Of course it would be absurd to suppose that any real feeling could have been engendered by so ridiculously brief an acquaintance.  I had only met the girl three times, and even now, excepting for business relations, was hardly entitled to more than a bow of recognition.  But yet, when I considered the matter impartially and examined my own consciousness, I could not but recognise that she had aroused in me an interest which bore no relation to the part that she had played in the drama that was so slowly unfolding.  She was undeniably a very handsome girl, and her beauty was of a type that specially appealed to me—­full of dignity and character that gave promise of a splendid middle age.  And her personality was in other ways not less attractive, for she was frank and open, sprightly and intelligent, and though evidently quite self-reliant, was in nowise lacking in that womanly softness that so strongly engages a man’s sympathy.

In short, I realised that, had there been no such person as Reuben Hornby, I should have viewed Miss Gibson with uncommon interest.

But, unfortunately, Reuben Hornby was a most palpable reality, and, moreover, the extraordinary difficulties of his position entitled him to very special consideration by any man of honour.  It was true that Miss Gibson had repudiated any feelings towards Reuben other than those of old-time friendship; but young ladies are not always impartial judges of their own feelings, and, as a man of the world, I could not but have my own opinion on the matter—­which opinion I believed to be shared by Thorndyke.  The conclusions to which my cogitations at length brought me were:  first, that I was an egotistical donkey, and, second, that my relations with Miss Gibson were of an exclusively business character and must in future be conducted on that basis, with the added consideration that I was the confidential agent, for the time being, of Reuben Hornby, and in honour bound to regard his interests as paramount.

“I am hoping,” said Thorndyke, as he held out his hand for my teacup, “that these profound reflections of yours are connected with the Hornby affair; in which case I should expect to hear that the riddle is solved and the mystery made plain.”

“Why should you expect that?” I demanded, reddening somewhat, I suspect, as I met his twinkling eye.  There was something rather disturbing in the dry, quizzical smile that I encountered and the reflection that I had been under observation, and I felt as much embarrassed as I should suppose a self-conscious water-flea might feel on finding itself on the illuminated stage of a binocular microscope.

“My dear fellow,” said Thorndyke, “you have not spoken a word for the last quarter of an hour; you have devoured your food with the relentless regularity of a sausage-machine, and you have, from time to time, made the most damnable faces at the coffee-pot—­though there I’ll wager the coffee-pot was even with you, if I may judge by the presentment that it offers of my own countenance.”