“And me,” Hamel admitted, watching the car until it became a speck in the distance.

“He was fairly well cornered,” Gerald concluded, as they made their way back to the dining-room, “but it isn’t like him to let go of anything so easily.”

“So you’ve seen the last of our guest,” Mr. Fentolin remarked, as Hamel and Gerald re-entered the dining-room.  “A queer fellow—­almost a new type to me.  Dogged and industrious, I should think.  He hadn’t the least right to travel, you know, and I think so long as we had taken the trouble to telephone to Norwich, he might have waited to see the physician.  Sarson was very angry about it, but what can you do with these fellows who are never ill?  They scarcely know what physical disability means.  Well, Mr. Hamel, and how are you going to amuse yourself to-day?”

“I had thought of commencing some reading I brought with me,” Hamel replied, “but Miss Esther has challenged me to another game of golf.”

“Excellent!” Mr. Fentolin declared.  “It is very kind of you indeed, Mr. Hamel.  It is always a matter of regret for me that society in these parts is so restricted.  My nephew and niece have little opportunity for enjoying themselves.  Play golf with Mr. Hamel, by all means, my dear child,” he continued, turning to his niece.  “Make the most of this glorious spring weather.  And what about you, Gerald?  What are you doing to-day?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet, sir,” the boy replied.

Mr. Fentolin sighed.

“Always that lack of initiative,” he remarked.  “A lack of initiative is one of your worst faults, I am afraid, dear Gerald.”

The boy looked up quickly.  For a moment it seemed as though he were about to make a fierce reply.  He met Mr. Fentolin’s steady gaze, however, and the words died away upon his lips.

“I rather thought,” he said, “of going into Norwich, if you could spare me.  Captain Holt has asked me to lunch at the Barracks.”

Mr. Fentolin shook his head gently.

“It is most unfortunate,” he declared.  “I have a commission for you later in the day.”

Gerald continued his breakfast in silence.  He bent over his plate so that his face was almost invisible.  Mr. Fentolin was peeling a peach.  A servant entered the room.

“Lieutenant Godfrey, sir,” he announced.

They all looked up.  A trim, clean-shaven, hard-featured young man in naval uniform was standing upon the threshold.  He bowed to Esther.

“Very sorry to intrude, sir, at this hour of the morning,” he said briskly.  “Lieutenant Godfrey, my name.  I am flag lieutenant of the Britannia.  You can’t see her, but she’s not fifty miles off at this minute.  I landed at Sheringham this morning, hired a car and made the best of my way here.  Message from the Admiral, sir.”

Mr. Fentolin smiled genially.

“We are delighted to see you, Lieutenant Godfrey,” he said.  “Have some breakfast.”