“

Good-mornin’, George.”

“Good-morning, dad.”

“Enjoy your run to Hereford?”

“Immensely. Did you?”

“It was not so bad. Rather tiresome, you know, travelin’ alone, but on the return journey I fell in with a decent sort of Frenchman who helped to pass the time.”

“Monsieur Marigny, in fact?”

“Ah, you know him, of course. I had forgotten.”

“I have met him. He is not the kind of person I care to know.”

The Earl selected an egg, tapped it, and asked his son what he thought of the crops—did they want rain? The two were breakfasting alone—at the moment there was not even a man-servant in the room—but Lord Fairholme had long ago established the golden rule that controversial topics were taboo during meals. Medenham laughed outright at the sudden change of topic. He remembered that Dale was sent to bed in the Green Dragon Hotel at eight o’clock, and he had not the least doubt that his father’s ukase was really a dodge to secure an undisturbed dinner. But he was under no delusions because of this placid meeting in the breakfast-room. There was thunder in the air. Tomkinson had warned him of it overnight.

“There’s bin ructions while you were away, my lord,” the butler had whispered, waylaying him in the hall just before midnight. “Lady St. Maur has upset the Earl somethink dreadful;” and Medenham had growled in reply: “Her ladyship will lunch here at one o’clock to-morrow, Tomkinson. Have an ambulance ready at two, for she will be in little pieces before I have done with her. The mangling will be somethink orful.”

“But what has become of Dale, my lord?” went on Tomkinson in a hushed voice.

“Dale? He is all right. Why? Is he in the soup, too?”

“No, my lord. I’ve heard nothink of that, but he sent me a wire from Bristol——”

“A telegram—about what?”

“About a horse.”

“Oh, the deuce take you and your horses. By the way, that reminds me—you gave me a rotten tip for the Derby.”

“It was a false run race, my lord. The favorite was swep’ off his feet at Tattenham Corner, and couldn’t get into his stride again till the field was opposite Langland’s Stands. After that——”

“After that I’m going to bed. But I forgive you, Tomkinson. You put up a ripping good lunch. You’re a far better butler than a tipster.”

This brief conversation had illumined at least one dubious page in the records of the past few days. Medenham realized now that his aunt had emptied the vials of her wrath on Mrs. Devar, but, that lady being absent in body, the Earl had received the full dose. It indicated somewhat the line he should follow when, breakfast ended, his father suggested that they should smoke a cigarette in the library.

Once there, and the door closed, the Earl established himself on the hearth-rug with his back to the fireplace. It was high summer, and the lazy London heat crept in through the open windows; but the hearth-rug constituted a throne, a seat of Solomon; had his lordship stood anywhere else he would have felt lacking in authority.

“Now, George, my boy, tell me all about it,” he said, with a genially paternal air that lent itself admirably to the discussion of a youngster’s transgressions.

Medenham had a sense of humor denied to his well-meaning sire. He recalled the last time he had heard those words. He and another sprig of nobility had come up to London from Winchester without leave in order to attend a famous glove contest between heavyweights, and there had been wigs on the green before an irate head-master would even deign to flog them. That had happened twelve years ago, almost to a day. Since then he had fought through a great war, had circled the globe, had sought the wild places of earth and its monsters in their lairs. He knew men and matters as his father had never known them. A Prime Minister had urged him to adopt a political career, and had virtually promised him a colonial under-secretaryship as soon as he entered parliament. He held the D.S.O., had been thanked by the Royal Geographical Society for a paper on Kilimanjaro, and cordially invited by the Foreign Office to send in any further notes in his possession. Months later, he heard that Sir Somebody Something was deeply interested in his comments on the activity of a certain Great Power in the neighborhood of Britain’s chief coaling-stations in the Indian Ocean.

The absurdity of a family conclave in which he should again be treated as a small boy, and admonished to apologize and be flogged, while it brought a smile to his lips, banished any notion of angry remonstrance.

“By ‘all about it’ I suppose you mean that you wish to hear what I have been doing since last Wednesday,” he said pleasantly. “Well, dad, I have obeyed your orders. You asked me to find a wife worthy to reign at Fairholme. I have succeeded.”

“You don’t mean to say you have married her!” shouted the Earl, in a purple upheaval of rage whose lightning-like abruptness was not its least amazing feature. Certainly Medenham was taken aback by it. Indeed, he was almost alarmed, though he had no knowledge of apoplexy in the family.

