"Miss Dearmer!" he stammered.

"Mr. Gordon, I believe?" she said primly.

She wore a simple grey dress, which he remembered to have seen and liked on the ship. How sweet, how dear she was, with her soft, bright eyes, and long curled eyelashes!

Involuntarily he put out his hand, but she seemed not to see the gesture, and the hand dropped.

"I used the name. I—thought it was better," he explained, trying to keep his head.

"Yes. No doubt it was better," she answered.

"And it really is my name," he went on. "One of my names."

"You have so many?"

"My sponsors in baptism——"

"The newspapers accused you of being your own sponsor."

"The newspapers accused me—what do you mean?"

"Surely you know. I told you I should read about you, but I expected to read very different things. However, we won't talk of that now——"

"But we must." For a moment he was the old, masterful Loveland. "We must. I want to know what you mean."

"That can wait awhile. I came to ask what you mean. Though I did read the newspapers, I was surprised to find you here. I'm acting for my friend, Sidney Cremer. A cousin of Sidney's and mine, who lives a few miles out of Ashville, saw 'Lord Bob' advertised for performance, and telegraphed. Sidney couldn't come, but my aunt brought me tonight, as Sidney Cremer's interests and mine are rather closely allied. And you know, nobody has a right to produce the play without the author's permission."

"Yes, I know," answered Loveland dejectedly. But his depression arose, not so much from the consciousness of wrongdoing, as from the suspicion engendered by the girl's tone in speaking of Sidney Cremer. Cremer's interests and hers were "closely allied"! She had blushed and even faltered a little, as she made the statement, and Val sprang instantly to the conclusion that she was engaged to marry Cremer.

It had never occurred to him, when they played at platonic friendship on board the Mauretania, that Lesley Dearmer might be engaged. She had never said in so many words that she was not, but she hadn't at all the manner of a girl who had disposed of her future. In any case, however, whether the affair were new or of old standing, Loveland felt miserably certain that she was engaged now. And he stood convicted of defrauding the man whom she intended to marry. Was there any depth of wretchedness or of humiliation which the thirteenth Marquis of Loveland had not plumbed at last?

"You admit that you knew, and yet you produced and played in the piece?"

"I did. But——" he hesitated. Should he attempt to excuse himself, to disclaim responsibility, or would that only seem cowardly in her eyes?

"But—what? You see, I'm bound to report to my friend."

"Your friend!" broke out Loveland, losing his head. "You are going to marry him!"

"Sidney Cremer?"

"Yes. You don't deny it."

She laughed gently. "Why should I deny it—to you? Have you any right to question me, or bring me to book—about anything, Mr. Gordon?"

"I know I have no right," he admitted. "Forgive me." He guessed that her emphasis, and her frequent repetition of the name "Gordon" meant that she wished him to understand the change in their relationship. To her he was now only Gordon the actor, who had stolen Sidney Cremer's play. The past was to be forgotten.

"I must remind you again," Lesley went on, in a cool, businesslike manner, though her eyes were starry, "that I have come twenty miles to question you. And my aunt is waiting for you with the cousins who telegraphed about 'Lord Bob.' You know, you mustn't go on using Sidney Cremer's play."

"We have no intention of doing so," said Loveland. And then, in as few words as possible, without any attempt at defending himself for his part in the transaction, he explained baldly that the manager had deserted the company, and that they had only one piece, "Lord Bob." They had produced it for three nights, in the hope of making money enough to get away, but the result had proved disappointing.

"My affairs are rather in a muddle just now," Loveland finished; "but as soon as I get them straightened out again, which I expect to do shortly, I will myself pay Mr. Cremer's fee for these performances, if you'll let me know what they are."

"Oh, Sidney wouldn't want you to do that," the girl explained. "I—neither of us knew that the company was in trouble. My cousins here didn't tell us that—I suppose they didn't know, either. We thought it was simply an ordinary case of piracy. But I can answer for Sidney, as if it were for myself. He wouldn't want fees, and he wouldn't take any severe measures in such a case as this. If only you give me your word, Lord Lo—, I mean, Mr. Gordon, that these people won't go about the country playing this piece, I'll ask nothing more."

