"I'm glad you found the cigars and the whiskey, Stafford. Have you been waiting long: sorry to keep you."
Howard laughed as he wrung his friend's hand.
"I thought I should surprise you, old man; but I flattered myself," said Stafford.
"Nothing surprises me; but I'll admit to being rather pleased at seeing you," drawled Howard, pushing him gently buck in the chair. "Have you—er—walked from Australia, or flown?"
Stafford stared.
"Oh, I see! You mean I came so quickly on my letter? I started directly after I posted it, but lost the mail at Southampton. I—I got a restless fit, and was obliged to come."
"Got it now?" drawled Howard. "Or perhaps the journey has cooled you down. Have you eaten? I can get something—"
"Yes, yes," said Stafford, rather impatiently. "Got dinner at the hotel. I came on here at once: heard you'd gone to a dance, and thought I'd wait. I want you to do something for me, Howard—I'll tell you all my news some other time—not that there's much to tell: I'm well and nourishing, as you see. I want you to go down to Bryndermere. I dare not go myself—not yet. I want you to get all the information you can about—about a lady: Miss Heron of Herondale—"
"How very strange!" said Howard innocently. "Do you know, I have just had the pleasure of meeting a Miss Heron of Herondale—"
Stafford sprang to his feet.