left it lying there."

The account was plausible, and entirely the same might now be said of his
face and manner. But Mary had seen the dart of his hand and the sudden
alertness in his eyes. Her own rested on him for a moment with inquiry,
for the first time with a hint of distrust. "I see!" she murmured
vaguely, and, turning away from him, pursued her way to the door.
Beaumaroy followed her with a queer smile on his lips; he shrugged his
shoulders once, very slightly.

A constraint had fallen on Mary. She allowed herself to be escorted to
the car and helped into it in silence. Beaumaroy made no effort to force
the talk, possibly by reason of the presence of Sergeant Hooper, who had
arrived back from the chemist's with the medicine for Mr. Saffron just as
Mary and Beaumaroy came out of the hall door. He stood by his bicycle,
drawing just a little aside to let them pass, but not far enough to
prevent the light from the passage showing up his ill-favored
countenance.

"Well, good-bye, Dr. Arkroyd. I'll see how he is to-morrow, and ask
you to be kind enough to call again, if it seems advisable. And a
thousand thanks."

"Good-night, Mr. Beaumaroy."

She started the car. Beaumaroy walked back to the hall door. Mary glanced
behind her once, and saw him standing by it, again framed by the light
behind him, as she had seen him on her arrival. But, this time, within
the four corners of the same frame was included the forbidding visage of
Sergeant Hooper.

Beaumaroy returned to the fire in the parlor; Hooper, leaving his bicycle
in the passage, followed him into the room and put the medicine bottle
on the table. Smiling at him, Beaumaroy pointed at the combination
knife-and-fork.

"Is it your fault or mine that that damned thing's lying there?" he
asked.

"Yours," answered the Sergeant without hesitation and with his habitual
surliness. "I cleaned it and put it out for you to lock away, as usual.
Suppose you went and forgot it, sir!"

Beaumaroy shook his head in self-condemnation and a humorous dismay.
"That's it! I went and forgot it, Sergeant. And I think, I rather think,
that Doctor Mary smells a rat, though she is, at present, far from
guessing the color of the animal!"

The words sounded scornful; they were spoken for the Sergeant as well as
for himself. He was looking amused and kindly, even rather tenderly
amused; as though liking and pity were the emotions which most actively
survived his first private conve