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plaintively sweet smile.
    The clock had already struck four, and the school-treat was in full progress when they arrived upon the scene. The children had been marshalled to either side of the white-covered tables, and willing helpers were hurrying to and fro laden with plates of bread and butter and jugs of tea. Roger was bending over a small boy who appeared to be too much overcome by the surroundings in which he found himself even to eat, when a voice near him struck some half-dormant chord of memory:
    â€œYes, Jane Mason has done the best this year. Is it not curious how all the Masons in turn have been model scholars?”
    He raised himself sharply. Surely, he said to himself, he had made no mistake: it was the voice of the girl who had played the part of the geisha in the Freshfield theatricals, the voice of the girl whom he had found in Rheinhart’s room on the night of the Bungalow murder!
    He looked round; in the midst of the babble of tongues that surrounded them, it was impossible to be certain from which direction the voice had come. He fancied, however, that the speaker had stood behind him, and depositing his burden of cake with scant ceremony on the table he faced round rapidly. But there was no one in sight who at all answered to his recollection of the girl of whom he still thought as Zoe. There was only one girl, it seemed to him whose hair was at all the right colour, and in her case, instead of being arranged in the artistic tangle that “Zoe” had affected, it was drawn closely together and fastened in a network of plaits at the nape of her neck; and he thought too that the girl herself was taller, stouter than “Zoe.”
    She was walking away from him. As he stood gazing after her, Miss Marchand touched his arm.
    â€œThere is a little girl here who wants a piece of your cake, Dr. Lavington,” she said sweetly.
    â€œI beg your pardon,” Roger responded vaguely, his eyes still fixed on the golden hair. “I was wondering whether you could tell me the name of that lady in grey over there, the one with the yellow hair. I can’t help thinking that I know her.”
    Miss Marchand did not look pleased as she leaned forward.
    â€œShe is talking now to that man in Navy blue with a sailor hat,” Roger prompted.
    â€œOh, you mean Phoebe Gill.” Miss Marchand laughed affectedly. “She is our butcher’s daughter, Dr. Lavington. I should think it very unlikely that you have met her; only, of course, doctors, like clergymen, have to know every one, don’t they?”
    Lavington, however, was not looking at her. His eyes had not relaxed their eager gaze.
    â€œA butcher’s daughter,” he echoed. “No, I do not think—”
    â€œOf course I ought to have said that she has been brought up in an absurd way,” Miss Marchand went on eagerly. “My mother always says it has been a mistake. But it appears that Mrs. Gill has a sister who married considerably above her and Phoebe has been invited a great deal to stay with her and naturally has acquired notions which are quite out of place in her position. It is a great pity, but what can one do?” shrugging her shoulders with the air of repudiating all responsibility with regard to Miss Gill’s education.
    â€œOf course not,” Roger rejoined abstractedly. People moving backward and forwards had come between him and the light hair. With a hurried apology to Miss Marchand, he strode off in the direction Miss Gill had taken. But Fate seemed against him. He had only gone a few yards when the vicar hailed him.
    â€œI was just speaking about you to Lord Luxmore, Dr. Lavington. He wishes me to introduce you to him.”
    Flattering as was Lord Luxmore’s desire, Roger felt at this moment that he would willingly have dispensed with it. It was out of the question, however, to disregard it, and he had to control his impatience as best he could.
    Lord Luxmore was a pleasant,