ion.

"He appears to," replied the curate. "Afraid I don't dance the tango,
Scally, old man; but thanks for the invitation, all the same!"

Excalibur spent the rest of the day in London, where it must be admitted
he caused a genuine sensation--no mean feat in such a blase place.

In Bond Street the traffic had to be held up both ways by benevolent
policemen, because Excalibur, feeling pleasantly tired, lay down to
rest.

When evening came they all dined together in a cheap little restaurant
in Soho and were very gay, with the gayety of people who are whistling
to keep their courage up. After dinner Eileen said good-bye, first to
Excalibur and then to the curate. She was much more demonstrative toward
the former than toward the latter, which is the way of women.

Then the curate put Eileen into a taxi and, having with the aid of the
commissionaire extracted Excalibur from underneath--he had gone there
under some confused impression that it was the guard's van again--said
good-bye for the last time; and Eileen, smiling bravely, was whirled
away out of sight.

As the taxi turned a distant corner and disappeared from view, it
suddenly occurred to Excalibur that he had been left behind. Accordingly
he set off in pursuit.

The curate finally ran him to earth in Buckingham Palace Road, which is
a long chase from Soho, where he was sitting on the pavement, to the
grave inconvenience of the inhabitants of Pimlico, and refusing to be
comforted. It took his new master the best part of an hour to get him to
Euston Road, where it was discovered they had missed the night mail to
the north. Accordingly they walked to a rival station and took another
train.

In all this Excalibur was the instrument of Destiny, as you shall hear.

VII

THE coroner's jury was inclined at the time to blame the signalman,
but the Board of Trade inquiry established the fact that the accident
was due to the engine-driver's neglect to keep a proper lookout.
However, as the driver was dead and his fireman with him, the law very
leniently took no further action in the matter.

About three o'clock in the morning, as the train was crossing a bleak
Yorkshire moor seven miles from Tetley Junction, the curate suddenly
left the seat on which he lay stretched dreaming of Eileen and flew
across the compartment on to the recumbent form of a stout commercial
traveler. Then he rebounded to the floor and woke up--unhurt.

"'Tis an accident, lad!" gas