"You may set Mr. Cremer's mind at rest about that," Loveland answered bitterly. "They aren't likely to go about the country playing any piece."

"You mean, they—you—are stranded here?" enquired Lesley.

"Oh, I'm all right," Loveland said hurriedly, far from wishing to pose as an object of pity. "It's the others I'm thinking of."

She gave him a quick, clear look. "Would you go away and leave them here, in trouble?" she asked.

"No, I won't do that," replied Val. "I mean to do something for them."

"What can you do, if your affairs are in such a muddle as you say?"

"I don't know yet. I'm trying hard to think."

"Won't there be money enough from these three performances of 'Lord Bob' to pay their railway fares somewhere?"

"I'm afraid not. Hardly enough to settle with the landlord and get him to release their luggage, which he's keeping till last week's board bills are paid."

"Your luggage, too?"

Loveland grew red. "I haven't any."

"Oh!" the colour flew to her cheeks, as if in sympathy with the flush she could not help seeing on his. "No trunks?"

"You say you read the newspapers," said Loveland. "If you did, you perhaps saw that the hotel people in New York treated me rather curiously. I didn't read the stuff myself. I really couldn't bring myself to do it. But I gathered from hints given me here and there that the journalists had a pretty rough game with me."

"You had a game with them, to begin with," said Lesley.

"I shut my door in the face of one, on my first day in New York," Loveland admitted. "Next day I hadn't a door to shut. America hasn't been very hospitable to me."

"What could you expect?" asked Lesley, defending her countrymen. Her face was grave, but there was an odd sparkle in her eyes. "Americans don't like having tricks played on them."

"I played no trick."

"You played a part—the part of Lord Loveland."

Val stared. "How can a man play that he's himself?"

"Do you deny the newspaper accusations, then?"

"What accusations? I did knock a man down in the street, and he gave his own version of the story."

"Oh, I don't mean that story, but quite another. The story he said you knocked him down for alluding to—when——"

"We're talking at cross purposes," broke in Loveland, bewildered. "For the sake of any friendship you may ever have had for me—though I'm not asking you to continue it in future—explain what you mean."

"But, do you mean that you read nothing, heard nothing, of what they were saying about you in New York?"

"I told you I wouldn't look at the papers. What I heard I of course took for granted was in connection with the hotel affair and the row in the street."

Lesley thought for a minute, with an expression on her face which Loveland could not understand, though he did not take his eyes from her fallen lashes, the beautiful lashes which had fascinated him at first sight of her on the Mauretania.

Presently an idea seemed to commend itself to the girl. On her arm, a little gold and platinum bag hung from its chain. Loveland had often seen this bag, on shipboard, and had even frequently picked it up from the floor, where the girl dropped it half a dozen times each day, when she slipped out from under the rugs of her deck chair. Well did he know the two compartments in this favourite little receptacle of Lesley's treasures! He knew in which one she kept the handkerchief which smelt like fresh violets; in which her money, her cardcase, her stylographic pen, and a letter or two; and now he watched her, with eyes homesick for past days, as she took out the remembered cardcase, and from an inner pocket of that cardcase, a folded newspaper cutting.

"It's quite time you did read for yourself," she said. "This will make you understand better than I can tell you. Fanny Milton cut it out of 'New York Light,' and posted it to me. I've kept it here—I hardly know why, but now I'm glad I did."

It was Tony Kidd's first article that Loveland read with a shock of surprise, which, at the very beginning, set the blood humming in his ears like the sound of the sea in a shell.

Tony had told his story spicily, in a way to make his readers laugh. But Loveland did not laugh. He read on and on, dazed at first, then with a burst of enlightenment which made clear many mysteries.

"The Difficult Young Man to Approach" had come to New York to see Heiresses and conquer Papas, said Tony. He had begun the conquering process on board ship, being a youth of a thrifty turn of mind, who believed in taking time by the forelock. He had made friends; he had even, perhaps, made love. Soon, no doubt, he would have made a match; but the schemes of mice, men, and even marquises have a way of going wrong, especially when—and that "when" reminded Tony to pause and ask a conundrum. "When is a Marquis not a Marquis?" The writer invited the public to guess. "Why, when he's a Valet, of course." And then Tony went on to protest gaily, that neither he nor his paper was responsible for the assertion that this Marquis was not a Marquis. They merely put the question, and gave the answer for what it was worth, on the strength of certain sensational news just received from the land where Marquises grew on blackberry bushes for heiresses to cull.

