“To the moated Grange?” inquired Aubrey.

“Yes, to the Grange.  Helen will await me there.  But why do you call it ‘moated’?  We do not boast a moat.”

Aubrey laughed.  “I suppose my thoughts had run to ‘Mariana.’  You remember?  ‘He cometh not,’ she said; the young woman who grew tired of waiting.  They do, sometimes, you know!  I believe her grange was moated.  All granges should be moated; just as all old manors should be haunted.  What a jolly time you and Helen must have in that lovely old place.  I knew it well as a boy.”

“You must come and stay with us,” said Ronnie, with an effort.

“Thanks, dear chap.  Delighted.  Has Helen kept well during your absence?”

“Quite well.  She wrote as often as she could, but there was a beastly long time when I could get no letters.  Hullo!—­I say!”

Ronnie stood up suddenly, the light of remembrance on his thin face, and began plunging his hands into the many pockets of his Norfolk coat.

“I found a letter from Helen at the Poste Restante, here; but owing to my absorption in the Infant, I clean forgot to read it!  Heaven send I haven’t dropped it anywhere!”

He stood with his back to the stove, hunting vaguely, but feverishly, in all his pockets.

Aubrey smoked on, watching him without stirring.

Aubrey was wishing that Helen could know how long her letter had remained unread, owing to the Infant of Prague.

At length Ronnie found the letter—­a large, square foreign envelope—­safely stowed away in his pocket-book, in the inner breast-pocket of his coat.

“Of course,” he said.  “I remember.  I put it there when I was writing Zimmermann’s cheque.  You will excuse me if I read it straight away?  There may be something requiring a wire.”

“Naturally, my dear fellow; read it.  Cousins need not stand on ceremony; and the Infant now being thoroughly in tune, your mind is free to spare a thought or two to Helen.  Don’t delay another moment.  There may be a message in the letter for me.”

Ronnie drew the thin sheets from the envelope in feverish haste.

As he did so, a folded note fell from among them unseen by Ronnie, and dropped to the floor close to Aubrey’s foot.

Ronnie began reading; but black spots danced before his eyes, and Helen’s beautiful clear writing zig-zagged up and down the page.

Presently his vision cleared a little and he read more easily.

Suddenly he laughed, a short, rather mirthless, laugh.

“What’s up?” inquired Aubrey Treherne.

“Oh, nothing much; only I suppose I’m in for a lecture again!  Helen says:  ’Ronald’—­” Ronnie lifted his eyes from the paper.  “What a nuisance it is to own that kind of name.  As a small boy I was always ‘Ronnie’ when people were pleased, and ‘Ronald’ if I was in for a wigging.  The feeling of it sticks to you all your life.”