Honora could not help laughing.  And Mr. Shorter leaned back in his revolving chair and laughed, too, in so alarming a manner as to lead her to fear he would fall over backwards.  But Mr. Cuthbert, who did not appear to perceive the humour in this conversation, extracted some keys and several pasteboard slips from a rack in the corner.  Suddenly Mr. Shorter jerked himself upright again, and became very solemn.

“Where’s my hat?” he demanded.

“What do you want with your hat?” Mr. Cuthbert inquired.

“Why, I’m going with you, of course,” Mr. Shorter replied.  “I’ve decided to take a personal interest in this matter.  You may regard my presence, Cuthbert, as justified by an artistic passion for my profession.  I should never forgive myself if Mrs. Spence didn’t get just the right house.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Cuthbert, “I’ll manage that all right.  I thought you were going to see the representative of a syndicate at eleven.”

Mr. Shorter, with a sigh, acknowledged this necessity, and escorted Honora gallantly through the office and across the sidewalk to the waiting hansom.  Cuthbert got in beside her.

“Jerry’s a joker,” he observed as they drove off, “you mustn’t mind him.”

“I think he’s delightful,” said Honora.

“One wouldn’t believe that a man of his size and appearance could be so fond of women,” said Mr. Cuthbert.  “He’s the greatest old lady-killer that ever breathed.  For two cents he would have come with us this morning, and let a five thousand dollar commission go.  Do you know Mrs. Shorter?”

“No,” replied Honora.  “She looks most attractive.  I caught a glimpse of her at the polo that day with you.”

“I’ve been at her house in Newport ever since.  Came down yesterday to try to earn some money,” he continued, cheerfully making himself agreeable.  “Deuced clever woman, much too clever for me and Jerry too.  Always in a tete-a-tete with an antiquarian or a pathologist, or a psychologist, and tells novelists what to put into their next books and jurists how to decide cases.  Full of modern and liberal ideas—­believes in free love and all that sort of thing, and gives Jerry the dickens for practising it.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Honora.

Mr. Cuthbert, however, did not appear to realize that he had shocked her.

“By the way,” he asked, “have you seen Cecil Grainger since the Quicksands game?”

“No,” she replied.  “Has Mr. Grainger been at Quicksands since?”

“Nobody knows where he’s been,” answered Mr. Cuthbert.  “It’s a mystery.  He hasn’t been home—­at Newport, I mean-for a fortnight.  He’s never stayed away so long without letting any one know where he is.  Naturally they thought he was at Mrs. Kame’s in Banbury, but she hasn’t laid eyes on him.  It’s a mystery.  My own theory is that he went to sleep in a parlour car and was sent to the yards, and hasn’t waked up.”

“And isn’t Mrs. Grainger worried?” asked Honora.