Max moved uneasily again.

“What rot, Horne!” said he, impatiently.  “You know very well I’ve always wanted you to marry Doreen.  I’ve said so, lots of times.  I still say it was natural I should want to understand your queer goings-on last night.  And now—­and now—­”

“And now that you don’t understand them any better than before, you are ready to take it for granted it’s all right?” broke in Dudley, with the same scoffing tone as before.

Max grew very red, began to speak, glanced at Dudley, and got up.

“Yes, I suppose that’s about the size of it,” said he, stiffly.

“And are you going down with me to-night?  I can catch the seven o’clock train.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so.  I’ll meet you at Charing Cross.”

Max’s enthusiasm on his friend’s behalf had been much damped by his behavior, and he gave him a nod, turned on his heel and left him without another word.  He gave up trying to understand the mystery which hung about Dudley, and left it to Doreen and to his father to unravel.

The two young men did not meet again, therefore, until seven that evening, when they took their seats in the same smoking-carriage.  Max felt quite glad that the presence of a couple of strangers prevented any talk of a confidential sort between himself and Dudley, who on his side seemed perfectly contented to puff at his pipe in silence.

Dudley’s letter had evidently been received, and well received, for at the station the two friends found the dog-cart waiting to take them the mile and a half which lay between the station and The Beeches.

At the house itself, too, the front door flew open at their approach, and Mr. Wedmore himself stood in the hall to welcome them.

Queenie was there.  Mr. Wedmore was there.  But there was never a glimpse of Doreen.

“I got your letter, my dear boy,” began Mr. Wedmore, holding out his hand with so much heartiness that it was plain he was delighted to be able to forgive his old friend’s son, “and I am very glad, indeed, that you have found your way back to us so soon.  I am heartily glad to hear that the worries which have been making you depressed lately are over—­heartily glad.  And so, I am sure,” added he, with a significant smile, “Doreen will be.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Dudley.  “You are very kind, very indulgent.  I am not ungrateful, I assure you.”

Max, behind them, was listening with attentive ears.  He did not feel so sure as his father seemed to be that all was now well with Dudley.

“Where’s Doreen?” he asked his younger sister.

“Don’t know, I’m sure.  She’s taken herself off somewhere.  Probably somebody else will find her quicker than you will.”

The younger sister was right.  The younger sister always is on these occasions.

Within five minutes of his arrival, Dudley found his way into the breakfast room, where Doreen, a pug dog and a raven were sitting together on the floor, surrounded by a frightful litter of paper and shavings and string, wooden boxes, hampers, and odds and ends of cotton wool.