But Max and Kenneth did not meet; the troubles at Dunroe seemed to keep them separate. Still, there was always a feeling on the part of both that some day they would be the best of friends once more, and the money question be something that was as good as forgotten.
One day, Max, who had six months previously been summoned to London on very important business, received a letter which had followed him from Cambridge to the dingy old house in Lincoln’s Inn.
The young man’s face flushed as he opened and read the long epistle, whose purport was that The Mackhai had gone to Baden-Baden for a couple of months, that the writer was alone at his father’s chambers, and asking Max to renew some of their old friendly feeling by coming to stay with him for a few days.
Six months before, Max would have declined at once, but now he wrote accepting the invitation with alacrity.
It was for the next day but one, and in due course Max drove up with his portmanteau, and was ushered by a red-haired, curly-headed footman to Kenneth’s room.
“The maister’s not in,” said the footman; “but she was to—I was to say that he’d soon be pack—back, and—”
“Why, Scoody, I didn’t know you,” cried Max. “How you have grown!”
“Yes, she’s—I mean, sir, I have grown a good deal and master says I haven’t done.”
There was the rattle of a latch-key in the outer door, and a tall, handsome young fellow, thoroughly soldierly-looking in every point, strode into the room.
“Max, old chap!” he cried, catching his hands and standing shaking them heartily. “Why, what a great—I say, what a beard.”