A number of people prominent in New York society had received cablegrams from London, informing them that the valet of the Marquis of Loveland had absconded with his lordship's jewellery, and other belongings; that the fugitive was known to have impersonated his master in London, obtaining goods from tradesmen, and running up bills at hotels, in Lord Loveland's name. If a person calling himself the Marquis of Loveland should appear in New York presenting letters of introduction to the said Prominent People earlier than the arrival of the White Star Liner Baltic, they were to beware of him, as the real Lord Loveland expected to sail on that ship.

On the very day when these cablegrams were received—Tony Kidd went on to state—there arrived by a strange (?) coincidence an attractive looking and haughty young gentleman, known among acquaintances collected on the Mauretania as Lord Loveland. This alleged nobleman had gone to the Waldorf-Astoria, where, through a servant of the hotel, it was soon discovered that his pretentious trunks were practically empty. He had (perhaps naturally) refused to be interviewed by a representative of "Light"; and the manner of his refusal was somewhat graphically described.

Act 2 was a round of calls with letters of introduction to all the Prominent People warned by a friend (also prominent) in England.

Act 3: A scene in the Waldorf Restaurant, where some shipboard acquaintances, dining with one of the Prominent People, had heard from him of the cablegram, and of course refused to acknowledge acquaintance with the attractive nobleman when he appeared in the room, ready to greet the whole party with effusion.

Act 4: The Hotel authorities being informed, request "Lord Loveland" to find other accommodation.

Act 5: The husband and father of the two ladies, whom "Lord Loveland" met on the Mauretania, attacked and knocked down in the street, by the "Difficult Young Man to Approach."

Now, at last, Loveland understood everything that had happened to him in New York, even to the mystery of the bank. Again he seemed to see Cadwallader Hunter bending to talk with the good-looking, dark young man who had dined with the Coolidges. Mr. van Cotter had doubtless been one of those who had received the warning cablegrams, and naturally he had passed on the interesting news to the Coolidges and Miltons. Cadwallader Hunter, who had stopped to chat with the party, had been just in time to glean the information, and had taken revenge for the Englishman's rudeness of the morning by advising the hotel people to get rid of an undesirable client.

Oh, yes, it was easy enough to see it all now, even the reason why his mother and the London bankers had failed to answer his appeals for money. They had thought that Foxham was cabling, and had accordingly refused to be taken in. Apparently Foxham had absconded—somewhere—and his misdoings had been discovered on the other side before his late master had found him out. Perhaps Foxham had taken the ticket for the Baltic which he—Val—had instructed him to sell, and used it for himself, booking as a passenger for America in the name of Lord Loveland.

In that case the fellow had doubtless arrived in New York by this time, on the Baltic—the ship on which his master had originally intended to sail; and Heaven alone knew what new mischief he might have been working on this side of the water.

The thought of what might have happened was almost as infuriating as the knowledge of what certainly had happened. It all came from accepting the chance offered by Jim Harborough to sail on the Mauretania; but in spite of everything he had suffered, Loveland told himself that he would not have it different. If he had come over on the Baltic he would probably by this time be engaged to some American heiress, and would never have met Lesley Dearmer.

Just now, his acquaintance with her, combined with all the other extraordinary results of his sailing on the Mauretania, was putting him to the torture; and he was gloomily convinced that nothing would ever make things come right; nevertheless, he was dimly, subconsciously aware even in this bitter moment that he wouldn't choose release from torture at the price of not knowing the girl.

"All this is a surprise to you, then?" her voice broke into the midst of his reflections over the newspaper cutting.

"Completely."

"How very odd that you didn't read the papers," exclaimed Lesley.

"I was so disgusted with the way New York was treating me that I wasn't very keen to see what it was saying of me. Besides, as I told you, I thought I did know. I supposed it was all about the hotel fuss, and my knocking down that man Milton."

