nstitutions. Are you going abroad now?"

"Not at the moment."

"What _are_ you going to do?"

"I'm going back to my office, if I'm still wanted."

Gaisford shrugged his shoulders ruefully.

"You know, Eric, it's a waste of my time and of your money for you to
come to me for advice. You've definitely gone back since I saw you in
the summer."

"I've been working very hard; but I'm rather pleased with the results."

"I hope it's nothing like that novel you shewed me," said the doctor
gloomily.

"I'll send you the script when I get it back from Manders," Eric
promised with a laugh.

2

On his return to official work, Eric found that he could not concentrate
his attention on anything until he knew what Manders thought of "The
Singing-Bird"; sometimes he wondered whether he could ever concentrate
until Barbara had brought his suspense to an end. For three months they
had not met or corresponded.

"Dr. Gaisford says I simply make you worse," she told him. "I mustn't
add that to my other sins. If you want me, I'm there; but I shan't write
to you, and you mustn't write to me. I shall miss you horribly, but your
health's more important than my happiness. We're coming back to London
in the autumn."

A week before her return, the whole Mill-House party motored over to Red
Roofs to dine with the Warings. It was an old promise, and Eric was glad
to avail himself of it to break the continuity of his stilted Sunday
calls. As he dressed, a note was brought him from Colonel Waring, and he
read with some surprise:

"_I trust you are not going to fail us to-night. There is a matter
on which I want your advice and, perhaps, your help._"

Eric tore the note into small pieces and went on with his dressing, only
frowning at his own want of control when he found his hand shaking until
he could hardly part his hair. There was only one subject on which
anybody at Red Roofs could want to consult him; from the fact that
Colonel Waring wrote--and wrote to him--some official action was
pending; otherwise Agnes would have whispered a word to him before
dinner. They had received news that Jack was alive . . . or dead . . .
or they had thought of a new means of getting in touch with him. . . .

Eric kept his surprise to himself and drove silently through two miles
of thicket and clearing to the south end of Lashmar Wood. Beyond a
cordial hand-shake and the smiling statement that he was glad to see
him, Colonel Waring vouchs