The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

great witch elm, and watching, with great interest, a single-handed match being played between Rolleston and Peterson, both of whom were capital players. Mr. Frettlby was not present. He was inside writing letters, and talking with old Mr. Valpy, and Brian gave a sigh of relief as he noted his absence. Madge caught sight of him as he came down the garden path, and flew quickly towards him with outstretched hands, as he took his hat off.

      “How good of you to come,” she said, in a delighted tone, as she took his arm, “and on such a hot day.”

      “Yes, it’s something fearful in the shade,” said pretty Mrs. Rolleston, with a laugh, putting up her sunshade.

      “Pardon me if I think the contrary,” replied Fitzgerald, bowing, with an expressive look at the charming group of ladies under the great tree.

      Mrs. Rolleston blushed and shook her head.

      “Ah! it’s easy seen you come from Ireland, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she observed, as she resumed her seat. “You are making Madge jealous.”

      “So he is,” answered Madge, with a gay laugh. “I shall certainly inform Mr. Rolleston about you, Brian, if you make these gallant remarks.”

      “Here he comes, then,” said her lover, as Rolleston and Peterson, having finished their game, walked off the tennis ground, and joined the group under the tree. Though in tennis flannels, they both looked remarkably warm, and, throwing aside his racket, Mr. Rolleston sat down with a sigh of relief.

      “Thank goodness it’s over, and that I have won,” he said, wiping his heated brow; “galley slaves couldn’t have worked harder than we have done, while all you idle folks sat SUB TEGMINE FAGI.”

      “Which means?” asked his wife, lazily.

      “That onlookers see most of the game,” answered her husband, impudently.

      “I suppose that’s what you call a free and easy translation,” said Peterson, laughing. “Mrs. Rolleston ought to give you something for your new and original adaptation of Virgil.”

      “Let it be iced then,” retorted Rolleston, lying full length on the ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the network of leaves. “I always like my ‘something’ iced.”

      “It’s a way you’ve got,” said Madge, with a laugh, as she gave him a glass filled with some sparkling, golden-coloured liquor, with a lump of ice clinking musically against the side of it.

      “He’s not the only one who’s got that way,” said Peterson, gaily, when he had been similarly supplied.

      “It’s a way we’ve got in the army,

       It’s a way we’ve got in the navy,

       It’s a way we’ve got in the ‘Varsity.”

      “And so say all of us,” finished Rolleston, and holding out his glass to be replenished; “I’ll have another, please. Whew, it is hot.”

      “What, the drink?” asked Julia, with a giggle.

      “No—the day,” answered Felix, making a face at her. “It’s the kind of day one feels inclined to adopt Sydney Smith’s advice, by getting out of one’s skin, and letting the wind whistle through one’s bones.”

      “With such a hot wind blowing,” said Peterson, gravely, “I’m afraid they’d soon be broiled bones.”

      “Go, giddy one,” retorted Felix, throwing his hat at him, “or I’ll drag you into the blazing sun, and make you play another game.”

      “Not I,” replied Peterson, coolly. “Not being a salamander, I’m hardly used to your climate yet, and there is a limit even to lawn tennis;” and turning his back on Rolleston, he began to talk to Julia Featherweight.

      Meanwhile, Madge and her lover, leaving all this frivolous chatter behind them, were walking slowly towards the house, and Brian was telling her of his approaching departure, though not of his reasons for it.

      “I received a letter last night,” he said, turning his face away from her; “and, as it’s about some important business, I must start at once.”

      “I don’t think it will be long before we follow,” answered Madge, thoughtfully. “Papa leaves here at the end of the week.”

      “Why?”

      “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Madge, petulantly; “he is so restless, and never seems to settle down to anything. He says for the rest of his life he is going to do nothing; but wander all over the world.”

      There suddenly flashed across Fitzgerald’s mind a line from Genesis, which seemed singularly applicable to Mr. Frettlby—“A fugitive and a vagabond thou shalt be in the earth.”

      “Everyone gets these restless fits sooner or later,” he said, idly. “In fact,” with an uneasy laugh, “I believe I’m in one myself.”

      “That puts me in mind of what I heard Dr. Chinston say yesterday,” she said. “This is the age of unrest, as electricity and steam have turned us all into Bohemians.”

      “Ah! Bohemia is a pleasant place,” said Brian, absently, unconsciously quoting Thackeray, “but we all lose our way to it late in life.”

      “At that rate we won’t lose our way to it for some time,” she said laughing, as they stepped into the drawing-room, so cool and shady, after the heat and glare outside.

      As they entered Mr. Frettlby rose from a chair near the window. He appeared to have been reading, for he held a book in his hand.

      “What! Fitzgerald,” he exclaimed, in a hearty tone, as he held out his hand; “I am glad to see you.”

      “I let you know I am living, don’t I?” replied Brian, his face flushing as he reluctantly took the proffered hand. “But the fact is I have come to say good-bye for a few days.”

      “Ah! going back to town, I suppose,” said Mr. Frettlby, lying back in his chair, and playing with his watch chain. “I don’t know that you are wise, exchanging the clear air of the country for the dusty atmosphere of Melbourne.”

      “Yet Madge tells me you are going back,” said Brian, idly toying with a vase of flowers on the table.

      “Depends upon circumstances,” replied the other carelessly. “I may and I may not. You go on business, I presume?”

      “Well, the fact is Calton—” Here Brian stopped suddenly, and bit his lip with vexation, for he had not intended to mention the lawyer’s name.

      “Yes?” said Mr. Frettlby, interrogatively, sitting up quickly, and looking keenly at Brian.

      “Wants to see me on business,” he finished, awkwardly.

      “Connected with the sale of your station, I suppose,” said Frettlby, still keeping his eyes on the young man’s face.

      “Can’t have a better man. Calton’s an excellent man of business.”

      “A little too excellent,” replied Fitzgerald, ruefully, “he’s a man who can’t leave well alone.”

      “A PROPOS of what?”

      “Oh, nothing,” answered Fitzgerald, hastily, and just then his eyes met those of Frettlby. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, but in that short space of time a single name flashed through their brains—the name of Rosanna Moore. Mr. Frettlby was the first to lower his eyes, and break the spell.

      “Ah, well,” he said, lightly, as he rose from his chair and held out his hand, “if you are two weeks in town, call at St. Kilda, and it’s more than likely you will find us there.”

      Brian shook hands in silence, and watched him pick up his hat, and move on to the verandah, and then out into the hot sunshine.

      “He