To-day he felt quite queerly at a loose end.  This perhaps, partly because the lately widowed Mrs. Crofton, with whom he had spent a good deal of his time since his arrival in London three weeks ago, had left town.  She had not gone far, only to the Surrey village where he himself was going on Friday.

When pretty Mrs. Crofton had told Radmore that she had taken a house at Beechfield, he had been very much surprised and taken aback.  It had seemed to him an amazing coincidence that the one place in the wide world which to him was home should have been chosen by her.  But at once she had reminded him, in her pretty little positive way, that it was he himself who, soon after they had become first acquainted in Egypt, had drawn such an attractive picture of the Surrey village.  That, in fact, was why, in July—­it was now late September—­when she, Enid Crofton, had had to think of making a new home, Beechfield had seemed to her the ideal place.  If only she could hear of a house to let there!  And by rare good chance there had been such a house—­The Trellis House!  A friend had lent her a motor, and she had gone down to look at it one August afternoon, and there and then had decided to take it.  It was so exactly what she wanted—­a delightful, old, cottagy place, yet with all modern conveniences, lacking, alas! only electric light.

All this had happened, so she had explained, after her last letter to him, for she and Radmore had kept up a desultory correspondence.

And now, with Janet Tosswill’s voice still sounding in his ears, Godfrey Radmore was not altogether sorry to feel a touch of loneliness, for at times his good fortune frightened him.

Not only had he escaped through the awful ordeal of war with only one bad wound, while many of his friends and comrades—­the best and bravest, the most happily young, had fallen round him—­but he had come back to find himself transformed from a penniless adventurer into a very rich man.  An old Brisbane millionaire, into whose office he had drifted in the January of 1914, and with whom he had, after a fashion, made friends, had re-made his will in the memorable autumn of that year, and had left Radmore half his vast fortune.  Doubtless many such wills were made under the stress of war emotion, but—­and it was here that Radmore’s strange luck had come in—­the maker of this particular will had died within a month of making it.  And, as so often happens to a man who had begun by losing what little he had owing to folly and extravagance, Godfrey Radmore, though exceptionally generous and kindly, now lived well within his means, and had, if anything, increased his already big share of this world’s goods.

Now that he was home for good, he intended to buy a nice old-fashioned house with a little shooting, and perchance a little fishing.  The place, though not at Land’s End, must yet not be so near London that a fellow would be tempted to be always going to town.  It seemed to him amazing that he now had it within his power to achieve what had always been his ideal.  But when he had acquired exactly the kind of place he wanted to find, what those whom he had set seeking for him had assured him with such flattering and eager earnestness he would very soon discover—­what then?  Did he mean to live there alone?  He thought yes, for he did not now feel drawn to marriage.