theatrical gesture—"people will think it is because he is guilty. Is it not, Mr. Fortune?"
"Why can't you hold your tongue?" Geoffrey snarled at her, and turned to glare at Reggie. "There's a pretty story for you. And what's your beastly detective trade make of that?"
"You know, Mrs. Charlecote, he's always in such a hurry," Reggie said confidentially. "Very disturbin', isn't it? You are difficult, Charlecote, old thing. Is your mind capable of receivin' a thought? Yes. Well just suppose that I may have refused to act for you, because it would be better for the son and heir I shouldn't be actin' to his order."
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"Well, I don't quite know, you know. Do you? Is there anything you really want to tell me?"
"I never want to see you again."
"Geoffrey!" his wife protested.
"Oh, he's not chatty this afternoon, Mrs. Charlecote. So sorry." Reggie extricated himself from her offers of tea, and slid away.
But he was annoyed. Against his will, the opinion of Dr. Newton forced itself into his mind. "An odd strain in Geoffrey, as it were something abnormal or thrawn, a certain violence of temperament." It was so. Confound the oily old family doctor. Why did Geoffrey want to give up the money? Mere quixotry? A passionate desire to clear him-
