“Graeme!” sharp, hoarse,—­a voice he did not recognise.

He ran hastily out of the east bedroom, which he was using as a dressing-room.

“Hello there!” as he sprang down the stairs, “Why—­Pixley?  What’s wrong, man?”

For Charles Pixley was standing there, leaning in at the doorway, looking as though he would fall headlong but for the supporting jamb.  He had a brown envelope in his hand and a crumpled pink telegram.  His face was white, and drawn, and haggard.  His very figure seemed to have shrunk in these few minutes.  Never had Graeme seen so ghastly a change in a man in so short a time.

Before Pixley could speak Miss Penny came hurrying along the path with a face full of sympathetic anxiety.

“What is it?” she asked.  “I saw Mr. Pixley pass, and his face frightened me.  Oh, what is wrong?”

Pixley glanced at her out of his woeful eyes, and at Margaret, who had just come running down the stairs.  He seemed to hesitate for a moment.  Then he groaned—­

“You will have to know,” and motioned them all into the dining-room and shut the door.

“This “—­jerking out the telegram—­“was waiting for me,” and he handed it to Graeme, who smoothed it out and read, while Pixley dropped into a chair.

“Pixley.  Bel-Air.  Sark.

“Zizel, Amadou, Zebu, Zeta.  Eno.”

“Code,” said Pixley briefly.  “Meanings underneath,” and dropped his head into his hands.

“Zizel,” read Graeme slowly—­“There is bad news.  Amadou—­your father.  Zebu—­has bolted.  Zeta—­we fear the smash will be a bad one.  Eno—?”

“My partner’s initials—­they certify the wire,” said Pixley hoarsely.

And they looked soberly at one another and very pitifully at the broken man before them.

“Don’t take it too hard, Pixley,” said Graeme quietly, laying a friendly hand on the other’s shoulder.  “It may not be as bad as this puts it.  Codes are brutally bald things, you know”

The bowed head shook pitifully.  He raised his white face and looked round at them with a shocked shrinking in his eyes.

“God forgive him!” he jerked.  “And God forgive me, for I have doubted him at times!  He was so—­so—­so demned good”—­and Graeme’s lips twitched in spite of himself, so closely was the expression in accord with his own feelings.  But Pixley did not see the twitch, for he was looking at Margaret and Hennie Penny, and he was saying with vehemence—­

“Will you believe me that I knew absolutely nothing of this?  He never discussed his affairs with me nor I mine with him, and we had no business together except on purely business lines.  If he had to buy or sell he sent it my way, of course,—­nothing more.  You will believe me, Graeme—­”

“Every word, my boy—­”

“We all believe it, Mr. Pixley,” said Hennie Penny warmly.

“And I know it, Charles,” said Margaret.

“It is very good of you all,” he groaned.  “I must get back at once, Graeme.  How soon is there a boat?”