“I beg pardon!” Shiel murmured.

“Mr. Barnett promised to assist me.  He came over here with me, and we chose this site.”

“Is he an old man?” Shiel inquired, a trifle anxiously.

“Not much more than middle aged—­fifty perhaps!” Gladys said, “though he looks much younger.  He is still very good-looking.  Well! he came over here—­we chose this site, and—­”

“Is he married?”

“No!  Really you seem very interested in him.  Perhaps you will meet him some day:  he comes here a good deal.  As I was saying, we chose the site together, and he supervized the plans I drew up for the garden and cottage; I don’t think, perhaps, I should have thought of that avenue if it hadn’t been for him!”

“At all events it does you both credit,” Shiel remarked, “for a more charming house and garden I have never seen.  I should like to live here all my life.  I should like—­” but he was interrupted by John Martin.  “Come, it’s time we were off,” the latter called out brusquely, “time and trains wait for no man!”

“A young ass!” John Martin whispered in Gladys’ ear, as the trio passed through the entrance of the railway station on to the platform, “not a bit of good to me.  Don’t encourage him, whatever you do!”

“Encourage him!” Gladys retorted indignantly, seeing that Shiel, who had his ticket to get, was out of hearing.  “Do I encourage any one?  All the same,” she added defiantly, “I rather like him.  It isn’t every one’s good fortune to be as smart as you, John Martin.  Quick—­hurry up!  That’s your train—­and the guard’s about to blow his whistle.”

With a vigorous push she hustled her father into the first compartment they came to, and Shiel sprang in after him as the train moved out of the station.

An hour later Gladys, looking extremely demure and proper, was rapping with a daintily gloved hand at the inquiry office in the great stone lobby of the Modern Sorcery Company’s building in Cockspur Street.

“Have you an appointment, madam?” the commissionaire, in a bright blue uniform, asked.

“No,” Gladys replied.  “Is it necessary?

“The firm are unusually busy,” the man explained, “and unless you have made an appointment with them some days beforehand, it is doubtful whether they will be able to see you.  However, if you will step into the waiting room and fill in one of the forms you see on the table, I will take it to them.  Which member of the firm have you come to consult?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Gladys said.  “I want to have a dream interpreted.”

“Then, that will be Mr. Kelson,” the man observed “he does all that kind of thing—­tells dreams, characters, pasts, and reads thoughts.  Mr. Curtis solves all manner of puzzles and tricks; and Mr. Hamar divines the presence of metals and water.  There is a lady in the waiting-room now, come to have a dream interpreted.  She’s been there nearly an hour.  This way, madam!”—­and he escorted, rather than ushered, Gladys into a large, elaborately furnished room, in which a dozen or so well dressed people—­of both sexes—­were waiting, looking over the leaves of magazines and journals, and trying in vain to hide their only too obvious excitement.