“What the dickens are you talking about, Cleek?  And what does all that gibberish and that word ‘Ayupee’ mean?”

“Nothing—­nothing.  At least, just yet.  I say, put on your hat, and let’s go for a pull on the river, Mr. Narkom.  I’ve had enough of mysteries for to-day and am spoiling for another hour in a boat.”

Then he screwed round on his heel and walked out into the brilliant summer sunshine.

CHAPTER IV

Promptly, at the hour appointed, “Mr. Jim Rickaby” and his black servant arrived at Laburnam Villa; and certainly the former had no cause to complain of the welcome he received at the hands of his beautiful young hostess.

He found her not only an extremely lovely woman to the eye, but one whose gentle, caressing ways, whose soft voice and simple girlish charm were altogether fascinating, and, judging from outward appearances, from the tender solicitude for her elderly husband’s comfort and well-being, from the look in her eyes when she spoke to him, the gentleness of her hand when she touched him, one would have said that she really and truly loved him, and that it needed no lure of gold to draw this particular May to the arms of this one December.

He found Captain Travers a laughing, rollicking, fun-loving type of man—­at least, to all outward appearances—­who seemed to delight in sports and games and to have an almost childish love of card tricks and that species of entertainment which is known as parlour magic.  He found the three other members of the little house-party—­to wit:  Mrs. Somerby-Miles, Lieutenant Forshay, and Mr. Robert Murdock—­respectively, a silly, flirtatious, little gadfly of a widow; a callow, love-struck, lap-dog, young army officer, with a budding moustache and a full-blown idea of his own importance; and a dour Scotchman of middle age, with a passion for chess, a glowering scorn of frivolities, and a deep and abiding conviction that Scotland was the only country in the world for a self-respecting human being to dwell in, and that everything outside of the Established Church was foredoomed to flames and sulphur and the perpetual prodding of red-hot pitchforks.  And last, but not least by any means, he found Mr. Michael Bawdrey just what he had been told he would find him, namely, a dear, lovable, sunny-tempered old man, who fairly idolised his young wife and absolutely adored his frank-faced, affectionate, big boy of a son, and who ought not, in the common course of things, to have an enemy or an evil wisher in all the world.

The news, which, of course, had preceded Cleek’s arrival, that this whilom college chum of his son’s was as great an enthusiast as he himself on the subject of old china, old porcelain, bric-a-brac and curios of every sort, filled him with the utmost delight, and he could scarcely refrain from rushing him off at once to view his famous collection.

“Michael, dear, you mustn’t overdo yourself just because you happen to have been a little stronger these past two days,” said his wife, laying a gentle hand upon his arm.  “Besides, we must give Mr. Rickaby time to breathe.  He has had a long journey, and I am sure he will want to rest.  You can take him in to see that wonderful collection after dinner, dear.”