"Why did you knock him down?"

"I slapped him in the face, and he fell down."

"But why did you slap him in the face?"

"I can't tell you that, Miss Dearmer."

"Well," said Lesley, looking at him always from under her lashes to see how he was taking her words, "you've been dreadfully punished, at all events."

"I don't think I deserved punishment for that."

"Don't you? Of course I don't know anything about that, but you used to be—well, rather arrogant."

"I'm not arrogant now." Loveland smiled faintly. "I'm almost inclined to think I never shall be again."

"If you're not really Lord Loveland——"

"Not really——" He almost gasped, as he would have repeated her words. It had not occurred to him, even while he read the cutting, that Lesley Dearmer could possibly think him a fraud. "What—you—you—don't believe in me?" he stammered. "You?"

Apparently she was untouched by the reproach, the actual consternation in his voice.

"Why should I believe, more than anyone else?" she asked with a little dainty, sidewise turn of her head. "I was only a ship acquaintance, you know—like the others."

"Like the others who threw me over," he said.

"Yes, like the others. There was no difference—was there?" she challenged him.

But Loveland was in no mood to take up the gauntlet, if it were a gauntlet that she threw down.

"I suppose not," he answered from the depths.

"You valued almost all your other acquaintances on board more than you did me," the girl went on. "You were quite frank about that. By your own admission, you were a bit of an adventurer, coming over to my country to see what you could devour. I used to hate that in you—all the more because I thought you a titled adventurer. There was less excuse for a well brought up man, with every advantage of birth and education, than for——"

"Say it, Miss Dearmer. Say what you really think of me."

"I don't say I do think it. I say only, why should I believe in you, when other people don't?"

"I see now, there's no reason. And I'm not going to ask you to believe."

"You're not going to assure me that you are the real Lord Loveland?"

"No, I'm not. I'm not going to assert myself, or defend myself in any way—to you. I want you to draw your own conclusions."

"Very well," said Lesley, with sparkling eyes. "I do draw them."

"May I ask what they are?"

"You may ask, but I'm not going to answer your question just now. There are other questions to attend to, which we've dropped for this subject. About 'Lord Bob,' for instance."

"I've no excuse to offer, even for stealing your friend's play, except that—we were hard up, and we saw nothing else to do."

"Your people in England, if——"

"I've had no answer to my cablegrams. There's no time for answers to have come to letters, yet."

"I see. Meanwhile?——"

"Meanwhile, we're on our beam ends."

"You say 'we.' You identify yourself with these people—these poor little stranded actors?"

"Oh, yes, I'm one of them. A poor little stranded actor, too."

"You're not going to desert them?"

"No. We'll sink or swim together. You see, I've got rather fond of two of the 'poor little stranded actors'—my companions in misery; Ed Binney, who's very ill, really, and oughtn't to be acting—a good fellow, if ever there was one; and Miss de Lisle, the star——"

Lesley's face changed slightly, and her lips opened, but she did not speak.

"Who will perhaps some day marry a great friend of mine in New York."

"Oh! So you have a friend in New York?"

"Yes, one. He paints menus in the Twelfth Street Restaurant where I was a waiter."

"How you have changed!" exclaimed Lesley. "But perhaps it's only circumstances?"

"Perhaps," said Loveland.

"If I knew a way in which you could help your actor friends to escape from here and go—wherever they want to go, would you take it, I wonder?" asked the girl.

"I don't wonder. I'm sure," Loveland answered, thinking of poor little Lillie, "Bill's gal," and Ed Binney.

"It's a way that would be very 'infra dig,'" Lesley hesitated.

Loveland laughed. "What is 'infra dig'? I've forgotten."

"Oh, if you have, I'll tell you the way at once, and perhaps that will bring it back to your memory. Would you care to take a position in somebody's house as—as—well, a paid position with an advance on your salary, by which you could send all your friends happily away?"

"I'd do it like a shot—if anyone would have me," Loveland said quickly.

"Someone will have you—shall we say, as secretary? Do you know typewriting or shorthand?"

Loveland reluctantly answered that he did not.

