is riding--?" with a glance at the storm raging outside.

"Yes. He had breakfast at an unearthly hour and went off early. Weather
seems to make no difference to him, but he will be soaked to the skin."

"He's tough," replied Peters shortly. "I thought he must be out. As I
came in just now Yoshio was hanging about the hall, watching the drive.
Waiting for him, I suppose," he added, flicking a curl of ash into the
fire. "He's a treasure of a valet," he supplemented conversationally.
But Miss Craven let the observation pass. She was still staring into the
leaping flames, drumming with her fingers on the arms of the chair. Once
she tried to speak but no words came. Peters waited. He felt
unaccountably but definitely that she wished him to wait, that what was
evidently on her mind would come with no prompting from him. He felt in
her attitude a tension that was unusual--to-day she was totally unlike
herself. Once or twice only in the course of a lifelong friendship she
had shown him her serious side. She had turned to him for help then--he
seemed presciently aware that she was turning to him for help now. He
prided himself that he knew her as well as she knew herself and he
understood the effort it would cost her to speak. That he guessed the
cause of her trouble was no short cut to getting that trouble uttered.
She would take her own time, he could not go half-way to meet her. He
must stand by and wait. When had he ever done anything else at Craven
Towers? His eyes glistened curiously in the firelight, and he rammed his
hands down into his jacket pockets with abrupt jerkiness. Suddenly Miss
Craven broke the silence.

"Peter--I'm horribly worried about Barry," the words came with a rush.
He understood her too well to cavil.