"I think it was nothing more than a queer chance."
"You believe Jim's story? You believe all that about his mother and grandmother?"
"Yes, of course; but I think what happened the other night was just chance."
"But you must admit, Reginald, that David Marsh, who received the marked card, has had a peck of trouble served to him since that night."
"Yes. That is more queer chance—a very strange coincidence."
"You are a firm believer in chance, evidently. Or is it that you call everything chance that you can't explain?"
Reginald sighed profoundly. "Chance," he said—"why, chance is chance. It was chance that you and I met this morning. It was just chance that David's luck should turn, or that some one with a grudge against him should get busy, just after that marked card turned up."
Old Wigmore smiled and nodded.
"I, too, am a great believer in what you call chance," he said. "But here we are, my boy. I see Miss Harley on the veranda, in a very becoming and seasonable jacket of red wool. No doubt she'll be able to find you a saucepan. Good morning, Reginald."
Captain Wigmore lifted his hat to the young woman on the veranda, and then turned aside and moved briskly away. Rayton also lifted his hat, but he continued to advance. Upon reaching the steps leading up to the veranda he uttered a choking sound of embarrassment and concern, for it was quite evident that Nell Harley had been weeping recently. But the right to refer to this lamentable fact was not his. He must hide his pity and tender curiosity.