mood for Hobbes; he tried again.  On this third occasion he found something very much more to his taste, namely the second Volume of Anthony Hamilton’s Memoirs of Count Grammont.  This he laid upon his knee, and began glancing through the pages while he speculated upon the mystery of the Major’s disappearance.  His thoughts, however, lagged in a now well-worn circle, they begot nothing new in the way of a suggestion.  On the other hand the book was quite new to him.  He became less and less interested in his thoughts, more and more absorbed in the Memoirs.  There were passages marked with a pencil-line in the margin, and marked, thought Sir Charles, by a discriminating judge.  He began to look only for the marked passages, being sure that thus he would most easily come upon the raciest anecdotes.  He read the story of the Count’s pursuit by the brother of the lady he was affianced to.  The brother caught up the Count when he was nearing Dover to return to France.  “You have forgotten something,” said the brother.  “So I have,” replied Grammont.  “I have forgotten to marry your sister.”  Sir Charles chuckled and turned over the pages.  There was an account of how the reprobate hero rode seventy miles into the country to keep a tryst with an inamorata and waited all night for no purpose in pouring rain by the Park gate.  Sir Charles laughed aloud.  He turned over more pages, and to his surprise came across, amongst the marked passages, a quite unentertaining anecdote of how Grammont lost a fine new suit of clothes, ordered for a masquerade at White Hall.  Sir Charles read the story again, wondering why on earth this passage had been marked; and suddenly he was standing by the window, holding the book to the light in a quiver of excitement.  Underneath certain letters in the words of this marked passage he had noticed dents in the paper, as though by the pressure of a pencil point.  Now that he stood by the light, he made sure of the dents, and he saw also by the roughness of the paper about them, that the pencil-marks had been carefully erased.  He read these underlined letters together—­they made a word, two words—­a sentence, and the sentence was an assignation.

Sir Charles could not remember that the critical moment in any of his great engineering undertakings, had ever caused him such a flutter of excitement, such a pulsing in his temples, such a catching of his breath—­no, not even the lowering of Charles’ Chest into the Waters of Tangier harbour.  Everything at once became exaggerated out of its proportions, the silence of the house seemed potential and expectant, the shadows in the room now that the sun was low had their message, he felt a queer chill run down his spine like ice, he shivered.  Then he hurried to the door, locked it and sat down to a more careful study.  And as he read, there came out before his eyes a story—­a story told as it were in telegrams, a story of passion, of secret meetings, of gratitude for favours.