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lons into poor Uncle Ira。
She had never hated any one in her life before； but as she stood there at that moment she felt that she loathed and detested William Lord Dawlishunhappy； well…meaning Bill； who only a few hours back had set foot on American soil in his desire to nose round and see if something couldn't be arranged。
Nutty fetched the water。 Life is like that。 There is nothing clean…cut about it； no sense of form。 Instead of being permitted to concentrate his attention on his tragedy Nutty had to trudge three…quarters of a mile； conciliate a bull…terrier； and trudge back again carrying a heavy pail。 It was as if one of the heroes of Greek drama； in the middle of his big scene； had been asked to run round the corner to a provision store。
The exercise did not act as a restorative。 The blow had been too sudden； too overwhelming。 Nutty's reasonsuch as it wastottered on its throne。 Who was Lord Dawlish？ What had he done to ingratiate himself with Uncle Ira？ By what insidious means； with what devilish cunning； had he wormed his way into the old man's favour？ These were the questions that vexed Nutty's mind when he was able to think at all coherently。
Back at the farm Elizabeth cooked breakfast and awaited her brother's return with a sinking heart。 She was a soft…hearted girl； easily distressed by the sight of suffering； and she was aware that Nutty was scarcely of the type that masks its woes behind a brave and cheerful smile。 Her heart bled for Nutty。
There was a weary step outside。 Nutty entered； slopping water。 One glance at his face was enough to tell Elizabeth that she had formed a too conservative estimate of his probable gloom。 Without a word he coiled his long form in a chair。 There was silence in the stricken house。
'What's the time？'
Elizabeth glanced at her watch。
'Half…past nine。'
'About now；' said Nutty； sepulchrally； 'the blighter is ringing for his man to prepare his bally bath and lay out his gold…leaf underwear。 After that he will drive down to the bank and draw some of our money。'
The day passed wearily for Elizabeth。 Nutty having the air of one who is still engaged in picking up the pieces； she had not the heart to ask him to play his customary part in the household duties； so she washed the dishes and made the beds herself。 After that she attended to the bees。 After that she cooked lunch。
Nutty was not chatty at lunch。 Having observed 'About now the blighter is cursing the waiter for bringing the wrong brand of champagne；' he relapsed into a silence which he did not again break。
Elizabeth was busy again in the afternoon。 At four o'clock； feeling tired out； she went to her room to lie down until the next of her cycle of domestic duties should e round。
It was late when she came downstairs； for she had fallen asleep。 The sun had gone down。 Bees were winging their way heavily back to the hives with their honey。 She went out into the grounds to try to find Nutty。 There had been no signs of him in the house。 There were no signs of him about the grounds。 It was not like him to have taken a walk； but it seemed the only possibility。 She went back to the house to wait。 Eight o'clock came； and nine； and it was then the truth dawned upon herNutty had escaped。 He had slipped away and gone up to New York。
6
Lord Dawlish sat in the New York flat which had been lent him by his friend Gates。 The hour was half…past ten in the evening； the day； the second day after the exodus of Nutty Boyd from the farm。 Before him on the table lay a letter。 He was smoking pensively。
Lord Dawlish had found New York enjoyable； but a trifle fatiguing。 There was much to be seen in the city； and he had made the mistake of trying to see it all at once。 It had been his intention； when he came home after dinner that night； to try to restore the balance of things by going to bed early。 He had sat up longer than he had intended； because he had been thinking about this letter。
Immediately upon his arrival in America； Bill had sought out a lawyer and instructed him to write to Elizabeth Boyd； offering her one…half of the late Ira Nutbe's money。 He had had time during the voyage to think the whole matter over； and this seemed to him the only possible course。 He could not keep it all。 He would feel like the despoiler of the widow and the orphan。 Nor would it be fair to Claire to give it all up。 If he halved the legacy everybody would be satisfied。
That at least had been his view until Elizabeth's reply had arrived。 It was this reply that lay on the tablea brief； formal note； setting forth Miss Boyd's absolute refusal to accept any portion of the money。 This was a development which Bill had not foreseen； and he was feeling baffled。 What was the next step？ He had smoked many pipes in the endeavour to find an answer to this problem； and was lighting another when the door…bell rang。
He opened the door and found himself confronting an extraordinarily tall and thin young man in evening…dress。
Lord Dawlish was a little startled。 He had taken it for granted； when the bell rang； that his visitor was Tom； the liftman from downstairs； a friendly soul who hailed from London and had been dropping in at intervals during the past two days to acquire the latest news from his native land。 He stared at this changeling inquiringly。 The solution of the mystery came with the stranger's first words
'Is Gates in？'
He spoke eagerly； as if Gates were extremely necessary to his well…being。 It distressed Lord Dawlish to disappoint him； but there was nothing else to be done。
'Gates is in London；' he said。
'What！ When did he go there？'
'About four months ago。'
'May I e in a minute？'
'Yes； rather； do。'
He led the way into the sitting…room。 The stranger gave abruptly in the middle； as if he were being folded up by some invisible agency； and in this attitude sank into a chair； where he lay back looking at Bill over his knees； like a sorrowful sheep peering over a sharp…pointed fence。
'You're from England； aren't you？'
'Yes。'
'Been in New York long？'
'Only a couple of days。'
The stranger folded himself up another foot or so until his knees were higher than his head； and lit a cigarette。
'The curse of New York；' he said； mournfully； 'is the way everything changes in it。 You can't take your eyes off it for a minute。 The population's always shifting。 It's like a railway station。 You go away for a bit and e back and try to find your old pals； and they're all gone： Ike's in Arizona； Mike's in a sanatorium； Spike's in jail； and nobody seems to know where the rest of them have got to。 I came up from the country two days ago； expecting to find the old gang along Broadway the same as ever； and I'm dashed if I've been able to put my hands on one of them！ Not a single； solitary one of them！ And it's only six months since I was here last。'
Lord Dawlish made sympathetic noises。
'Of course；' proceeded the other； 'the time of year may have something to do with it。 Living down in the country you lose count of time； and I forgot that it was July； when people go out of the city。 I guess that must be what happened。 I used to know all sorts of fellows； actors and fellows like that； and they're all away somewhere。 I tell you；' he said； with pathos； 'I never knew I could be so infernally lonesome as I have been these last two days。 If I had known what a rotten time I was going to have I would never have left Brookport。'
'Brookport！'
'It's a place down on Long Island。'
Bill was not by nature a plotter； but the mere fact of travelling under an assumed name had developed a streak of wariness in him。 He checked himself just as he was about to ask his panion if he happened to know a Miss Elizabeth Boyd； who also lived at Brookport。 It occurred to him that the question would invite a counter…question as to his own knowledge of Miss Boyd； and he knew that he would not be able to invent a satisfactory answer to that offhand。
'This evening；' said the thin young man； resuming his dirge； 'I was sweating my brain to try to think of somebody I could hunt up in this ghastly； deserted city。 It isn't so easy； you know； to think of fellows' names and addresses。 I can get the names all right； but unless the fell