t the invitation. We are so busy."

"The worst of excuses," said Hart.

"But there is a London correspondent here who hands in a long telegram
at that hour."

"What's his name?"

"Mr. Peters."

"Great Scott! Jimmie Peters here? I'll soon put a stopper on him. He'll
come, too--jumping. See if he doesn't. Is it a bargain? Short telegram
at six. Dinner for five at 7.30. Come, now, Mr. Martin. It's up to you. I
can see 'Yes' in Doris's eye. Over the port--most delectable, I assure
you--I'll give full details of the peculiar case of a man in
Worcestershire whose crop of gooseberries increased fourfold after
starting an apiary. And what does it matter if you do lose a queen or two
in June? The drones will attend to that trifle.... It's a fixture, eh?
Where's Peters? In the Pull and Push? I'll rout him out."

The whirlwind subsided, but quickly materialized again.

"Peters nearly fell on his knees and wept with joy," announced Hart. "He
believes he was given a bull steak for luncheon. He pledges himself to
have only five hundred words on the wire at five o'clock."

Meanwhile, father and daughter had decided that there was no valid reason
why they should not dine with Mr. Grant. Martin already regretted his
aloofness on the day of the inquest, though, truth to tell, Hart's expert
knowledge of bee-culture was the determining factor. On her part, Doris
was delighted. Her world had gone awry that week, and this small
festivity might right it.

Not one word of the improvised dinner-party did Hart confide to Grant. He
informed the only indispensable person, Mrs. Bates, and left it at that.
Grant, a restless being these days, took him for another long walk. It
chanced that their road home led down the high-street. The hour was a
quarter past seven, and Peters hailed them.

Hart introduced the journalist, saying casually:

"Jimmie is coming to dinner, Jack."

"Delighted," said Grant, of course.

Peters looked slightly surprised, but passed no comment. Then Doris and
her father appeared. They joined the others, shook hands, and, to Grant's
secret perplexity, the whole party moved off down the hill in company.
When the Martins turned with the rest to cross the bridge, Grant began to
suspect his friend.

"Wally," he managed to whisper, "what game have you been playing?"

"Aren't you satisfied?" murmured Hart. "Sdeath, as they used to say in
the Surrey Theater, you're as bad as Furshaw!"

There were others far more per