to a corner where high walls
enclosed what might once have been the kitchen garden of a Georgian
manor-house.

"Here it is!" cried the boy.

Radmore stopped the car and then he jumped out and struck a match. Over
a door, set in the wall, stood out in clear lettering the words, "John
Trotman, Veterinary Surgeon." Feeling a little doubtful of what their
reception would be like, he pulled the bell. There was a pause, a l