"Oh, yes, I suppose so. I'll meet you at Charing Cross."

Max's enthusiasm on his friend's behalf had been much damped by his
behavior, and he gave him a nod, turned on his heel and left him without
another word. He gave up trying to understand the mystery which hung
about Dudley, and left it to Doreen and to his father to unravel.

The two young men did not meet again, therefore, until seven that
evening, when they took their seats in the same smoking-carriage. Max
felt quite glad that the presence of a couple of strangers prevented any
talk of a confidential sort between himself and Dudley, who on his side
seemed perfectly contented to puff at his pipe in silence.

Dudley's letter had evidently been received, and well received, for at
the station the two friends found the dog-cart waiting to take them the
mile and a half which lay between the station and The Beeches.

At the house itself, too, the front door flew open at their approach,
and Mr. Wedmore himself stood in the hall to welcome them.

Queenie was there. Mr. Wedmore was there. But there was never a glimpse
of Doreen.

"I got your letter, my dear boy," began Mr. Wedmore, holding out his
hand with so much heartiness that it was plain he was delighted to be
able to forgive his old friend's son, "and I am very glad, indeed, that
you have found your way back to us so soon. I am heartily glad to hear
that the worries which have been making you depressed lately are
over--heartily glad. And so, I am sure," added he, with a significant
smile, "Doreen will be."