“Like most Americans, you jump at conclusions,” was the ungracious reply.

“And, like most Americans, I’m right nearly all the time,” said Handyside dryly.

“Surely one can hardly discuss such a matter.”

“Why not?  If a proposition sounds hard, chew on it, and may be you’ll get your teeth into it somehow.”

Theydon nearly allowed himself to become angry.  Was his hopeless admiration for Evelyn Forbes so patent that a sharp-eyed stranger could discern it after a brief hour in their company?

“Millionaires’ daughters marry poor men only in novels and on the stage,” he said bitterly.  “In real life, and in England, they take unto themselves titles and landed estates.”

“I guess Wong Li Fu will have to round you up some more,” was the cryptic answer, and Handyside forthwith plunged airily into some wholly different topic.

At Scotland Yard they inquired for Furneaux, and were told he had not reported at headquarters since the early afternoon.  So Theydon was introduced to another representative of the department, and handed over the typed note; the detective promised that its purport should be telephoned to Croydon without delay.

When the two reached the Embankment again, Theydon felt unaccountably tired, and was minded to take leave of his companion then and there.  But Handyside placed an unerring finger on the cause of his weariness.

“Say, Mr. Theydon,” he cried, “I don’t know what food product arrangements you’ve made all day, but I couldn’t have eaten less since breakfast if Wong Li Fu was sitting over me with a pistol.  How about a square meal?  Come to my hotel, and I’ll start the chef on a nice little menoo while we’re having a wash and a brush up.”

“By Jove!  Now I know what is the matter with me,” was the astonishing answer.  “I have lunched and dined on a cup of tea at Eastbourne.”

“Guess I’m fifteen years older than you, so I knew my trouble all the time.  Those people in Fortescue Square were so rattled that they never thought of asking us to eat.  Come right along.  It’s only a step.”

“I’ll come with pleasure.  I owe you some money, too, which I was nearly forgetting.”

“What do you owe for?”

“Railway tickets, and taxis, and motor-cycles, to begin with.”

“No, sir,” said the American decisively.  “I’ve had the cheapest day’s amusement I’ve ever dreamed of.  On balance I owe you one sovereign.  As for those half-tickets from Eastbourne I wouldn’t sell them for dollars and cents.  When I get back to my home, 21,097 Park Avenue, Chicago, I’ll have those bits of cardboard framed, and when some particular friend asks the reason I’ll tell him, suppressing names of course, and he’ll go away thinking that George T. Handyside is the biggest liar in the State of Illinois, which is some pumpkin, you bet.”

“What beats me,” rejoined Theydon, “is how you remember where you live.  You must have a marvelous head for figures.”