“I have not even asked the lady yet,” he said quietly. “I hope—I think—that the idea will not be disagreeable to her; but a future Countess of Fairholme is not to be carried by storm in that fashion. We must get to know her people——”

“D—n her people!” broke in the older man. “Have you taken leave of your wits, George, to stand there and talk such infernal nonsense?”

“Steady, dad, steady!” and the quiet voice grew still more calm, though the forehead wrinkled a little, and there was an ominous tightening of the lips. “You must take that back. Peter Vanrenen is quite as great a man in the United States as you are in England—may I even say, without disrespect, a man who has won a more commanding position?—and his daughter, Cynthia, is better fitted to adorn a coronet than a great many women now entitled to wear one.”

The Earl laughed, with an immoderate display of an amusement he was far from feeling.

“Are these Wiggy Devar’s credentials? By gad, that shabby little wretch is flying high when she tries to bag my son for her pretty protÉgÉe!”

“Don’t you think it would be wiser, sir, if you allowed me to tell you exactly what has taken place since we met last?”

“What good purpose will that serve? I have heard the whole story from Lady Porthcawl, from Dale, from that Frenchman—and Heaven knows I have been well coached in Mrs. Devar’s antecedents by your Aunt Susan. George, I am surprised that a man of your sound commonsense should permit yourself to be humbugged so egregiously.... Yes, yes, I am aware that an accident led you to take Simmonds’s place in the first instance, but can’t you see that the Devar creature must have gone instantly on her bended knees—if she ever does pray, which I doubt—and thanked Providence for the chance that enabled her to dispose of an earldom?... At a pretty stiff price, too, I’ll be bound, if the truth were told. Really, George, notwithstanding your very extensive travels and wide experiences, you are nothing but a kid in the hands of a managing woman of the Devar variety.”

“I am not being given in marriage by Mrs. Devar, I assure you,” began Medenham, smiling anxiously, for the fatherly “tell me all about it” was not being borne out by the Earl’s petulance.

“No. You can trust me to take care of that.”

“But are you treating me quite fairly? Why should the distorted version of my affairs given by Lady Porthcawl, a woman whom Cynthia Vanrenen could not possibly receive in her house, and by Count Edouard Marigny, a disappointed fortune-hunter, be accepted without cavil, while my own story is not listened to? I leave Dale out of it. I am sure he told you the actual truth——”

“By the way, where is he now?”

“Somewhere in the neighborhood of Chester, I believe.”

“Have you discharged him?”

“No—why should I?”

“Because I wish it.”

“Why in the world are you so unreasonable, dad?”

“Unreasonable! By gad, I like that. Have I been gallivanting round the country with some——”

“Stop! You are going too far. This conversation must cease here and now. If you have any respect for yourself, though not for me, you must adjourn the discussion till after you have met Miss Vanrenen and her father.”

For the first time in his life, the Earl of Fairholme realized his limitations; he was actually cowed for a few fleeting seconds. But the arrogant training of the county bench, the seignory of a vast estate, the unquestioning deference accorded to his views by thousands of men who tacitly admitted that what he said must be right because he was a lord—these excellent stays of self-conceit came to his help, and he snorted indignantly:

“I absolutely refuse to meet either of them.”

“That disposes of the whole difficulty for the hour,” said Medenham, turning to leave the room.

“Wait, George.... I insist——”

Perhaps a clearer glimpse of a new and, to him, utterly unsuspected force in his son’s character withheld the imperious command that trembled on the Earl’s lips. Medenham halted. The two looked at each other, and the older man fidgeted with his collar, which seemed to have grown tight for his neck.

“Come, come, let us not leave a friendly argument in this unsettled state,” he said after an awkward pause. “My only thought is for your interests, you know. Your lifelong happiness is at stake, to say nothing of the future of our house.”

“I recognize those considerations so fully that I am going now in order to shirk even the semblance of a quarrel between us.”

“Why not thresh things out? Your aunt will be here in a couple of hours——”

“You refuse to hear a word. You argue with a hammer, sir. I shall send a note to Lady St. Maur telling her that she has done mischief in plenty without adding fuel to the fire by coming here to-day—unless you wish to consult her, that is?”

The Earl, already afraid of his sister, was rapidly learning to fear his son.

“Dash it all! don’t tell me you are off on this d—d motoring trip once more?” he cried passionately.

Medenham smiled, even in his anger.

