It was dusk, and the figure of the man who had rung had retreated some half a dozen paces from the door, so that at first she could not distinguish him.

    "Oh, is that you, Arthur? Come in, won't you? Father's gone to bed."

    "I guessed he had."

    Mr Arthur Wilmot waited until she had switched on the light in the studio before he came in.

    "You went to town today?"

    "Did you see me?" she asked quickly.

    "No. Somebody told me; I think it was Merrivan. And did you hear about our Canadian geologist? He is quite an important burglar; important enough to have a man like Andrew Macleod looking for him. He's the pathologist."

    "Who is Andrew Macleod?" she asked. She knew at once that Andrew Macleod was the man with the grey eyes, but she wanted to be sure.

    "He's a detective. Well, he's not exactly a detective; I believe he's a doctor—a pathologist. He only takes the big cases, and the professor is a pretty big man in his business. 'Scottie' I think they call him; at least, that is how Mr Macleod addressed him."

    "I must have seen him at the station," she said; "rather a good-looking man with peculiar eyes."

    "I wouldn't call Scottie good looking," said Wilmot, and she was so confused that she did not correct the mistaken impression he had formed.

    "I can't ask you to stay very long," she said. "We have lost our domestic staff."

    "Again?" he said in surprise. "Oh no, that's too bad! Really I think your father is impossible. That means you've got to be cook and housemaid until you get somebody in."

    "With a penitent parent most anxious to assist," she said savagely, "and all the time getting in my way! It is one of the crosses we have to bear, and father is really a wonderful darling when—"

    It was on the tip of the young man's tongue to ask when was Mr Nelson ever completely sober. He was too wise, however, to let it go any further. Yet not so wise, as it transpired.

    "To what part of the city did you go?" he asked.

    She was over by the desk, tidying her papers.

    "Why?" she asked, looking across at him.

    "Oh, I—just asked—" he said lamely. "I wish I'd known you were in town. We'd have gone to lunch somewhere."

    "I have a soul above food when I go to the city," she said. "What is it you do, Arthur?" she went on. "I have asked you that question more or less obliquely before. Permit me the luxury of a real indiscretion. Is it an indiscretion to ask you what you do for a living?"

    He was silent.

    "I just do things," he said vaguely.

    "Have you an office?"

    He hesitated, then nodded.

    "Yes, I have an office," he said.

    "Where?"

    She saw the quick pucker of brow, and then:

    "Mostly I use other people's offices. I have any number of friends, and my—" he stopped again. "I see my clients as near their homes as I can."

    "You're not a lawyer and you're not a doctor." She ticked off the two professions on her fingers. "You're not a broker. Really, Arthur, you're almost as mysterious as"—a silence—"as Mr Scottie, as you call him, our poor professor. And now," she said briskly, "I think you had better go. I am not a stickler for the proprieties"—there was a bump overhead, and she looked up—"but when my parent has finally retired—I think he is just taking his boots off—you will have to retire also."

    "I suppose," he began awkwardly, "you haven't thought any more—about—I don't want to rush or take advantage of—of things—"

    She looked at him kindly enough, and took him in from the top of his tidy hair to the points of his polished shoes. He had a broad face and a small black moustache (it sometimes reminded Stella of a black caterpillar that had come to rest across his upper lip), and there were times when he appeared a little ridiculous. For some reason he was not so tonight and her heart went out to him in sympathy.

    "I have thought about it, Arthur," she said quietly, "but it is wholly impossible. I really do not want to marry anybody. And now go home and forget all about it."

    He sat, his eyes looking at the floor, his fingertips touching, and a silence followed, she did not care to break in upon thoughts which she guessed were not too happy.

    Suddenly:

    "Now, Stella, perhaps you had better drop that little-boy-don't-bother attitude," he said. "You're a woman and I'm a man.