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distant cousin or something. Brought up with us because she was an orphan.”
    Once more a slow tide of colour suffused the bronzed skin.
    Drake thought, “Hello-o-?”
    He said: “Is she married?”
    “She was. Married that fellow Nevile Strange.”
    “Fellow who plays tennis and racquets and all that?”
    “Yes. She divorced him.”
    “And you're going home to try your luck with her,” thought Drake.
    Mercifully he changed the subject of the conversation.
    “Going to get any fishing or shooting?”
    “Shall go home first. Then I thought of doing a bit of sailing down at Saltcreek.”
    “I know it. Attractive little place. Rather a decent old-fashioned hotel there.”
    “Yes. The Balmoral Court. May stay there, or may put up with friends who've got a house there.”
    “Sounds all right to me.”
    “Ah, hum. Nice peaceful place, Saltcreek. Nobody to hustle you.”
    “I know,” said Drake. “The kind of place where nothing ever happens.”
    May 29th.
    “It is really most annoying,” said old Mr. Treves, “For twenty-five years now I have been to the Marine Hotel at Leahead - and now, would you believe it, the whole place is being pulled down. Widening the front or some nonsense of that kind. Why they can't let these seaside places alone - Leahead always had a peculiar charm of its own - Regency - pure Regency.”
    Rufus Lord said consolingly: “Still, there are other places to stay there, I suppose?”
    “I really don't feel, I can go to Leahead at all. At the Marine, Mrs. Mackay understood my requirements perfectly. I had the same rooms every year - and there was hardly ever a change in the service. And the cooking was excellent -quite excellent.”
    “What about trying Saltcreek? There's rather a nice old-fashioned hotel there. The Balmoral Court. Tell you who keeps it. Couple of the name of Rogers. She used be cook to old Lord Mounthead - he had the best dinners in London. She married the butler and they run this hotel now. It sounds to me just your kind of place. Quiet - none of these jazz bands - and first-class cooking and service.”
    “It's an idea - it's certainly an idea. Is there a sheltered terrace?”
    “Yes - a covered-in verandah and a terrace beyond. You can get sun or shade as you prefer. I can give you some introductions in the neighbourhood, too, if you like. There's old Lady Tressilian - she lives almost next door. A charming house and she herself is a delightful woman in spite of bring very much of an invalid.”
    “The judge's widow, do you mean?” “That's it.”
    “I used to know Matthew Tressilian, and I think I've met her. A charming woman - though, of course, that's a long time ago. Saltcreek is near St. Loo, isn't it? I've several friends in that part of the world. Do you know, I really think Saltcreek is a very good idea? I shall write and get particulars. The middle of August is when I wish to go there - the middle of August to the middle of September. There is a garage for the car, I suppose? And my chauffeur?”
    “Oh, yes. It's thoroughly up-to-date.”
    “Because, as you know, I have to be careful about walking uphill. I should prefer rooms on the ground floor, though I suppose there is a lift.”
    “Oh, yes, all that sort of thing.”
    “It sounds,” said Mr. Treves, “as though it would solve my problem perfectly. And I should enjoy renewing my acquaintance with Lady Tressilian.”
    July 28th.
    Kay Strange, dressed in shorts and a canary-coloured woolly, was leaning forward watching the tennis players. It was the semi-final of the St. Loo tournament, men's singles, and Nevile was playing young Merrick, who was regarded as the coming star in the tennis firmament. His brilliance was undeniable - some of his serves quite un-returnable - but he occasionally struck a wild patch, when the older man's experience and court craft won the day.
    The score was three-all in the final set.
    Slipping on to a seat next to Kay, Ted Latimer observed in a lazy, ironic voice: