Brian had not seen Mark Frettlby for some time, and was astonished at the change which had taken place in his appearance.  Formerly, he had been as straight as an arrow, with a stern, fresh-coloured face; but now he had a slight stoop, and his face looked old and withered.  His thick, black hair was streaked here and there with white.  His eyes alone were unchanged.  They were as keen and bright as ever.  Brian knew full well how he himself had altered.  He knew, too, that Madge was not the same, and now he could not but wonder whether the great change that was apparent in her father was attributable to the same source—­to the murder of Oliver Whyte.

Sad and thoughtful as Mr. Frettlby looked, as he came along, a smile broke over his face as he caught sight of his, daughter.

“My dear Fitzgerald,” he said, holding out his hand, “this is indeed a surprise!  When did you come over?”

“About half-an-hour ago,” replied Brian, reluctantly, taking the extended hand of the millionaire.  “I came to see Madge, and have a talk with you.”

“Ah! that’s right,” said the other, putting his arm round his daughter’s waist.  “So that’s what has brought the roses to your face, young lady?” he went on, pinching her cheek playfully.  “You will stay to dinner, of course, Fitzgerald?”

“Thank you, no!” answered Brian, hastily, “my dress—­”

“Nonsense,” interrupted Frettlby, hospitably; “we are not in Melbourne, and I am sure Madge will excuse your dress.  You must stay.”

“Yes, do,” said Madge, in a beseeching tone, touching his hand lightly.  “I don’t see so much of you that I can let you off with half-an-hour’s conversation.”

Brian seemed to be making a violent effort.

“Very well,” he said in a low voice; “I shall stay.”

“And now,” said Frettlby, in a brisk tone, as he sat down; “the important question of dinner being settled, what is it you want to see me about?—­Your station?”

“No,” answered Brian, leaning against the verandah post, while Madge slipped her hand through his arm.  “I have sold it.”

“Sold it!” echoed Frettlby, aghast.  “What for?”

“I felt restless, and wanted a change.”

“Ah! a rolling stone,” said the millionaire, shaking his head, “gathers no moss, you know.”

“Stones don’t roll of their own accord,” replied Brian, in a gloomy tone.  “They are impelled by a force over which they have no control.”

“Oh, indeed!” said the millionaire, in a joking tone.  “And may I ask what is your propelling force?”

Brian looked at the man’s face with such a steady gaze that the latter’s eyes dropped after an uneasy attempt to return it.

“Well,” he said impatiently, looking at the two tall young people standing before him, “what do you want to see me about?”

“Madge has agreed to marry me at once, and I want your consent.”

“Impossible!” said Frettlby, curtly.