in his sister's house at a moment's notice by a most casual
acquaintance, whom he suspected of being an escaped lunatic.

Bertram Ingledew, for his part, however, advanced towards his
companion of last night with the frank smile and easy bearing of a
cultivated gentleman. He was blissfully unaware of the slight he
was putting upon the respectability of Brackenhurst by appearing on
Sunday in his grey tweed suit; so he only held out his hand as to
an ordinary friend, with the simple words, "You were so extremely
kind to me last night, Mr. Christy, that as I happen to know nobody
here in England, I ventured to come round and ask your advice in
unexpected circumstances that have since arisen."

When Bertram Ingledew looked at him, Philip once more relented. The
man's eye was so captivating. To say the truth, there was something
taking about the mysterious stranger--a curious air of unconscious
superiority--so that, the moment he came near, Philip felt himself
fascinated. He only answered, therefore, in as polite a tone as he
could easily muster, "Why, how did you get to know my name, or to
trace me to my sister's?"

"Oh, Miss Blake told me who you were and where you lived," Bertram
replied most innocently: his tone was pure candour; "and when I
went round to your lodgings just now, they explained that you were
out, but that I should probably find you at Mrs. Monteith's; so of
course I came on here."

Philip denied the applicability of that naive "of course" in his
inmost soul: but it was no use being angry with Mr. Bertram
Ingledew. So much he saw at once; the man was so simple-minded, so