the telephone.

"Well, mam," he said, "if I can't get hold of--of Fitzroy--I must
leave a message, as I don't suppose I'll have another chanst. I'm his
man, I'm Dale; have you got it?"

"Yes--Dale."

"Tell him the Earl of Fairholme turned up in Bristol an' forced me to
explain everything. I couldn't help it. The old gentleman fell from
the blooming sky, he did. Will you remember that name?"

"Oh, yes: the Earl of Fairholme."

"Well, his lordship will understand. I mean you must tell Fitzroy what
I said. Please tell him privately. I expect I'll get the sack anyhow
over this business, but I'm doin' me best in tryin' the telephone, so
you'll confer a favor, mam, if you call Fitzroy on one side before
tellin' him."

Though the telephone-box was stuffy when the door was closed, Mrs.
Devar felt a cold chill running down her spine.

"I don't quite understand," she said thickly. "You're Dale, somebody's
man; whose man?"

"His lordship's. Oh, d----n. Beg pardon, mam, but I'm Fitzroy's
chauffeur."

It was a glorious night of early summer, yet lightning struck in that
little shut-off section of the hotel.

"Do you mean that you are Viscount Medenham's chauffeur?" she gasped,
and her hands trembled so much that she could scarce hold the
receivers to her ears.

"Yes'm. Now you've got it. But, look here, I daren't stop another
minnit. Tell his lordship--tell Mr. Fitzroy--that I'll dodge the Earl
in some way an' remain here. He says he has been tricked, wot between
me an' the Frenchman, but he means to go back to London to-morrow.
Good-by, mam. You won't forget--strickly private?"

"Oh, no, I won't forget," said Mrs. Devar grimly; nevertheless, she
felt weak and sick, and in her anxiety to rush out into the fresh air
she did forget to hang up the receivers, and the Symon's Yat Hotel was
cut off from the world of telephones until someone entered the box
early next morning.

She was of a not uncommon type--a physical coward endowed with nerves
of steel, but, for once in her life, she came perilously near
fainting. It was bad enough that a money-making project of some value
should show signs of tumbling in ruins, but far worse that she, an
experienced tuft-hunter, should have lived in close companionship with
a viscount for four long days and snubbed him rancorously and without
cease. There was no escaping the net she had contrived for her own
entanglement. She had actually written to Peter Vanrenen that she
deemed it