The Count next morning consumed a solitary breakfast, his noble friend having risen some hours previously and gone for an early walk upon the hill. But he was far from feeling any trace of boredom, since an open letter beside his plate appeared to provide him with an ample fund of pleasant and entertaining reflections.

“I have not withered yet,” he said to himself. “Here is proof positive that some blossom, some aroma remains!”

The precise terms of this encouraging epistle were these:

“THE LASH, near NETHERBRIG.

“Tuesday night.

“DEAR COUNT BUNKER,—Forgive what must seem to you INCREDIBLE boldness (!), and do not think worse of me than I deserve. It seems such a pity that you should be so near and yet that I should lose this chance of gratifying my great desire. If you knew how I prized the name of Bunker you would understand; but no doubt I am only one among many, and you do understand better than I can explain.

“My father is away from home, and the WORLD dictates prudence; but I know your views on conventionality are those I too have learned to share, so will you come and see me before you leave Scotland?

“With kindest regards and in great haste because I want you to get this to-morrow morning. Believe me, yours very sincerely,

“JULIA WALLINGFORD.”

“P.S.—If it would upset your arrangements to come only for the day, Miss Minchell agrees with me that we could easily put you up.—J. W.”

“By Jingo!” mused the Count, “that's what I call a sporting offer. Her father away from home, and Count Bunker understanding better than she can explain! Gad, it's my duty to go!”

But besides the engaging cordiality of Miss Wallingford's invitation, there was something about the letter that puzzled almost as much as it cheered him.

“She prizes the name of Bunker, does she? Never struck me it was very ornamental; and in any case the compliment seems a trifle stretched. But, hang it! this is looking a gift-horse in the mouth. Such ardor deserves to be embraced, not dissected.”

He swiftly debated how best to gratify the lady. Last night it had been his own counsel, and likewise the Baron's desire, to leave by the night mail that very evening, with their laurels still unfaded and blessings heaped upon their heads. Why not make his next stage The Lash?

“Hang it, the Baron has had such a good innings that he can scarcely grudge me a short knock,” he said to himself. “He can wait for me at Perth or somewhere.”

And, ringing the bell, he wrote and promptly despatched this brief telegram:

“Delighted. Shall spend to-night in passing. Bunker.”

Hardly was this point settled when the footman re-entered to inform him that Mr. Maddison's motor car was at the door waiting to convey him without delay to Lincoln Lodge. Accompanying this announcement came the Silver King's card bearing the words, “Please come and see me at once.”

The Count stroked his chin, and lit a cigarette.

“There is something fresh in the wind,” thought he.

In the course of his forty-miles-an-hour rush through the odors of pine woods, he had time to come to a pretty correct conclusion regarding the business before him, and was thus enabled to adopt the mien most suitable to the contingency when he found himself ushered into the presence of the millionaire and his son. The set look upon their faces, the ceremonious manner of their greeting, and the low buzzing of the phonograph, audible above the tinkle of a musical box ingeniously intended to drown it, confirmed his guess even before a word had passed.

“Be seated, Count,” said the Silver King; and the Count sat.

“Now, sir,” he continued, “I have sent for you, owing, sir, to the high opinion I have formed of your intelligence and business capabilities.”

The Count bowed profoundly.

“Yes, sir, I believe, and my son believes, you to be a white man, even though you are a Count.”

“That is so,” said Ri.

“Now, sir, you must be aware—in fact, you ARE aware—of the matrimonial project once entertained between my daughter and Lord Tulliwuddle.”

“Once!” exclaimed the Count in protest.

“ONCE!” echoed Ri in his deepest voice.

“Hish, Ri! Let your poppa do the talking this time,” said the millionaire sternly, though with an indulgent eye.

“But—er—ONCE?” repeated the Count, as if bewildered by the past tense implied; though to himself he murmured—“I knew it!”

“When I gave my sanction to Lord Tulliwuddle's proposition, I did so under the impression that I was doing a deal with a man, sir, of integrity and honor. But what do I find?”

“Yes, what?” thundered Ri.

“I find, sir, that his darned my-lordship—and be damned to his titles——”

“Mr. Maddison!” expostulated the Count gently.

“I find, Count, I find that Lord Tulliwuddle, under pretext of paying my Eleanor a compliment, has provided an entertainment—a musical and athletic entertainment—for another woman!”

The Count sprang to his feet.

“Impossible!” he cried.

“It is true!”

“Name her!”

“She answers, sir, to the plebeian cognomen of Gallosh.”

“A nobody!” sneered Ri.

“In trade!” added his father scornfully.

Had the occasion been more propitious, the Count could scarcely have refrained from commenting upon this remarkably republican criticism; but, as it was, he deemed it more advisable to hunt with the hounds.

“That canaille!” he shouted. “Ha, ha! Lord Tulliwuddle would never so far demean himself!”

“I have it from old Gallosh himself,” declared Mr. Maddison.

“And that girl Gallosh told Eleanor the same,” added Ri.

“Pooh!” cried the Count. “A mere invention.”

“You are certain, sir, that Lord Tulliwuddle gave them no grounds whatever for supposing such a thing?”

“I pledge my reputation as Count of the Austrian Empire, that if my friend be indeed a Tulliwuddle he is faithful to your charming daughter!”

Father and son looked at him shrewdly.

“Being a Tulliwuddle, or any other sort of pampered aristocrat, doesn't altogether guarantee faithfulness,” observed the Silver King.

“If he has deceived you, he shall answer to ME!” declared the Count. “And between ourselves, as nature's gentleman to nature's gentleman, you may assure Miss Maddison that there is not the remotest likelihood of this scheming Miss Gallosh ever becoming my friend's bride!”

The two Dariuses were sensibly affected by this assurance.

“As nature's gentleman to nature's gentleman!” repeated the elder with unction, wringing his hand.

His son displayed an equal enthusiasm, and the Count departed with an enhanced reputation and the lingering fragrance of a cocktail upon his tongue.

“Now I think we are in comparatively smooth water,” he said to himself as he whizzed back to the castle.

At the door he was received by the butler.

“Mr. Gallosh is waiting for you in the library, my lord,” said he, adding confidentially (since the Count had endeared himself to all), “He's terrible impatient for to see your lordship.”