"When I go in your bally machine hit'll be by my lady's horders," said

Timothy, "and it'll be tryin' my hallegiance very 'ard. Come and 'ave a

drink, if you hain't too advanced for that! 'Ave you been chased lately

as you brought my lady 'ome?"

"I thought I was," replied Smith, "but I shook 'em off. I'm egging her

on to get a ninety-horse in case. That young cousin of hers let on to

me that she'll be followed up some day, and I told her. She'll do it!"

"I wonder what's her game?" said Tim. "Blowed if I hunderstand."

"So far's I see," replied Smith, "it's a general notion that a party's

private biz is their private biz. And the others says it isn't, and

there's where the trouble begins. I agree with her in a measure, don't

you?"

"I agrees with my lady hevery time," said Tim. "She's a sweet lady, and,

my word, if I didn't I'd get the sack, which I don't want. What she

says she sticks to, bein' in that different to hany woman I never met.

That's what the trouble is, that and reformin' lovers and husbands and

law and so hon!"

But the real trouble was that what she said she stuck to. She began to

care much less for reform, and now never read Herbert Spencer and the

greater philosopher, who has discovered that man doesn't think so much

of yesterday as he does of to-morrow. She forgot the Deceased Wife's

Sister, and ignored the London County Council, and didn't read the

_Times_ except on great occasions. She spent the days in dreaming, and,

except when she was devouring the space between London and Lincolnshire,

she lay about on sofas and read poetry or listened to Bob, and looked

ten thousand times more beautiful than ever, like the Eastern beauties,

of whom one reads in the Arabian Nights, returning from the bath. She

was wonderfully affectionate to Bob, who was a most considerate boy, and

didn't worry her when he had once discovered that asking questions was

no use. He told her of his vain efforts to find out whom she had

married, and was very amusing. He began to have great ambitions.

"Mr. Gordon says I've a great future before me, Pen. He thinks no end

of me. He says being a duke by and by is all very well, but I agree

with him there are greater things than merely being one. He says the men

with power are the rulers of the world. He told me how he and

Rothschild stopped a war in a hurry. He didn't say which war. I asked

him why he didn't stop the South African War, and he said that was

different. I asked him did he bring it on then, and he said 'No.' But

I think he did, somehow. Will you ask old Sir Henry if he did? I don't

like Sir Henry, though, do you?"

He went on to tell her about Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm reading him through again, Pen. And when I go down to De Vere's I

shall ask De Vere to invite the man that wrote him. I'm going to De

Vere's to take him a sick dog. He said he wanted one, and I've got one

from Baker. Baker says he must want to vivisect him, and he doesn't

like the idea. Baker's a very kind man to animals, but I've given my

word that the dog sha'n't be vivisected. You don't think a poet would,

do you? Did you tell him to learn to be a vet or anything? If you did,

that would explain it. I've been through the whole list, Pen, and,

though I won't worry you, I've come to the conclusion so far that I

don't know which you've married. If I find out I won't tell."

"You're a dear," said Pen, languidly.

"I've got a notion how to find out, though," said Bob. "At least, I

shall have when I've finished Sherlock Holmes. I'd rather be Sherlock

Holmes than a duke. It seems to me that unless you are the Duke of

Norfolk or the Duke of Devonshire you are out of it. Being a common

duke is dull, but being Holmes must be very exciting."

One thing that he told her made her think furiously.

"Not one of 'em really believes you, Pen, and they're much more jealous

of each other than they were. I believe they'll be fighting presently."

"Don't talk nonsense," said Pen, anxiously.

Bob shrugged his shoulders, a trick he had caught from the marquis.

"It's not nonsense. I can see bloodshed in their eyes. The marquis

looks awfully ferocious, and Williams, too. Of course, I don't say that

Gordon would fight much. And I should snigger to see old De Vere in a

duel, shouldn't you? But if Bramber and the marquis and Williams and

Goby get together, I shouldn't be surprised if they fought with swords

or guns. I think Rivaulx would like that. He would stick them all and

make 'em squeal, I can tell you. He's a whale at fencing. He took me

to see him once, and when he stamped and said 'Ha-ha,' like a war-horse,

I wondered the other man didn't run."

"If they had a duel, any of them, I shouldn't speak to them again," said

Penelope. "I abhor duels and warfare and weapons, and think they should

be abolished in universal peace. And as I am married now, Bob, I hope

you will do what you can to make them believe it."

"You can make 'em believe it at once," said Bob. "I do think this is

absurd. And don't you see it's funny, too, Pen?"

