When at last Mrs. Crofton had had to explain regretfully to clever, capable Piper that she could no longer afford to keep him on, they had parted the best of friends.  She had made him the handsome present of twenty-five pounds, for he had been a most excellent servant to her late husband.  And she had done more than that.  She had gone to a good deal of trouble to procure him an exceptionally good situation.  Piper had just gone there, and she hoped, rather anxiously, that he would do well in it.

The man had one serious fault—­now and again he would go off and have a good “drunk.”  Sometimes he wouldn’t do this foolish, stupid thing for months, and then, perchance, he would do it two weeks running!  Colonel Crofton, so hard in many ways, had been indulgent to this one fault, or vice, in an otherwise almost perfect servant.  When giving Piper a very high character Mrs. Crofton had just hinted that there had been a time when he had taken a drop too much, but she had spoken of it as being absolutely in the past.  Being the kind of woman she was, she wouldn’t have said even that, had it not been that Piper had got disgracefully drunk within a week of his master’s death.  She had been very much frightened then, though not too frightened to stay, herself, within hail of the man till he had come round, and to make him a cup of strong coffee.  When, at last, he was fit to do so, he had uttered broken words of gratitude, really touched at her kindness, and frightfully ashamed of himself.

Lying there, wide awake, in the darkness and utter stillness of Beechfield village, Enid Crofton reminded herself that she had treated Piper very well.  In memory of the master whom he had served she had also given him, before selling off her husband’s kennel, two prize-winners.  But it is sometimes a mistake to be too kind, for on receiving this last generous gift the man had hinted that with a little capital he could set up dog-breeding for himself!  She had had to tell him, sadly but firmly, that she could not help him to any ready money, and Piper had been what she now vaguely described to herself as “very nice” about it, though obviously disappointed.

At the end of their little chat, however, he had said something which had made her feel rather uncomfortable:—­“I was wondering, ma’am, whether Major Radmore might perhaps be inclined for a little speculation?  I wouldn’t mind paying, say, up to ten per cent, if ’e’d oblige me with a loan of five hundred pounds.”

She had been astonished at the suggestion—­astonished and unpleasantly taken aback.  He had surprised her further by going on:—­“I believe as what the Major is coming ’ome soon, ma’am.  Perhaps then I might venture to ask you to say a word for me?  Major Radmore was known in the regiment as a very kind gentleman.”

“I’ll do what I can, Piper.”  She had said the words with apparent earnestness, but, deep in her heart, she had thought the request totally unreasonable.