The Wharf by the Docks. Florence Warden
out of his pocket and folded it for reading. "But I've written to him already this morning, explaining things, and telling him that I propose to come down to The Beeches this evening. He'll get it before I turn up, I should think, for I posted it at six o'clock this morning."
"Why, what were you doing at six o'clock in the morning?" said Max, in a tone of bewilderment, as before. "Didn't you go to bed at all last night?"
"No," answered Dudley, calmly. "I had some worrying things to think about, and so I took the night to do it in."
A slight frown passed over his face as he spoke, but it disappeared quickly, leaving him as placid as before.
"About one of the things I can consult you, Max. You know something about it, I suppose. Do you think I have any chance with Doreen?"
Max stared at him again.
"You must be blind if you haven't seen that you have," he said, at last, in a sort of muffled voice, grudgingly. He moved uneasily in his seat, and added, in a hurried manner: "But, I say, you know, Dudley, after last night, I—I want to ask you something myself. I'm Doreen's brother, though I'm not much of a brother for such a nice girl as she is. And—and—what on earth did you think of going to Liverpool for with a woman? I've a right to ask that now, haven't I?"
Max blurted out these words in a dogged tone, not deterred from finishing his sentence by the fact that Dudley's face had grown white and hard, and that over his whole attitude there had come a rapid change.
There was a pause when the younger man had finished. Dudley kept his eyes down, and traced a pattern on the table-cloth with a fork, while Max looked at him furtively. At last Dudley looked up quickly and asked, in a tone which admitted of no prevarication in the answer he demanded:
"You have been playing the spy upon me, I see. Tell me just how much you saw."
It was such a straightforward way of coming to the point that Max, taken aback, but rather thankful that the ground was to be cleared a little, answered at once without reserve:
"I did play the spy. It was enough to make me. I saw the hansom waiting outside your door last night; the cabman mistook me for you, and told me the lady had walked away. I couldn't help putting that together with what you had told me about seeing a friend off to Liverpool, and, perhaps, going there yourself. Now, who could have helped it?"
Dudley did not at once answer. He just glanced inquiringly at the face of Max while he went on tracing the pattern on the cloth.
"You didn't see the lady," he said at last, not in a questioning tone, but with conviction.
"No."
"Well, if you had seen her you would have been satisfied that it was not her charms which were leading me astray," said he, with a faint smile. "Are you satisfied now, or do you still consider," he went on with a slight tone of mockery in his voice, "that my character requires further investigation before you can accept me for a brother-in-law?"
Max moved uneasily again.
"What rot, Horne!" said he, impatiently. "You know very well I've always wanted you to marry Doreen. I've said so, lots of times. I still say it was natural I should want to understand your queer goings-on last night. And now—and now—"
"And now that you don't understand them any better than before, you are ready to take it for granted it's all right?" broke in Dudley, with the same scoffing tone as before.
Max grew very red, began to speak, glanced at Dudley, and got up.
"Yes, I suppose that's about the size of it," said he, stiffly.
"And are you going down with me to-night? I can catch the seven o'clock train."
"Oh, yes, I suppose so. I'll meet you at Charing Cross."
Max's enthusiasm on his friend's behalf had been much damped by his behavior, and he gave him a nod, turned on his heel and left him without another word. He gave up trying to understand the mystery which hung about Dudley, and left it to Doreen and to his father to unravel.
The two young men did not meet again, therefore, until seven that evening, when they took their seats in the same smoking-carriage. Max felt quite glad that the presence of a couple of strangers prevented any talk of a confidential sort between himself and Dudley, who on his side seemed perfectly contented to puff at his pipe in silence.
Dudley's letter had evidently been received, and well received, for at the station the two friends found the dog-cart waiting to take them the mile and a half which lay between the station and The Beeches.
At the house itself, too, the front door flew open at their approach, and Mr. Wedmore himself stood in the hall to welcome them.
Queenie was there. Mr. Wedmore was there. But there was never a glimpse of Doreen.
"I got your letter, my dear boy," began Mr. Wedmore, holding out his hand with so much heartiness that it was plain he was delighted to be able to forgive his old friend's son, "and I am very glad, indeed, that you have found your way back to us so soon. I am heartily glad to hear that the worries which have been making you depressed lately are over—heartily glad. And so, I am sure," added he, with a significant smile, "Doreen will be."
"Thank you, sir," said Dudley. "You are very kind, very indulgent. I am not ungrateful, I assure you."
Max, behind them, was listening with attentive ears. He did not feel so sure as his father seemed to be that all was now well with Dudley.
"Where's Doreen?" he asked his younger sister.
"Don't know, I'm sure. She's taken herself off somewhere. Probably somebody else will find her quicker than you will."
The younger sister was right. The younger sister always is on these occasions.
Within five minutes of his arrival, Dudley found his way into the breakfast room, where Doreen, a pug dog and a raven were sitting together on the floor, surrounded by a frightful litter of paper and shavings and string, wooden boxes, hampers, and odds and ends of cotton wool.
She just looked up when Dudley came in, gave him a glance and a little cool nod, and then, as he attempted to advance, uttered a shrill little scream.
"One step farther, and my wax cupids will be ruined!"
"Wax cupids!" repeated Dudley, feebly.
"Yes, for my Christmas tree. It's to be the greatest success ever known in these parts, or the greatest failure. Nothing between. That's what I must always have—something sensational—something to make people howl at me, or to make them want to light bonfires in my honor. That's characteristic, isn't it?"
And Doreen, who was dressed in a black skirt, with a scarlet velvet bodice which did justice to her brilliant complexion and soft, dark hair, paused in the act of turning out a number of glittering glass balls into her lap.
"Very," said Dudley, as he made his way carefully to the nearest chair and sat down to look at her.
He was up to his knees in brown-paper parcels, over which barricade he stretched out his hand.
Doreen affected not to see it. She began to tie bits of fancy string into the little rings in the glass balls, cutting off the ends with a pair of scissors.
"Aren't you going to shake hands with me?" asked Dudley, impatiently.
Doreen answered without looking tip.
"No. Not yet."
"What's the matter now?"
"Oh, I am offended."
"What have I done now?"
Doreen threw up her head.
"What have you not done? We have all of us—I among the others—had a good deal to put up with from you, lately, in the matter of what I will call general neglect. And you put a climax to it the day before yesterday by rushing out of the house without a word of