"Dear me! The secretaryship won't answer then, I'm afraid. Are you anything of a linguist?"

"Can't speak a word of any language but my own—except a hotch potch of French. The little Latin I ever had is practically gone."

"What a pity! Are you good at mathematics?"

"I generally add up on my fingers. Never could remember the multiplication table."

"History, then? Could you help a friend of mine who's writing a novel on the fifteenth century?"

"All I know about the fifteenth century, that I can think of at this moment, is that it wasn't the fourteenth—or the sixteenth. Oh, I'm afraid I'm no good, after all, Miss Dearmer. You'll have to give me up as a bad job, and chuck me into gaol for the theft of Cremer's play. I've never had any proper education."

"Haven't you? I'm not so sure about that," said Lesley, with an inflection in her voice that Val couldn't quite understand. "And I'm not sure you haven't learnt your lesson rather well."

"Which one?" enquired Loveland, ruefully; but she could not have understood the question, for she went on talking as if it had not been asked.

"You must be able to do something," she said, her dimples well in control.

"You've seen that I can't act, but—well, I can shoot pretty straight."

"Ah, I don't know anyone who keeps a shooting gallery."

"And ride decently."

"Nor anyone who wants a riding master. Oh, but—now can you drive a motor-car?"

"Yes," said Loveland.

"Good. Do you understand the mechanism of cars?"

"Of two or three. As well as—or better than most chauffeurs, I think, if that isn't being conceited again."

"I'm not finding fault with you tonight for conceit. Would you take quite a temporary job as chauffeur, in—in a private family, with a sal—oh, I might as well say wages! of $25 a week and your board and lodging besides?"

"If I could get the first week in advance, I might send everybody to Chicago—with what we've got out of the stolen play," Loveland said.

"Never mind the stolen play. In Sidney Cremer's name, I forgive you all, now I know the circumstances. No more to be said about that."

"You must know him very well indeed, to speak for him so positively," broke in Loveland, gloomily.

"I do," said Lesley. "You can have the first week's wages in advance, and the second, too. The car's a Gloria."

"My last was a Gloria."

"You mean—Lord Loveland's?"

"Oh, yes, I mean Lord Loveland's. Some men do make chauffeurs of their valets and vice versa. And you know, the real Loveland was hard up—or thought he was. I begin to see now, that he didn't know what being hard up meant."

"Even English peers can live and learn—while they're young, I suppose," said Lesley, meditatively. "But we were talking about you, weren't we? Do you accept the situation I offer you?"

"You offer?"

"Well, for my friend, Sidney Cremer. Sidney has just bought a new car, and sent it to us. I'm allowed to use it for awhile, as much as I like."

"He's coming, then?"

"We expect Sidney to be with us for some time—with my aunt and me."

"I'm hanged if I'll be his servant!" Val exclaimed, with something of his old vehemence.

"Oh! Very well, Mr. Gordon. I thought you were really in earnest, or I wouldn't have made the suggestion."

"So I am. But——"

"There's often a 'but' in such cases, isn't there? I admit it wouldn't be a particularly agreeable position for a man who has—er—"

"Posed as a peer," Loveland finished for her, bitterly.

"You put the words into my mouth. I was going to say—you seemed so anxious to do something to help the others, and this is the only thing I can think of by which you could make money quickly and——"

Ed Binney's pale face and Lillie's wistful eyes seemed to float in the air before the unhappy Loveland. "Very well," he said, "I will be Mr. Cremer's chauffeur. I've taken his play. I'll take his money; I'll take his food; I'll live under his roof, and I'll serve him as well as I can. And I'll only ask you to believe one decent thing of me, Miss Dearmer: that it isn't for my own sake."

"It will be my food you eat," said Lesley, sweetly. "And my roof which will give you shelter."

Loveland drew in his breath hard, as they looked at each other. Yes, it would be her roof, and her food. That was the worse for him, because it made it more and more plain that Sidney Cremer must be very near and dear to her.

"It's quite settled, then?" she asked pleasantly.

"It's quite settled," he echoed. "For a fortnight."

There were no dimples at play in Lesley's cheeks; but one might almost have said that her eyes laughed.