Andrew, who had left an hour or so earlier, was sitting in the library smoking a pipe when his host returned.
"Not gone to bed yet, then?" Duncombe remarked. "Let me make you a whisky and soda, old chap. You look a bit tired."
"Very good of you—I think I will," Andrew answered. "And, George, are you sure that I should not be putting you out at all if I were to stay—say another couple of days with you?"
Duncombe wheeled round and faced his friend. His reply was not immediate.
"Andrew," he said, "you know very well that I haven't a pal in the world I'd sooner have here than you for just as long as you choose to stay, but—forgive me if I ask you one question. Is it because you want to watch Miss Fielding that you have changed your mind?"
"That has a good deal to do with it, George," Andrew said quietly. "If I left without meeting that young lady again I should be miserable. I want to hear her speak when she does not know that any one is listening."
Duncombe crossed the room and laid his hand upon the other's shoulder.
"Andrew, old fellow," he said, "I can't have it. I can't allow even my best friend to spy upon Miss Fielding. You see—I've come a bit of a cropper. Quick work, I suppose, you'd say. But I'm there all the same."
"Who wants to spy upon Miss Fielding?" Andrew exclaimed hoarsely. "She can be the daughter of a multi-millionaire or a penniless adventurer for all I care. All I want is to be sure that she isn't Phyllis Poynton."
"You are not yet convinced?"