Now about to be made the happiest man in all the world,

Stephen.

N.B. I hope the little kid is strong and happy.

N.B. Zanti goes with us to America having heard of gold in California and is to be my best man when the day comes._

So Stephen's long wait was ended at last. Peter's eyes were dimmed as he put the letter away in his pocket. What a selfish beast, to be sure, must this same Peter Westcott, be, for here he was wishing--yes, almost wishing--that Stephen's happiness had not come to him. Always at the back of everything there had been the thought of Stephen Brant. Let all the pits in the world gape and yawn, there was one person in the world to whom Peter was precious. Now--in America--with a wife... some of the sunlight had gone out of the air and Peter's heart was suddenly cold with that old dread.

Another friend taken from him! Another link gone! Then he pulled himself together, tried to rejoice with Stephen at his happiness, failed dismally, walked down Piccadilly defiantly, with swinging shoulders and a frowning face, like a sailor in a hostile country, and went into the Bond Street jeweller's.

He had been there on several former occasions and a large stout man who looked as though he must have been Lord Mayor several years running came forward and gave Peter an audience. Precious stones were of no account in such a place as this, and the ruby pendant looked quite small and humble when it was brought to Peter--nevertheless it was beautiful and would suit Clare exactly. It seemed to appeal personally to Peter, as though it knew that he wanted it for a very especial occasion. This wasn't one of those persons who would come in and buy you as though you were dirt. It meant something to Peter. It meant something indeed--it meant exactly sixty pounds--

"Isn't that rather a lot?" said Peter.

"It's as fine a ruby--" said the dignitary, looking over Peter's head out of the window, as though he were tired of the affair and wanted to see whether his car were there.

"I'll take it," said Peter desperately.

Sixty Pounds! Did one ever hear of such a thing? Sixty pounds ... Never mind, it marked an occasion. The ruby smiled at Peter as it was slipped into its case; it was glad that it was going to somebody who hadn't very many things.

He had several other matters to settle and it was nearly five o'clock when he turned out of Knightsbridge down Sloane Street. The sun was slipping behind the Hyde Park Hotel so that already the shadows were lying along the lower parts of the houses although the roofs were bright with sunshine.

It was the hour when all the dogs were taken for the last exercise of the day. Every kind, of dog was there, but especially the fat and pampered variety--Poms, King Charles, Pekinese, Dachshunds--a few bigger dogs, and even one mournful-eyed Dane who walked with melancholy superiority, as a king amongst his vassals.

The street stirred with the patterings of dogs. The light slid down the sky--voices rang in the clear air softly as though the dying day had besought them to be tender. The colours of the shops, of the green trees, of slim and beautifully-dressed houses were powdered with gold-dust; the church in Sloane Square began to ring its bells.

Peter, as he turned down the street, was cold--perhaps because Knightsbridge had been blazing with sunshine and the light here was hidden.... No, it was more than that....

"They say," he thought, "that Cornishmen always know when a disaster's coming. If that's true, something ought to be going to happen to me."

And then, in a flash, that sound that he had been half-subconsciously expecting, came--the sound of the sea. He could hear it quite distinctly, a distant, half-determined movement that seemed so vast in its roll and plunge, so sharp in the shock with which it met the shore, and yet so subdued that it might be many thousands of miles away. It was as though a vast tide were dragging back a million shells from an endless shore--the dragging hiss, the hesitating suspense in mid-air, and then the rattle of the returning wave.

As though hypnotised he closed his eyes. Yes, he was walking along the Sea Road. There was that range of rock that lay out at sea like a crouching dog. There was that white twisting circle of foam that lay about the Ragged Stone--out there by itself, the rock with the melancholy bell. Then through the plunging sea he could hear its note--the moan of some one in pain. And ever that rattle, that hiss, that suspense, that crash.

"I beg your pardon--" he had run into a lady's maid who was leading a pompous King Charles. The spaniel eyed him with hatred, the maid with distrust. He passed on--but the Sea had departed.

To chase away his gathering depression he thought that he would go in and have tea with Bobby and Alice. It was quite late when he got there, and stars were in a sky that was so delicate in colour that it seemed as though it were exhausted by the glorious day that it had had; a little sickle moon was poised above the Chelsea trees.

To his disgust he found that Percival and Millicent Galleon were having tea with their brother. Their reception of him very quickly showed him that "Mortimer Stant" had put a final end to any hopes that they might have had of his career as an artist.

"How's the book doing, Westcott?" said Percival, looking upon Peter's loose-fitting clothes, broad shoulders and square-toed shoes with evident contempt.

"Not very well thank you, Galleon."

"Ah, well, it didn't quite come off, did it, Westcott?--not quite. Can't hit the nail every time. Now young Rondel in this Precipice of his has done some splendid work. We had him to tea the other day and really he seemed quite a nice unassuming fellow--"

"Oh! shut up," Bobby growled. "You talk too much, Percival."

Peter was growing. Quite a short time ago he would have been furious, would have gone into his shell, refused to speak to anybody, been depressed and glowering.

Now, smiling, he said:

"Alice, won't you consider it and come up and dine with us after all to-night? It's only my mother-in-law beside ourselves--"

"No, thanks, Peter. I mustn't. The boy's not quite the thing."

"Well, all right--if you must."

Nevertheless, it hurt, although it was only that young ass of a Galleon.

That, though, was one of the pits into which one must not look.

He felt the little square box that contained the ruby, lying there so snugly in his pocket. That cheered him.

"I must be getting back. Good-night, everybody. See you at dinner, Bobby."

He went.

After Percival and his sister had also gone Alice said:--

"Dear Peter's growing up."

"Yes," said Bobby. "My sweet young brother wants the most beautiful kicking and he'll get it very soon." Then he looked at the clock. "I must go up and dress."

"I'm rather glad," said Alice, "I'm not coming. Clare gets considerably on my nerves just at present."

"Yes," said Bobby, "but thank God Mr. Cardillac's in Paris--for the time being." Then he added, reflectively--

"Dear old Peter--bless him!"

CHAPTER XV

MR. WESTCOTT SENIOR CALLS CHECKMATE

I

Peter felt as he closed the hall door behind him that The Roundabout was both cold and dark. The little hall drew dusk into its corners very swiftly and now, as he switched on the electric light, he was conscious almost of protest on the part of the place, as though it wished that it might have been left to its empty dusk.

A maid passed him.

"Has your mistress gone upstairs?" he asked her.

"I don't think she has come in, sir."

"Not come in?"