“It isn’t as absurd as it sounds.  She does look for people—­with her ears.  She knows a footstep that no one else can hear.  What were you doing at Dudley yesterday?”

Narramore took his pipe out of its case and smiled over it.

“Colours well, doesn’t it?” he remarked.  “You don’t care about the colouring of a pipe?  I get a lot of satisfaction out of such little things!  Lazy fellows always do; and they have the best of life in the end.  By-the-bye, what were you doing at Dudley?”

“Had to go over with a girl.”

“Rather a pretty girl, too.  Old acquaintance?”

“Someone I got to know in London.  No, no, not at all what you suppose.”

“Well, I know you wouldn’t talk about it.  It isn’t my way, either, to say much about such things.  But I half-promised, not long ago, to let you know of something that was going on—­if it came to anything.  And it rather looks as if it might.  What do you think!  Birching has been at me, wanting to know why I don’t call.  I wonder whether the girl put him up to it?”

“You went rather far, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I drew back in time.  Besides, those ideas are old-fashioned.  It’ll have to be understood that marriageable girls have nothing specially sacred about them.  They must associate with men on equal terms.  The day has gone by for a hulking brother to come asking a man about his ‘intentions.’  As a rule, it’s the girl that has intentions.  The man is just looking round, anxious to be amiable without making a fool of himself.  We’re at a great disadvantage.  A girl who isn’t an idiot can very soon know all about the men who interest her; but it’s devilish difficult to get much insight into them—­until you’ve hopelessly committed yourself—­won’t you smoke?  I’ve something to tell you, and I can’t talk to a man who isn’t smoking, when my own pipe’s lit.”

Hilliard obeyed, and for a few moments they puffed in silence, twilight thickening about them.

“Three or four months ago,” resumed Narramore, “I was told one day —­at business—­that a lady wished to see me.  I happened to have the room to myself, and told them to show the lady in.  I didn’t in the least know who it could be, and I was surprised to see rather a good-looking girl—­not exactly a lady—­tallish, and with fine dark eyes—­what did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“A twinge of gout?”

“Go on.”

Narramore scrutinised his friend, who spoke in an unusual tone.

“She sat down, and began to tell me that she was out of work—­ wanted a place as a bookkeeper, or something of the kind.  Could I help her?  I asked her why she came to me.  She said she had heard of me from someone who used to be employed at our place.  That was flattering.  I showed my sense of it.  Then I asked her name, and she said it was Miss Madeley.”

A gust threw rain against the windows.  Narramore paused, looking into the fire, and smiling thoughtfully.