Several months went by and John Steele saw nothing further, although he
heard often, of Miss Jocelyn Wray. His business to the continent,
whatever its nature, had seemed sufficiently important to authorize from
him to her, in due process of time, a short perfunctory message
regretting his inability to present himself at the appointed hour at
Strathorn House. Whether the young girl found in the letter a vagueness
warranting a suspicion that John Steele preferred the heavy duties of
the city to the light frivolities of the country matters not; suffice it
the weeks passed and no further invitations, in the ponderous script of
the wife of Sir Charles, arrived to tempt him from his accustomed ways.
But the days of this long interim had not passed altogether
uneventfully; a few incidents, apart from the routine of his work,
obtruded themselves upon his attention.

A number of supposedly prospective clients had called to ask for him at
his office during his sojourn on the other side of the channel. That was
to have been expected; but one or two of these, by dint of flattery, or
possibly silver-lined persuasion, had succeeded in gaining access to his
chambers.

"I should like to have a look into John Steele's library; I've heard
it's worth while," one had observed to the butler at the door. "Only a
bit of a peep around!" His manner of putting his desire, supplemented by
a half-crown, left the butler no alternative save to comply with the
request, until the "peep around" began to develop into more than cursory
examination, when his sense of propriety became outraged and the
visitor's welcome was cut short.