tly. "I was married there last June."

The Englishman, muttering something under his breath, seized the handles
and, giving them a vicious turn, sent the car spinning northwards.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN WHICH A LOCKET IS ACCEPTED AND A RING REFUSED.

Something over a week after the events narrated in the last chapter,
Banborough was lounging in the office of the Windsor Hotel at Montreal.
The course of events had run more smoothly for the party since the day
they arrived in the city, weary and travel-stained with their
adventurous trip. Montreal in general, and the manager of the Windsor in
particular, were accustomed to see travellers from the States appear in
all sorts of garbs and all kinds of conditions incident to a hasty
departure, so their coming occasioned little comment; and as Cecil never
did things by halves, they were soon rehabilitated and installed in the
best apartments the hotel could offer.

The various members of the party, after the first excitement was over,
had relapsed into a listless existence, which, however, was destined to
be rudely disturbed, for while the Englishman's thoughts were wandering
in anything but a practical direction, he was aroused from his reverie
by a well-known voice, and, turning, found himself face to face with
Marchmont.

"Well, who on earth would have thought of seeing you here?" exclaimed
the journalist. "Have you fled to Canada to escape being lionised?"

"No," said Banborough cautiously, "not exactly for that reason."

"We couldn't imagine what had become of you," continued his friend.
"You're the hero of the hour in New York, I can tell you, and 'The
Purple Kangaroo' is achieving the greatest success of the decade."

"Oh, confound 'The Purple Kangaroo--'!"

"That's right; run it down. Your modesty becomes you. But seriously, old
man, let me congratulate you. You must be making heaps out of it."

"Let's talk about something else," said Banborough wearily, for he was
heartily sick of his unfortunate novel. "You ask me why I'm here. I'll
return the compliment. Why are you?"

"Why," returned Marchmont, "you're partially to blame for it, you know.
I'm after those Spanish conspirators. Of course you've heard the story?"

"No," said Banborough. "I haven't been in town for a fortnight. What is
it?"

"Well, we arrested a lovely senorita on Fourteenth Street who was using
the title of your novel as a password. I can tell you confidentially
that there's no doub