"Yes, thrust into the heart--devilish queer case. The Morning Planet seems to think the unfortunate beggar came from India." "Who told the 'M.P.' so?" "No one, apparently; it is a theory based on the fact that the man's clothes smelled of sandal-wood." "Bosh! there's plenty of sandal-wood in England." "No doubt; but Englishmen are not by way of scenting their clothes with it. I shouldn't be surprised to find that the Planet was right. At all events it's some sort of clue." Aldean shook his head. "I thought you said it was a theory?" "So it is; but a theory may develop into a clue," retorted Mallow, lighting another cigarette. "If only I had the time, there is nothing I would like better than to follow up a case like this." "Well, surely you have the time?" "I have not; I am giving you what spare moments I have." "You are--now. But at Casterwell Miss Bellairs, I guess, will see a good deal more of you than I shall. The moth and the candle, eh?" "Not at all, Aldean; your simile is quite inapt. I am not a moth, neither can Miss Bellairs be compared to a candle. She is not the kind of girl to scorch any poor butterfly that flutters round her." "All right, old chap, you needn't take one quite so seriously. But as you do, I may as well be serious too. Do you know I am thinking of getting married?" "No; that's news to me. And whom do you intend to honour so far, may I ask?" "Miss Ostergaard, if she concurs." Aldean heaved a huge sigh. "By George! she's a ripping girl." "Certainly, you might do worse," replied Laurence, musingly. "She's a very good girl, and clever too. Does she reciprocate?" "I don't know; she laughs at me." "That may be just her method of showing her affection. She will be hard to please if she is not satisfied with a titled Hercules like you." "Oh, I don't think she bothers in the least about the title," said his lordship, dolefully, "she is quite a radical, a--a--what do you call it--Anarchist, you know. Dr. Drabble has been converting her. He's a proselytising beast, that Drabble."
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