‘No.  I’ll send you one from Paris—­it will be better done.’

‘But I am serious.  You promise?’

‘You shall have the thing in less than a fortnight.’

The promise was kept.  Earwaker received an admirable photograph, which he inserted in his album with a curious sense of satisfaction.  A face by which every intelligent eye must be arrested; which no two observers would interpret in the same way.

‘His mate must be somewhere,’ thought the man of letters, ’but he will never find her.’

CHAPTER II

In his acceptance of Sidwell’s reply, Peak did not care to ask himself whether the delay of its arrival had any meaning one way or another.  Decency would hardly have permitted her to answer such a letter by return of post; of course she waited a day or so.

But the interval meant more than this.

Sylvia Moorhouse was staying with her friend.  The death of Mrs Moorhouse, and the marriage of the mathematical brother, had left Sylvia homeless, though not in any distressing sense; her inclination was to wander for a year or two, and she remained in England only until the needful arrangements could be concluded.

‘You had better come with me,’ she said to Sidwell, as they walked together on the lawn after luncheon.

The other shook her head.

’Indeed, you had better.—­What are you doing here?  What are you going to make of your life?’

‘I don’t know.’

’Precisely.  Yet one ought to live on some kind of plan.  I think it is time you got away from Exeter; it seems to me you are finding its atmosphere morbific.’

Sidwell laughed at the allusion.

‘You know,’ she said, ’that the reverend gentleman is shortly to be married?’

‘Oh yes, I have heard all about it.  But is he forsaking the Church?’

‘Retiring only for a time, they say.’

’Forgive the question, Sidwell—­did he honour you with a proposal?’

‘Indeed, no!’

‘Some one told me it was imminent, not long ago.’

‘Quite a mistake,’ Sidwell answered, with her grave smile.  ’Mr Chilvers had a singular manner with women in general.  It was meant, perhaps, for subtle flattery; he may have thought it the most suitable return for the female worship he was accustomed to receive.’

Mr. Warricombe was coming towards them.  He brought a new subject of conversation, and as they talked the trio drew near to the gate which led into the road.  The afternoon postman was just entering; Mr Warricombe took from him two letters.

‘One for you, Sylvia, and—­one for you, Sidwell.’

A slight change in his voice caused Sidwell to look at her father as he handed her the letter.  In the same moment she recognised the writing of the address.  It was Godwin Peak’s, and undoubtedly her father knew it.

With a momentary hesitation Mr. Warricombe continued his talk from the point at which he had broken off, but he avoided his daughter’s look, and Sidwell was too well aware of an uneasiness which had fallen upon him.  In a few minutes he brought the chat to an end, and walked away towards the house.