On the morrow, Miss.  French, attired as a walking advertisement of the South London Fashionable Dress Supply Association, betook herself to Farringdon Street for an interview with her commercial friend.  Crewe was absent, but one of three clerks, who occupied his largest room, informed her that it could not be very long before he returned, and being so familiar a figure here, she was permitted to wait in the agent’s sanctum.  When the door closed upon her, the three young men discussed her character with sprightly freedom.  Beatrice, the while, splendidly indifferent to the remarks she could easily divine, made a rapid examination of loose papers lying on Crewe’s desk, read several letters, opened several books, and found nothing that interested her until, on turning over a slip of paper with pencilled figures upon it, she discovered a hotel-bill, the heading:  Royal Hotel, Falmouth.  It was for a day and night’s entertainment, the debtor ‘Mr. Crewe,’ the date less than a week gone by.  This document she considered attentively, her brows knitted, her eyes wide.  But a sound caused her to drop it upon the desk again.  Another moment, and Crewe entered.

He looked keenly at her, and less good-humouredly than of wont.  These persons never shook hands, and indeed dispensed, as a rule, with all forms of civility.

‘What are you staring at?’ asked Crewe bluffly.

‘What are you staring at?’

‘Nothing, that I know.’  He hung up his hat, and sat down.  ’I’ve a note to write; wait a minute.’

The note written, and given to a clerk, Crewe seemed to recover equanimity.  His visitor told him all that happened in De Crespigny Park, even to the crudest details, and they laughed together uproariously.

‘I’m going to take a flat,’ Beatrice then informed him.  ’Just find me something convenient and moderate, will you?  A bachelor’s flat.’

‘What about Fanny?’

’She has something on; I don’t know what it is.  Talks about going to Brussels—­with a friend.’

Crewe looked astonished.

’You ought to see after her.  I know what the end ’ll be.  Brussels?  I’ve heard of English girls going there, but they don’t usually come back.’

’What can I do?  I’m pretty certain that Damerel woman has a game on hand.  She doesn’t want Fanny to marry her nephew—­if Lord is her nephew.  She wants his money, that’s my idea.’

‘Mine, too,’ remarked the other quietly.  ’Look here, old chap, it’s your duty to look after your little damned fool of a sister; I tell you that plainly.  I shan’t think well of you if you don’t.’

Beatrice displayed eagerness to defend herself.  She had done her best; Fanny scorned all advice, and could not be held against her will.

‘Has she given up all thought of Lord?’

’I’m not sure, but I think so.  And it looks as if he was going his own way, and didn’t care much.  He never writes to her now.  Of course it’s that woman’s doing.’