had begun. Instead of pursuing, he said abruptly, "I say, you remember
Sancie Percival, of course."

A change came over Senhouse's aspect which a close observer might have
noticed. He was very quiet, hardly moved; but he seemed to be listening
with all his senses, listening with every pore of his skin. "Yes," he
said, slowly. "Yes, I do; I'm not likely to forget her. She was my dearest
friend, and is so still, I hope."

The solemnity of his intended message clouded Mr. Chevenix's candid brow.
"She's still at Wanless, you know."

Senhouse set a watch upon himself. "No doubt she is," he said. "She's
well?"

The other probed him. "She's never made it up with her people. I think she
feels it nowadays."

Senhouse asked sharply, "Where's Ingram?"

"Ingram," said Chevenix, "is just off for a trip. He's to be abroad for a
year. India."

Senhouse shivered. "Alone?"

"Well, without her, anyhow. He always was a casual beggar, was Nevile." He
could see now that he was making a hit. "Got old Senhouse where he lives,"
he told himself, and then continued. "Fact is, I've been out with him as
far as Brindisi. He asked me to. I had nothing to do. But I want to see
Sancie Percival again. I was awfully fond of her--of the whole lot of