Walford’s, that the Sergeant and the stranger had seen on Doctor Mary’s blind.  After “walking her home,” he had—­well, just not proposed to Cynthia, restrained more by those scruples of his than by any ungraciousness on the part of the lady.  Even his modesty could not blind him to this fact.  He was full of pity, of love, of a man’s joyous sense of triumph, half wishing that he had made his proposal, half glad that he had not, just because it, and its radiant promise, could still be dangled in the bright vision of the future.  He was in the seventh heaven of romance, and his heaven was higher than that which most men reach; it was built on loftier foundations.

Then came the flash of the torch; the high spirits born of one experience sought an outlet in another.  “By Jove, I’ll track ’em—­like old times!” he murmured, with a low light laugh.  And, just for fun, he did it, taking to the heath beside the road, twisting his long body in and out amongst gorse, heather, and bracken, very noiselessly, with wonderful dexterity.  The light of the lamp was continuous now; the stranger was making his examination.  By it Captain Alec guided his steps; and he arrived behind the tall gorse bush opposite Tower Cottage just in time to hear the Sergeant say “Mrs. Willnough, Laundress, Inkston,” and to witness the parting of the two companions.

There was very little to go upon there.  Why should not one friend give another an address?  But the examination?  Beaumaroy should surely know of that?  It might be nothing, but, on the other hand, it might have a meaning.  But the men had gone, had obviously parted for the night.  Beaumaroy could be told to-morrow; now he himself could go back to his visions—­and so homeward, in happiness, to his bed.

Having reached this sensible conclusion, he was about to turn away from the garden gate which he now stood facing, when he heard the house door softly open and as softly shut.  The practice of his profession had given him keen eyes in the dark; he discovered Beaumaroy’s tall figure stealing very cautiously down the narrow, flagged path.  The next instant the light of another torch flashed out, and this time not in the distance, but full in his own face.

“By God, you, Naylor!” Beaumaroy exclaimed in a voice which was low but full of surprise.  “I—­I—­well, it’s rather late—­”

Alec Naylor was suddenly struck with the element of humor in the situation.  He had been playing detective; apparently he was now the suspected!

“Give me time and I’ll explain all,” he said, smiling under the dazzling rays of the torch.

Beaumaroy glanced round at the house for a second, pursed up his lips into one of the odd little contortions which he sometimes allowed himself, and said:  “Well, then, old chap, come in and have a drink, and do it.  For I’m hanged if I see why you should stand staring into this garden in the middle of the night!  With your opportunities I should be better employed on Christmas evening.”