Mark Driver had not the least suspicion.  He sat with one elbow on the table, one hand supporting his chin, his handsome, alert face wearing the somewhat grave expression suitable to his professional environment.  His visit to Grandison Square the previous evening alone would have been enough to prove, if proof were necessary, that Carrissima remained blissfully ignorant of that trivial act of folly in Golfney Place.  An excellent test had been provided.  Bridget’s departure had been freely discussed, and Carrissima had not shown the slightest embarrassment.  She had bidden him “good-bye” at eleven o’clock, and Colonel Faversham had encouraged him to come again before many days.  They were always pleased to see him!

“But who in the world has been making an accusation?” asked Mark.

“Sybil—­at least it originated with Carrissima,” said Jimmy.

“My dear chap,” retorted Mark warmly, “surely you must know that Carrissima is the very last person to make an accusation, founded or unfounded, against anybody.”

“I should have thought so,” Jimmy admitted.

“Whom is it against?”

“Bridget.  I am bound to bring it out,” said Jimmy.  “The fact is Carrissima insists that you two have been gulling us all.  To put it plainly, she declares there has been what she rather euphemistically calls ‘an understanding’ between you from first to last.”

Mark was on his feet before Jimmy ceased speaking, but even now he did not perceive the real inwardness of the situation.  The statement sounded incredible.  If there was one fact of which this somewhat sceptical man was absolutely convinced, it was that whether Carrissima loved him well enough to marry him or not, she at least entertained the very highest opinion of him.

“You must be dreaming!” he cried.  “Carrissima could never have said anything of the kind.”

“Anyhow,” answered Jimmy, “I had it from Sybil an hour or so ago.”

“But, my dear fellow,” Mark expostulated, “it’s simply inconceivable.  Carrissima knows that Bridget is nothing to me.  To tell you the truth, I had my own reasons for going out of my way to tell her so.”

“You thought it necessary!” exclaimed Jimmy hastily.

“Oh well,” said Mark, “I had fallen into the habit of going to Golfney Place rather often—­that was before I went to Yorkshire—­as far back as January.  Carrissima had the idea that I admired the girl; so I did, for that matter—­who wouldn’t?  But she could never have told Sybil that!  She couldn’t think anything of the sort without setting me down as a thorough-paced liar at the least.”

“The odd part of it is,” replied Jimmy, “that, according to Sybil, Carrissima went in for particulars.”

“Oh, let me hear them,” said Mark, sitting down again.

He was just beginning to wonder.  Was it possible that Carrissima had not dropped those flowers until after she had obtained a glimpse of the interior of Bridget’s sitting-room?  But, even so, she could never build such an abominable theory on that ludicrously insufficient evidence.