“Very naturally!” murmured Ravenslee.

“An’ we must tell her something—­but what?”

“Spike, you’ve forgotten the mustard!  And as for—­er—­lying to your sister, let our motto be ‘sufficient unto the day.’  Our present need is mustard, Spike.”

“Say, this sure is goin’ t’ be some supper, Geoff!” said Spike, setting on the mustard and gazing at the array of edibles with shining eyes.  “Gee, I could eat cold turkey all night!”

“Have we everything ready, Spike?”

“Except butter, Geoff.”

“Ha! the one thing I forgot, of course!  Cut off and get some like the good fellow you are!” and Ravenslee flicked a bill into Spike’s hand, who, seizing his cap, promptly vanished.  Being alone, Ravenslee crossed to the sideboard, and taking thence a certain photograph, seated himself in the easy-chair and fell to studying it with deep and grave attention.  And sitting thus, he let fancy run riot—­and fancy was singularly pleasing to judge by the glow in his eyes and the tender smile that curved his lip.

He was lost deep within his dreams when he was aware of a loud knock upon the outer door which Spike had left unlatched and, replacing the photograph, he rose.

“Come in!” said he.  A heavy step sounded in the little hall, the door was pushed open, and a man entered.  He was a young man, big and broad-shouldered, and Ravenslee’s keen eyes were quick to heed the length and ponderous carriage of the arms, the girth of chest, and firm, heavy poise of the feet; lastly he looked at the face, aggressively handsome with its dominating nose and chin, and blue eyes shaded by thick lashes, that looked out beneath heavy brows—­a comely-seeming face from the dark, close-cropped hair to the deep cleft in the strong, fleshy chin.

But now, beneath Ravenslee’s persistent regard, the full-curved, shapely lips grew slowly into a cruel, down-trending line, the nostrils expanded, while the blue eyes narrowed to shining slits beneath quick-scowling, black brows.  For a long moment the two men stared at each other, eye to eye, then, in a hoarse, assertive tone the newcomer spoke.

“What you doin’ here?  Who are ye?”

Mr. Ravenslee sat down and began to fill his pipe.

“Where’s d’ Kid?”

Mr. Ravenslee brushed stray grains of tobacco from his knee with elaborate care.

“Hey, you!  Where’s Spike—­’n’ what you doin’ here, anyway?”

Mr. Ravenslee glanced up casually.  “And pray, who the devil may you be pleased to be?” he enquired.

“Me name’s M’Ginnis!”

“Oh, indeed?”

“Yes—­indeed!  Bud M’Ginnis—­Is that good ’nuff for ye?”

“Well, since you ask,” said Ravenslee, shaking languid head, “I should scarcely class you as a ‘bud’ myself.  No—­I should say you were perhaps just a trifle—­er—­overblown.  But have it your own way!” and Mr. Ravenslee smiled engagingly.

“Where’s Spike?” demanded M’Ginnis, his tone a little gruffer, “and say—­you can cut out the comedy, see?  Nix on the funny business.”