It was not till they returned that Crowther announced his intention of leaving on the following day.

“I’ve no time for slacking,” he said.  “I didn’t come Home to slack.  And there’s the mother waiting for me.”

“Oh, man,” Piers said suddenly, “how I wish I had a mother!”

And then half-ashamed, he turned and went in search of his grandfather.

Again that evening Crowther accepted Sir Beverley’s invitation to dine at their table.  The old man seemed to regard Piers’ friend with a kind of suspicious interest.  He asked few questions but he watched him narrowly.

“If you and the boy want to go to the Casino again, don’t mind me!” he said, at the end of dinner.

“We don’t, sir,” said Piers promptly.  “Can’t we sit out on the terrace all together and smoke?”

“I don’t go beyond the lounge,” said Sir Beverley, with decision.

“All right, we’ll sit in the lounge,” said Piers.

His grandfather frowned at him.  “Don’t be a fool, Piers!  Can’t you see you’re not wanted?” He thrust out an abrupt hand to Crowther.  “Good-night to you!  I shall probably retire before you come in.”

“He is leaving first thing in the morning,” said Piers.

Sir Beverley’s frown was transferred to Crowther.  He looked at him piercingly.  “Leaving, are you?  Going to England, eh?  I suppose we shall meet again then?”

“I hope so,” said Crowther.

Sir Beverley grunted.  “Do you?  Well, we shan’t be moving yet.  But—­if you care to look us up at Rodding Abbey when we do get back—­you can; eh, Piers?”

“I tell him, he must, sir,” said Piers.

“You are very kind,” said Crowther.  “Good-bye sir!  And thank you!”

He and Piers went out together, and walked to and fro in the garden above the sea.  The orchestra played fitfully in the hotel behind them, and now and then there came the sounds of careless voices and wandering feet.  They themselves talked but little.  Piers was in a dreamy mood, and his companion was plainly deep in thought.

He spoke at length out of a long silence.  “Did your grandfather say Rodding Abbey just now?”

“Yes,” said Piers, waking up.

“It’s near a place called Wardenhurst?” pursued Crowther.

“Yes,” said Piers again.  “Ever been there?”

“No,” Crowther spoke slowly, as though considering his words.  “Someone I know lives there, that’s all.”

“Someone you know?” Piers stood still.  He looked at Crowther sharply through the dimness.

“I don’t suppose you have ever met her, lad,” said Crowther quietly.  “From what I know of society in the old country you wouldn’t move in the same circle.  But as I have promised myself to visit her, it seems better to mention the fact.”

“Why shouldn’t you mention it?  What is her name?” Piers spoke quickly, in the imperious fashion habitual to him when not quite at his ease.