“See how willfully you misunderstand me,” he said. “I came away from Miss Vanrenen solely because matters had gone far enough under rather absurd conditions. She knows me only as Fitzroy, the chauffeur; it is time to drop masquerading. Romance is delightful in its way—perhaps there might well be more of it in this commonplace world of ours—but none of us can afford to play the knight errant too long, so when next I meet Cynthia it will be as a man who occupies a social position that renders our marriage at least possible.”

Lord Fairholme threw out his hands in a gesture of sheer bewilderment.

“And do you honestly believe that?” he exclaimed.

“I am quite sure of it. I may have to jump a very big fence indeed when she learns the harmless deception I have practiced on her, but I do hope most devoutly that she will look at the facts more calmly than you have done.”

The Earl took a turn or two on the hearth-rug, from which wisdom had temporarily taken flight. He thought now he could see a way to avoid open rupture, and he believed, quite rightly, that his son was in no mood to accept further disillusionment.

“At any rate,” he grumbled, “you are cutting a discred—sorry, I didn’t quite mean that—you are not rushing away from town again in pursuit of the young lady?”

“No.”

“When is she due back in London?”

“On Sunday.”

“And you will not see her before that day?”

“I believe not—in fact, I am fairly certain of it. Mrs. Leland joined her at Chester last night, so there should be no curtailment of the tour.”

The Earl started.

“Mrs. Leland! Not the Mrs. Leland of Paris, and San Remo?”

“Yes. By hazard, as it were, you have let me tell you why I came away—one of the reasons. Mrs. Leland would have recognized me at once.”

“Dear me, dear me, this is a beastly muddle! Look here, George, promise me you won’t do anything stupid for a day or so.... I have been so pestered by people ... I don’t know which way to turn. Why not stay and meet your aunt?”

“Because I might lose my temper with her.”

“Ah, well, she is somewhat trying when it comes to family matters. Still, I may tell her——”

“That she ought to mind her own business? By all means. And oblige me, too, by telling her that she would confer a boon on humanity if she persuaded Lady Porthcawl to go to—Jericho—or Tokio—or wherever that ass, Porthcawl, may happen to be.”

“Millicent Porthcawl was at Bournemouth, you know.”

“Yes, I spoke to her. She had the impudence to introduce Ducrot to Cynthia.”

“By gad! Did she, though? I heard something from Scarland about that affair. Well, well—there’s no accounting for tastes. I suppose you realize, George, that I am keeping back a good deal of the tittle-tattle which reached me during your absence. I don’t want to hurt your feelings——”

“Thank you. The absurdity of the present position lies in the fact that I shall have all my work cut out to hold your wrath against these people within bounds when once you have met Cynthia.”

“Oh, I have no doubt she is pretty, and fascinating, and all that sort of thing,” growled the Earl, in a grudging access of good humor. “Confound it, that is why we are putty in their hands, George. Don’t forget I’ve had fifty-five years of ’em. Gad! I could tell you things—all right, let us chuck the dispute for the time. Shall I see you at dinner?”

“Yes—if you are alone.”

“There will be no women. I’ll take devilish good care of that. Scarland is in town for the show, and he is bringing Sir Ashley Stoke, but Betty is nursing a youngster through the measles. Good Lord! I’m glad your aunt didn’t get hold of Betty!”

Now, Lord Fairholme’s diatribes against the sex were not quite justified. Notorious as a lady-killer in his youth, in middle age he was as garrulous a gossip as Mrs. Devar herself. Indeed, he had an uneasy consciousness that Lady St. Maur might turn and rend him if stress were laid only on her efforts to thwart his son’s unexpected leaning towards matrimony. During every yard of the journey from Chester to London he had tried to extract information from Marigny, and the sharp-witted Frenchman had enjoyed himself hugely in displaying a well-feigned reluctance to yield to the Earl’s probing. It was just as much a part of his scheme to make the threatened alliance as objectionable on the one side as on the other. By painting Medenham as an unprincipled adventurer he had succeeded in alarming Vanrenen; his sly hints, derogatory of both Cynthia and her father, now fanned the flame of suspicion kindled in Lord Fairholme’s breast by his sister’s remonstrances. Unfortunately, his lordship had gone straight to Curzon Street and told Susan St. Maur every word that Marigny had said, and a good deal that he had not said, but had left to be inferred from a smirk, a malicious glance, an airy gesture.

