how he had balked Sir Lionel.  And as nothing was further than boasting from Bertram Ingledew’s gentle nature, and as Philip and Frida both held their peace for good reasons of their own, the baronet never attempted in any way to rake up the story of his grotesque disgrace on what he considered his own property.  All he did was to double the number of keepers on the borders of his estate, and to give them strict notice that whoever could succeed in catching the “damned radical” in flagrante delicto, as trespasser or poacher, should receive most instant reward and promotion.

During the next few weeks, accordingly, nothing of importance happened, from the point of view of the Brackenhurst chronicler; though Bertram was constantly round at the Monteiths’ garden for afternoon tea or a game of lawn-tennis.  He was an excellent player; lawn-tennis was most popular “at home,” he said, in that same mysterious and non-committing phrase he so often made use of.  Only, he found the racquets and balls (very best London make) rather clumsy and awkward; he wished he had brought his own along with him when he came here.  Philip noticed his style of service was particularly good, and even wondered at times he did not try to go in for the All England Championship.  But Bertram surprised him by answering, with a quiet smile, that though it was an excellent amusement, he had too many other things to do with his time to make a serious pursuit of it.

One day towards the end of June, the strange young man had gone round to The Grange—­that was the name of Frida’s house—­for his usual relaxation after a very tiring and distressing day in London, “on important business.”  The business, whatever it was, had evidently harrowed his feelings not a little, for he was sensitively organised.  Frida was on the tennis-lawn.  She met him with much lamentation over the unpleasant fact that she had just lost a sister-in-law whom she had never cared for.

“Well, but if you never cared for her,” Bertram answered, looking hard into her lustrous eyes, “it doesn’t much matter.”

“Oh, I shall have to go into mourning all the same,” Frida continued somewhat pettishly, “and waste all my nice new summer dresses.  It’s such a nuisance!”

“Why do it, then?” Bertram suggested, watching her face very narrowly.

“Well, I suppose because of what you would call a fetich,” Frida answered laughing.  “I know it’s ridiculous.  But everybody expects it, and I’m not strong-minded enough to go against the current of what everybody expects of me.”

“You will be by-and-by,” Bertram answered, with confidence.  “They’re queer things, these death-taboos.  Sometimes people cover their heads with filth or ashes; and sometimes they bedizen them with crape and white streamers.  In some countries, the survivors are bound to shed so many tears, to measure, in memory of the departed; and if they can’t bring them up naturally in sufficient