[Illustration:  “He passed his cup up for more coffee.”]

“You’re not looking yourself,” ventured Mr. Chalk, after a time.

His wife received the information silence.

“I’ve noticed it for some time,” said the thoughtful husband, making another effort.  “It’s worried me.”

“I’m not getting younger, I know,” assented Mrs. Chalk.  “But if you think that that’s any excuse for your goings on, you’re mistaken.”

Mr. Chalk murmured something to the effect that he did not understand her.

“You understand well enough,” was the reply.  “When that girl came whistling over the fence last night you said you thought it was a bird.”

“I did,” said Mr. Chalk, hastily taking a spoonful of egg.

Mrs. Chalk’s face flamed.  “What sort of bird?” she demanded.

“Singin’ bird,” replied her husband, with nervous glibness.

Mrs. Chalk left the room.

Mr. Chalk finished his breakfast with an effort, and then, moving to the window, lit his pipe and sat for some time in moody thought.  A little natural curiosity as to the identity of the fair whistler would, however, not be denied, and the names of Binchester’s fairest daughters passed in review before him.  Almost unconsciously he got up and surveyed himself in the glass.

“There’s no accounting for tastes,” he said to himself, in modest explanation.

His mind still dwelt on the subject as he stood in the hall later on in the morning, brushing his hat, preparatory to taking his usual walk.  Mrs. Chalk, upstairs listening, thought that he would never have finished, and drew her own conclusions.

With the air of a man whose time hangs upon his hands Mr. Chalk sauntered slowly through the narrow by-ways of Binchester.  He read all the notices pasted on the door of the Town Hall and bought some stamps at the post-office, but the morning dragged slowly, and he bent his steps at last in the direction of Tredgold’s office, in the faint hope of a little conversation.

To his surprise, Mr. Tredgold senior was in an unusually affable mood.  He pushed his papers aside at once, and, motioning his visitor to a chair, greeted him with much heartiness.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” he said, cheerfully.  “I want you to come round to my place at eight o’clock to-night.  I’ve just seen Stobell, and he’s coming too.”

“I will if I can,” said Mr. Chalk.

“You must come,” said the other, seriously.  “It’s business.”

“Business!” said Mr. Chalk.  “I don’t see—­”

“You will to-night,” said Mr. Tredgold, with a mysterious smile.  “I’ve sent Edward off to town on business, and we sha’n’t be interrupted.  Goodbye.  I’m busy.”

He shook hands with his visitor and led him to the door; Chalk, after a vain attempt to obtain particulars, walked slowly home.

Despite his curiosity it was nearly half-past eight when he arrived at Mr. Tredgold’s that evening, and was admitted by his host.  The latter, with a somewhat trite remark about the virtues of punctuality, led the way upstairs and threw open the door of his study.