Perhaps the two elderly guardians of the Fairholme line were not wholly to blame for their interference. The title descended through male heirs only, and Medenham’s marriage thereby attained an added importance. Lord Fairholme himself had been singularly fortunate in escaping a mÉsalliance—several, in fact—and it was the one great trouble in his otherwise smooth and self-contained life that his high-born and most admirable countess had died soon after the birth of her second child, the present Marchioness of Scarland. Such a man would naturally be the most jealous scrutineer of the pretensions of his son’s chosen wife. Qualities of heart and mind would weigh light in the scale against genealogy. To his thinking, blue blood differed from the common red stream as the claret of some noted vintage differs from the vin ordinaire of the same year. Perhaps he had blundered on a well-founded theory, but he certainly lacked discrimination as to the cru.

Medenham did some shopping, lunched at a club, surprised his tailor by a prolonged visit and close inspection of tweeds and broadcloths, and successfully repressed a strong desire to write a letter. It was some consolation to peruse for the twentieth time the four closely-written pages on which Cynthia had set out the tour’s timetable for the benefit of Simmonds. He had not returned it, since she possessed a copy, and in his mind’s eye he followed the Mercury in its flight up the map from end to end of industrial Lancashire, through smoky Preston to trim Lancaster and quiet Kendal, and finally, after a long day, to the brooding peace and serene beauty of Windermere.

At last, rousing himself from his dreaming—for he was now back in his club again, sipping a cup of tea—he glanced at his watch. Five o’clock—a likely hour to find Mr. Vanrenen in the hotel, if, as was most probable, Devar’s telegram to his mother was altogether mistaken in its report of the millionaire’s movements.

He meant, of course, to make himself known to Vanrenen, and go through the whole adventure from A to Z. It should provide an interesting story, he thought—lively as a novel in some of its chapters, and calculated to appeal strongly to the bright intelligence of an American. On his way to the Savoy, he tried to picture to himself just what Cynthia’s father would look like. It was a futile endeavor, because he had never yet been able to construct a mental portrait of any man wholly unknown to him. One day in Madras he had telephoned to an official for leave to shoot an elephant in a Government reservation, and a deep voice boomed back an answer. Apparently it belonged to a man whose stature warranted his appointment as controller of monsters, but when Medenham called in person for the permit he found that the voice came from a lean and wizened scrap of humanity about five feet high.

He smiled at the recollection of his dumb surprise at this apparition, and was in the best of humors with himself when he arrived at the inquiry office of the Savoy Hotel and asked for Mr. Peter Vanrenen.

“Left here Sunday, sir,” was the answer. “He will not return for a week.”

This blow dished his hopes. He had counted strongly on gaining Vanrenen’s friendship and sympathy before Cynthia’s dainty vision met his eyes again.

“Has he gone to Paris?” he inquired.

“Can’t say, sir, I’m sure. My orders are to tell callers that Mr. Vanrenen will be in town next Tuesday.”

So, if present arrangements held good, Cynthia would reach London two days before her father. Well, he must contrive somehow to get Lady St. Maur in a proper frame of mind. Mrs. Leland’s presence would be a positive blessing in that respect. Meanwhile, there would be no harm done if he——

Lest prudence should conquer him a second time he sat down and wrote:

Once more he hesitated at the name, and contented himself by signing “George, the Chauffeur.”

The problem of an address offered some difficulty, but he boldly declared for “91 Grosvenor Square” in a postscript, believing, and correctly as it happened, that Cynthia shared with Sam Weller a peculiar knowledge of London that rendered one address very like unto another in her eyes.

The failure to meet Vanrenen was the first real drawback he had encountered. It was irritating, at the time, but he gave little heed to it after the first pang of disappointment had passed. Fate, which had proved so kind during six days, did not see fit to warn him that her smiles would now be replaced by frowns. She even lulled him into the belief that Vanrenen’s absence might prove fortunate.

“Perhaps,” he fancied, “I would have rubbed him up the wrong way. He is devoted to his daughter, and he might look on my harmless but unavoidable guile with a prejudiced eye. In any event, I should be compelled to go slow in analyzing Mrs. Devar’s motives, and this pertinacious Marigny seems to have been fairly intimate with him in Paris. Yes, on the whole, it is just as well that I missed him. Cynthia can put matters before him in a better light than is possible to one who is an utter stranger. I must tell her, in my best American, that it is up to her to explain Fitzroy to pap.”

Before leaving the hotel he inquired for Count Edouard Marigny. He drew a blank there. No such name had been registered during the year.

