r force!"

Leroy winced; for he himself would have endeavoured to "slip in and
carry her off" had it not been for his friend.

"I don't see the need of secrecy," he said coldly. "Have you spoken to
her guardian?" meaning, of course, Lord Barminster.

Unfortunately, to Lord Standon, being in love, there was only one woman
in the world, and therefore only one guardian, and that one, her father,
the Earl of Croywood.

"Good gracious, no!" he exclaimed. "He's such an old curmudgeon--that
until I get over that beastly race----" He broke off, scarlet with
confusion. Absorbed in his own affairs, he had completely forgotten that
he was speaking to the owner of the unlucky horse.

Leroy was pale with anger; the reference to the race annoyed him, but
still more the expression of "curmudgeon" as applied to his father.
Naturally, if he had stopped to consider, he would have realised that
there must be some mistake; for Standon would hardly have spoken thus of
Lord Barminster in his son's presence. But what lover ever does use his
common sense? He drew himself up sternly, and Standon could have kicked
himself for his unfortunate speech.

"I don't mean--that is--it's not your fault----" he stammered.

"Thank you," said Leroy ironically.

"Oh, you know what I mean. Don't pull me up like that, Adrien. I wasn't
thinking of its being you--and you know what it is when a fellow's in
love with the sweetest, dearest----"

Leroy turned sharply. It was more than any one could be expected to
bear; insult to his father, blame to his horse, and now praise of the
woman he himself loved.

"Excuse me, Standon," he interrupted curtly, "I'm afraid I must ask you
to spare me your rhapsodies--I am due at the theatre."

It was Standon's turn to be offended, and his good-tempered face
hardened.

"Certainly. Pray accept my apologies for having detained you.
Good-night," he said coldly, and before Leroy could even answer, he was
gone.

Adrien strode restlessly up and down. For the first time in all his
easy-going life trouble had touched him. He determined to forget it at
whatever cost; so telling Norgate not to wait up for him, he set out for
the Casket. It was such a lovely night that he dismissed the motor which
was awaiting him, deciding to walk across the park to Victoria Street,
and call in on Shelton, who had a flat there.

The park was beautifully silent, and still stood open to the public.
Absorbed in his reflections, therefore, h