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They parted well before midnight, Gaythorpe to travel by taxicab to Waterloo and thence to his home at Hindhead, and Edgar to walk home through the deserted streets. Gaythorpe went his way still ignorant of the identity of Edgar's correspondent; but by his adroit questioning he had increased Edgar's preoccupation with the subject of that letter. It had been a perfectly simple letter, containing an account of various Stock-buying experiments which had come to disaster, a list of securities held, a statement of immediate need, and a request for advice. The writer of the letter had need of several thousand pounds, and if he were to sell the stock he held it would involve him in still further loss. Therefore, although Edgar had been technically truthful in saying that there had been no request for a loan, he had no doubt at all that the fitting reply to the letter would be an offer of assistance.

But why a bank had not been asked to advance money on the securities, which would have been the normal course to adopt, Edgar did not understand. Had the writer been a close personal friend, he could have seen the whole thing clearly, and his offer would have been immediate. But the letter was from Monty Rosenberg. Edgar was deeply perplexed. What was Monty's object in applying to him? That there must be some definite object he did not question. He could not suppose that Monty ever did anything without purpose; and in addition, he felt sure that Monty was a man to conceal from his acquaintances any hint that he was embarrassed.

Something, Edgar felt sure, was afoot. He walked home in a brown study.

Only once did he smile; and that was when he recollected Gaythorpe's curiosity. Gaythorpe, he remembered, had been curious not only about Monty, but also about the hypothetical attractive person whom it would have been a pleasure to help. Strange that he should have made so much of this point. Working, Edgar supposed, from the words "young and attractive," Gaythorpe had taken it for granted that this person was a woman—no doubt the fly-away girl who was to marry Edgar against his will. For an instant it seemed that Gaythorpe must have been hinting at some story, because in general he was not one of those arch sentimentalists who wink and curvet about the subject of marriage. Edgar gave a little laughing grunt as he walked.

"Silly old man," he thought. "I wonder what put all that nonsense into his head."

Perhaps Edgar was not quite as candid with himself as he should have been and as he generally was. He strode at a rapid pace along the ringing pavements; and the fresh wind that met him came deliciously cordial to his cheeks and lungs. Although he was not tall—about five feet eight—Edgar was sturdily built, and he loved walking. And in London the night hours are the best for that exercise. He was refreshed and invigorated. By the time he was half way down the Brompton Road Edgar had dismissed the subjects of Monty and the unknown from his mind; and thereafter all his thoughts were of business affairs until he reached home. All of them? Very nearly all. Some few, perhaps, he spared for Patricia; but he hardly was conscious when he thought of her, so familiar was he with the subject.