The dinner passed without noteworthy incident. Sir Ashley Stoke condemned the Government, the Marquis of Scarland was more than skeptical as to the prospects of grouse shooting after the deluge in April and May, Lord Fairholme growled at the pernicious effects of the Ground Game Act, and Medenham spoke of these things with his lips but in his heart thought of Cynthia. The four men were in the smoking-room, and the Earl was chaffing his son on account of his inability to play bridge, when Tomkinson entered. He approached Medenham.

“Dale has arrived; he wishes to see your lordship,” he said in a stage whisper.

“Dale!”

The young man sprang to his feet, and his troubled cry brought a smile of wonderment to his brother-in-law’s face.

“By Jove!” said the Marquis, “you couldn’t have jumped quicker if Tomkinson had said ‘the devil’ instead of ‘Dale.’ Who, then, is Dale?”

Medenham hurried from the room without another word. The Earl shook his head.

“More mischief!” he muttered. “Dale is George’s chauffeur. I suppose he is mixed up in this Vanrenen muddle again.”

“What muddle is that?” asked Scarland. “Is George in it?—that would be unusual.”

Fairholme suddenly bethought himself.

“Something to do with a motor,” he said vaguely. “The Vanrenens are Americans, friends of Mrs. Leland’s. You remember her, Arthur, don’t you?”

“Perfectly. Is ‘Vanrenen’ the Peter of that ilk?”

“I think so. Yes—that is the name—Peter Vanrenen.”

“Oh, he’s all right. If George has any dispute with him I’ll settle it in a minute. He is as straight as they make ’em—bought two of my prize bulls three years ago for his ranch in Montana. By the way, someone told me the other day that he has a very pretty daughter—‘a real peach’ the man said. Wonder if George has seen her? Begad, he might go farther and fare worse. We effete aristocrats can do with a strain of new blood occasionally, eh, what?”

“‘Vanrenen’ sounds like a blend of old Dutch and New England,” said Sir Ashley Stoke, who was sane on all subjects save one, his pet mania being the decay of England since the passing of the Victorian age.

The Earl helped himself to a whisky and soda. His egotism was severely shaken. Who would have thought that a pillar of the state like Scarland would approve of this Vanrenen girl as a match for George, even in jest? But he had the good sense to steer clear of explanations. When he found his voice it was to swear at the quality of the whisky.

Medenham, meanwhile, had rushed into the hall. He expected to find Dale there, but saw no one except the suave footman on duty. The man opened the door.

“Dale is outside, in the car, my lord,” he said.

“In the car!” That meant the bursting of a meteor in a blue sky.

Sure enough, there stood the Mercury, dusty and panting, but seemingly gathering breath for another mighty effort if necessary.

“Come in!” shouted Medenham, on whom the first strong shadow of impending disaster had fallen as soon as he heard those ill-omened words “in the car.”

Dale scrambled to the pavement and walked stiffly up the steps, being weary after an almost unbroken run of one hundred and eighty miles. He nodded to the Mercury, and the footman rang for a pageboy to mount guard. Medenham led the way into a small anteroom and switched on the light.

“Now,” he said.

“Mr. Vanrenen kem to Chester last night in Simmond’s car, my lord. This mornin’ he sent for me an’ sez ‘who are you?’ ‘The chauffeur, sir,’ sez I. ‘Whose chauffeur?’ sez he. ‘Yours for the time,’ sez I, bein’ sort of ready for him. ‘Well, you can get,’ sez he. ‘Get what?’ sez I. ‘Get out,’ sez he. Of course, my lord, I knew well enough what he meant, but I wanted to have it straight, an’ I got it.”

Dale’s style of speech was elliptical, though he might have been surprised if told so. For once, Medenham wished he was a loquacious man.

“Was nothing else said?” he asked. “No message from—anyone? No reason given? What brought Simmonds to Chester?”

“Mr. Vanrenen picked him up in Bristol at 4 a.m. yesterday, my lord. Simmonds made out that that there Frenchman, Monsieur Marinny” (Dale prided himself on a smattering of French), “had pitched a fine ole tale about you. In fact, the bearings got so hot at Symon’s Yat that Simmonds chucked his job till Mr. Vanrenen sort of apologized.”

“Can you be specific, Dale? You are hard to follow.”

“Well, my lord, I could do with a drink. It’s a long road that stretches between here an’ Chester, an’ I left there at ten o’clock this morning, runnin’ through any Gord’s quantity of traps, an’ all.”

Medenham did not smile. He touched a bell, and found that Dale’s specific was a bottle of beer.

