Noel grinned boyishly.  “You’re a white man, Jack!  I’m jolly glad you turned up.  Between ourselves, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve been in a fairly stiff paste all day.  It’s a beastly feeling, isn’t it?  I’d have looked after her better if I’d known.”

“You’re a white man too,” said Jack kindly.  “Mind you behave like one.”

They parted for the night soon after, to meet again very early in the morning, and finally separate upon their various errands.

Noel departed upon his in obviously high spirits; but he maintained his air of responsibility notwithstanding, and Jack took leave of him with a smile of approval.

He himself telegraphed to Hilda as soon as he arrived in town, and acquainted her with the fact of the boy’s advent.  He directed her to send her answering message to him at Mordaunt’s rooms, and then proceeded thither with the firm determination to see the owner thereof without further delay.

Holmes admitted him, and imparted the information that his master was at breakfast with the eldest Mr. Wyndham, who had arrived overnight.

Jack’s jaw hardened at the news.  He had not expected to find Rupert accepting his brother-in-law’s hospitality.  He shrugged his shoulders over the volatility of the Wyndhams, and announced curtly that he desired to see Mr. Mordaunt in private.

“Will you come into the smoking-room, sir?” asked Holmes.

“Certainly.  But tell him I can’t wait,” said Jack.

He marched into the smoking-room therewith, and Holmes softly closed the door upon him.  The window by which Mordaunt had sat all night long was open, and the sounds of the street below came cheerily in.  Jack crossed over and quietly shut it.

Turning from this, his eyes fell upon a photograph on the mantelpiece.  He went up to it and took it between his hands.  Gaily the pictured face laughed up at him—­Chris in her happiest, wildest mood, with Cinders clasped in her arms; Chris, the child of the sunny eyes that no shadow had ever darkened!

Something rose suddenly in Jack’s throat.  He gulped hard, and put the portrait back.  Was it indeed Chris—­the broken-hearted woman he had held in his arms but yesterday?  Then was the Chris of the old days gone for ever.

Someone entered the room behind him and he wheeled round.

“Good morning,” said Mordaunt.

He offered his hand, but Jack ignored it and his greeting alike.

He stood for a couple of seconds in silence, looking at him, while Mordaunt waited with absolute composure.  Then, “I daresay you are wondering what I have come for,” he said.  “Or perhaps you can guess.”

“Why should I?” Mordaunt said.

Jack frowned abruptly.  He had met this impenetrable mood before.  But he would not be baffled by it.  It was no moment for subtleties.  He went straight to the point.

“I have come to tell you that Chris is at Graysdale with Hilda,” he said.