“Thank you, Master George, sir.”

“I wish to—­confess to you, John, that—­er—­regarding the—­er—­Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been,—­you were entirely in the right.  At that time I knew no more the meaning of the—­er—­the word, John—­”

“Meaning the word—­Love, Master George!”

“Precisely; I knew no more about it than—­that table.  But during these latter days, I have begun to understand, and—­er—­the fact of the matter is—­I’m—­I’m fairly—­up against it, John!”

Here, Baxter, who had been watching him with his quick, sharp eyes nodded his head solemnly: 

“Master George,” said he, “speaking as your father’s old servant, and your boyhood’s friend,—­I’m afraid you are.”

Bellew took a turn up and down the room, and then pausing in front of Baxter, (who had risen also, as a matter of course), he suddenly laid his two hands upon his valet’s shoulders.

“Baxter,” said he, “you’ll remember that after my mother died, my father was always too busy piling up his millions to give much time or thought to me, and I should have been a very lonely small boy if it hadn’t been for you, John Baxter.  I was often ‘up against it,’ in those days, John, and you were always ready to help, and advise me;—­but now,—­well, from the look of things, I’m rather afraid that I must stay ’up against it’—­that the game is lost already, John.  But which ever way Fate decides—­win, or lose,—­I’m glad—­yes, very glad to have learned the true meaning of—­the word, John.”

“Master George, sir,—­there was a poet once—­Tennyson, I think, who said,—­’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ and I know—­that he was—­right.  Many years ago,—­before you were born, Master George, I loved—­and lost, and that is how I know.  But I hope that Fortune will be kinder to you, indeed I do.”

“Thank you, John,—­though I don’t see why she should be.”  And Bellew stood staring down at the rug again, till aroused by Baxter’s cough: 

“Pray sir, what are your orders, the car is waiting downstairs?”

“Orders?—­why—­er—­pack your grip, Baxter, I shall take you with me, this time, into Arcadia, Baxter.”

“For how long, sir?”

“Probably a week.”

“Very good, sir.”

“It is now half-past three, I must be back in Dapplemere at eight.  Take your time—­I’ll go down to look at the machine.  Just lock the place up, and—­er—­don’t forget the black bag.”

Some ten minutes later the great racing car set out on its journey, with Bellew at the wheel, and Baxter beside him with the black bag held firmly upon his knee.

Their process was, necessarily, slow at first, on account of the crowded thoroughfares.  But, every now and then, the long, low car would shoot forward through some gap in the traffic, grazing the hubs of bus-wheels, dodging hansoms, shaving sudden corners in an apparently reckless manner.  But Baxter, with his hand always upon the black leather bag, sat calm and unruffled, since he knew, by long experience, that Bellew’s eye was quick and true, and his hand firm and sure upon the wheel.