“I never set eyes on Miss Cynthia,” continued the chauffeur, his wits quickening under the soothing draught. “Another lady kem out an’ looked me up an’ down. ‘Yes, that is the car,’ she said, an’ with that I remembered seein’ her at San Remo. Mrs. Devar seemed as if she wanted to say somethink, but she daren’t, because Mr. Vanrenen’s eye was on her. He made no bones about it, but told me to hike back to London the minnit Simmonds got the carrier off.”

“I am quite clear on that point. What I really want to know is the reason behind Simmonds’s statement about Count Marigny’s tale-pitching, as you term it.”

“Oh, of course Mr. Vanrenen didn’t say anythink. Simmonds was what you call puttin’ two an’ two together. From what Mr. Vanrenen arsked him it was easy enough to get at the Frenchman’s dirty tricks.”

“Tell me how Simmonds put it?” said Medenham, with the patience of a great anger. Dale scratched the back of his ear.

“For one thing, my lord, Mr. Vanrenen wanted to know if you was reelly a viscount. It was a long time before Simmonds could get him to believe that the accident in Down Street wasn’t a put up job. Then, he was sure you stopped in Symon’s Yat just in order to throw Mr. Marinny off your track. Simmonds is no fool, my lord, an’ he guesses that the Frenchman brought Mr. Vanrenen hot-foot from Paris so as to—to——”

Dale grinned, and sought inspiration in the bottom of an empty glass.

“Well, my lord, excuse me,” he said, “but you know what I mean.”

Medenham completed the sentence.

“So as to prevent me from marrying Miss Cynthia.”

“Exactly what Simmonds an’ me said, my lord.”

“He will not succeed, Dale.”

“I never thought he would. Once your lordship is set on a thing, well, that thing occurs.”

“Thank you. Good-night!”

Medenham did not feel equal to facing the men in the smoking-room again. He went out, walked up Oxford Street and across the park, and reached his room about midnight. Next day he devoted himself to work. In view of the new and strange circumstances that had arisen he believed confidently that Cynthia would reply to his letter by return of post, and there should be no chance of delay, because she meant to stay two days at Windermere, making that town the center of excursions through lakeland.

While the son was seeking forgetfulness in classifying a collection of moths and night flies caught during a week at La Turbie, the father found occupation in prosecuting diligent inquiries into the social and financial standing of Peter Vanrenen. As a result, the Earl visited Lady St. Maur, and, as a further result, Lady St. Maur wrote a very biting and sarcastic note to “My dear Millicent.” Moreover, she decided not to press her nephew to visit her at present.

Next morning, Medenham was up betimes. He heard the early postman’s knock, and Tomkinson in person brought the letters.

“There’s nothink in the name of Fitzroy, my lord,” said he, having been warned in that matter overnight.

Medenham took his packet with the best grace possible, trying to assure himself that Cynthia had written at a late hour and had missed the first London mail in consequence. Glancing hurriedly through the correspondence, however, his glance fell on a letter bearing the Windermere postmark. It was addressed, in an unfamiliar hand, to “Viscount Medenham,” and the writing was bold, well-formed, and business-like. Then he read:

Medenham read and reread this harsh letter many times. Then, out of brooding chaos, leaped one fiery question—where was Marigny?

The gate which Cynthia’s father had shut and bolted in his face did not frighten him. He had leaped a wall of brass and triple steel when he won Cynthia Vanrenen’s love in the guise of an humble chauffeur, so it was unbelievable that the barrier interposed by a father’s misguided wrath should prove unsurmountable.

But Marigny! He wanted to feel his fingers clutching that slender throat, to see that pink and white face empurple and grow black under their strain, and it was all-important that the scoundrel should be brought to book before the Vanrenens returned to London. He gave a passing thought to Mrs. Leland, it was true. If she shared with Vanrenen the silly little secret of his identity, it was beyond comprehension that she should let her friend hold the view that he (Medenham) was merely an enterprising blackguard.

Still, these considerations were light as thistle-down compared with the need of finding Marigny. He and Dale began to hunt London for the Frenchman. But they had to deal with a wary bird, who would not break covert till it suited his own convenience. And then, the sublime cheek of the man! On the Friday morning, when Medenham rose with a fixed resolve to obtain the services of a private detective, he received this note:

Dear Viscount Medenham—I have a notion, as our mutual acquaintance Mr. Vanrenen would say (Do you know him? Now that I consider the matter, I think not), that you are anxious to meet me. We have things to discuss, have we not? Well, then I await you at the above address.

Yours to command,
Edouard Marigny.