They were seated at breakfast at "Hydeholm," Sir Harry, his son and the faded lady of the house. Sir Harry read a letter and tossed it to his wife.
"Laura's in trouble again," he said testily, "really, my dear, your sister is a trial! First of all her husband loses his money and blames me for putting him into the Siberian Gold Recovery Syndicate, then he dies, and now his wife expects me to interest myself in a petty suburban squabble."
The meek lady read the letter carefully.
"The man seems to have annoyed Alicia," she commented mildly, "and even though he is a duke—and it seems strange for a duke to be living in Brockley——"
"Duke?" frowned Sir Harry, "I didn't see anything about dukes. Let me see the letter again, my love."
"Duke," muttered Sir Harry, "I can't see any word that looks like 'duke'—ah, here it is, I suppose, I thought it was 'dude'; really Laura writes an abominable hand. H'm," he said, "I see she suggests that Hal should spend a week or so with them—how does that strike you, my boy?"
It struck Hal as an unusually brilliant idea. He had views about Alicia, inclinations that were held in check by his father's frequent pronouncements on the subject of mesalliances.
So it came about that Hal went on a visit to his aunt and cousin.
"He's probably one of these insignificant continental noblemen," said his father at parting, "you must put a stop to his nonsense. I have a young man in my eye who would suit Alicia, a rising young jobber who does business for me. If the duke or whatever he is persists in his attentions, a word from you will bring him to his senses.
"I shall punch the beggar's head," promised Hal, and Sir Harry smiled indulgently.
"If, on the other hand," he said thoughtfully, "you find he is the genuine article the thing might be arranged amicably—you might make friends with him and bring him along to Hydeholm. He is either no good at all or too good for Alicia—it's about time Winnie was off my hands."
Miss Winnie Tanneur was aged about twenty-eight and looked every year of it.
VII
"66 has a visitor," reported Hank.
The Duke took his feet from the mantel-shelf and reached for his tobacco.
A spell of silence had fallen upon him that morning, that had been broken only by a brief encounter with the butcher on the quality of a leg of mutton, supplied on the day previous.
"Has she?" he said absently.
"I said '66,' which is of neither sex," said Hank. "This fellow——"
"Oh, it's a man, is it?" said the Duke—brightening up; "what sort of a man, who is he?"
Hank touched a bell and the grave man servant appeared.
"Who is the visitor next door?" demanded the Duke.
"A Captain Tanneur, m'lord; militia; and the son of Sir Harry Tanneur who is related to No. 66."
"You've been gossiping with the servants," accused the Duke.
"Yes, m'lord," said the man without hesitation.
"Quite right," said the duke approvingly. When the servant was gone he asked—
"Do you ever pine for the wilds, Hank, the limitless spread of the prairies, and the twinkling stars at night?"
"Come off, Pegasus," begged Hank.
"The fierce floods of white sunlight and the quivering skyline ahead," mused the Duke dreamily, "the innocent days and the dreamless nights."
"No fierce floods in mine," said Hank decisively; "me for the flesh pots of Egypt, the sinful life."
"Do you ever——"
"Take a walk—you," said Hank rudely. "Say your love-sick piece to the shop windows. What are you going to do about Captain Tanneur—the bold militia man?"
"I suppose," said his grace, "he's been sent for to protect the innocent girl from the unwelcome addresses of the wicked duke. I'll have a talk with him."
He strolled into the garden, dragging the step ladder with him. He planted it against the wall this time, and mounting slowly surveyed the next garden.
His luck was in, for the object of his search sat in a big basket chair reading the Sporting Life.
"Hullo," said the Duke.
Hal looked up and scowled. So this was the persecutor.
"Hullo," said the Duke again.
"What the devil do you want?" demanded Hal with studied ferocity.
"What have you got?" asked the Duke obligingly.
"Look here, my friend," said Hal, rising and fixing his eye-glass with a terrible calm, "I'm not in the habit of receiving visitors over the garden wall——"
"Talking about the militia," said the Duke easily, "how is this Territorial scheme going to affect you?"
"My friend——" began Hal.
"He calls me his friend," the young man on the wall meditated aloud, "he is ominously polite: he rises from his chair: he is going to begin—help!"
He raised his voice and kept his eye on the conservatory door of 66.
"What's wrong?" inquired Hank's voice from the house.
"Come quickly!" called the Duke extravagantly nervous, "here's a young gentleman, a stout young gentleman in the military line of business, who is taking off his coat to me."
"Don't talk such utter damn nonsense," said the angry Hal, "I've done nothing yet."
"Help!" cried the lounging figure at the top of the wall. "He's done nothing yet—but——!"
"Will you be quiet, sir," roared Hal desperately red in the face; "you'll alarm the neighbourhood and make yourself a laughing stock——"
The Duke had seen the flutter of a white dress coming through the little glass house, and as the girl with an alarmed face ran into the garden he made his appeal to her.
"Miss Terrill," he said brokenly, "as one human being to another, I beg you to save me from this savage and I fear reckless young man. Call him off! Chain him up! Let him turn from me the basilisk fires of his vengeful eyes."
"I thought—I thought," faltered the girl.
"Not yet," said the Duke cheerfully, "you have arrived in the nick of time to save one who is your ever grateful servant, from a terrible and, I cannot help thinking, untimely end."
She turned with an angry stamp of her foot to her cousin.
"Will you please take me into the house, Hal," she said ignoring the young man on the wall, and his exaggerated expression of relief.
VIII
"On behalf of the organ fund," read Hank and regarded the pink tickets that accompanied the vicar's letter with suspicion.
"It's a curious fact," said the Duke, "that of all people and things in this wide world, there is no class so consistently insolvent as the organ class. There isn't a single organ in England that can pay its way. It's broke to the world from its infancy; its youth is a hand-to-mouth struggle, and it reaches its maturity up to the eyes in debt. It has benefit sermons and Sunday-school matinées, garden parties, bazaars and soirées, but nothing seems to put the poor old dear on his legs; he just goes wheezing on, and ends his miserable existence in the hands of the official receiver. What is this by the way?"
"A soirée," said Hank moodily, "and will we help."
The Duke sprang up.
"Rather!" he said jubilantly "will we help? Why, this is the very opportunity