"No," said Pen, "it's not. It's right, and what is right can't be

funny."

Bob reflected.

"Well, there's something in that. It ain't much fun generally."

And he returned to Sherlock Holmes.

"I wonder what he would do," said Bob to himself, pensively. "There

ain't any footsteps or blood in this. I suppose he'd take a look at Pen

and then have a smoke and go out in a hansom and come back very tired.

I've looked at Pen a lot, but smoking still makes me sick, and I don't

know where to go in a hansom. And I think Holmes would think it mean to

follow her when she goes off with Smith in her car. Besides, a hansom

can't catch a sixty-horse Panhard unless it breaks down. I think he

would get at it by looking at the men."

That put him on the track of a dreadful scheme, a most wicked and

immoral scheme, that his hero would have disapproved of.

"I believe I have it," said Bob, starting up in wild excitement. "If I

go around to them all and say that I'm sure she's not married, but that

she loves the one they hate most, they will jump and be in a rage, won't

they? I should be, I know. And the one that doesn't jump will be him.

I dare say De Vere won't jump, but he's not a jumping sort, but he'll

cry, likely. Rivaulx _will_ snort if it isn't him."

He sat and pondered over this lovely scheme.

"But if she loves one of 'em, why don't she own it to him, and why this

mystery? They'll ask that, of course. Oh, but that doesn't matter;

they'll do the snorting first. And, besides, I could let on that not

all of them are in earnest. Ain't it possible that the one she loves

won't ask her now, and she's covering up her disappointment? That would

make Rivaulx fairly howl, I know. He's a real good chap, and between

howling and weeping he says he wants her to be happy. I'll do it."

He went off to do it at once.

"Ha, ha, my beautiful boy," said the Marquis of Rivaulx, whom he found

in his rooms in Piccadilly, "have you come with news for me, the devoted

and despairing?"

"Well, I don't know, marquis," returned Bob, soberly. "I've been

thinking about it, and I'm in a state of puzzle."

"And I am in a state of the devil himself," replied Rivaulx. "I suspect

every one. I am enraged. I suspect you, Bob, my boy."

Bob shook his head.

"I suspect you, too. I've never got over thinking that it may be you,"

he said, "for you are all just like each other, and it's obvious some

one is telling me lies."

Rivaulx smiled, a deep and dark French smile, which was agonizing to

behold. It puzzled Bob dreadfully.

"There," he said, "you smile, and so does Pen, and you all smile. But I

believe I've discovered something."

"About who or which?" asked Rivaulx. "Is it about that Goby?"

He might loathe Gordon, but he was jealous of Goby. He promenaded the

room, and was already in a rage.

"Yes," said Bob, boldly. "I believe she's not married, and I believe

she likes him best."

"The hound, the vile one, the unmeasured beast," roared Rivaulx, "it

cannot be. If she loves him (no, I can't believe it), why does she not

wed him? I shall slay him. Is she unhappy? Does she weep? I adore her,

but if she loves him he shall marry her or I will stab him to the

heart."

"I dare say he's not in earnest," said Bob. And the marquis ground his

teeth and foamed at the mouth, and again tried to tear his close-cropped

hair without the least success.

"Not--oh, sacred dog of a man,--ha--let me kill him!"

He tore around the room and knocked two ornaments off the mantelpiece

and upset a table, which Bob laboriously restored to its place. After

he had put it back three times, he gave it up and cowered under the

storm.

"I shouldn't be surprised if this was put on," said Bob, rather

gloomily. "I know he can act like blazes; Pen says he can. She said he

was finer than Irving or Toole in a tragedy. I don't think it has the

true ring of sincerity."

And making his escape from the cyclone, he went off to see Goby, who was

hideously jealous of Carteret Williams.

"I hope he won't be as mad as the marquis," said Bob. "That table

barked my shins horribly the last time it fell. I wish Frenchmen

wouldn't shout so when they're angry; I'm nearly deaf."

There was the devil to pay with Goby. He announced his intention of

assaulting Williams at once.

"Oh, I say, you mustn't," cried Bob, in great alarm. "She'll never

forgive you."

"That Williams!" said Goby. "I always did hate war correspondents. I

don't believe it."

But it looked as if he did.

"I dare say you are putting it on," cried Bob. "I don't know where I

am."

Goby said he didn't, either, but that if this turned out to be true he

would wring Williams's neck in the park the first fine Sunday in June.

"He would have acted just the same if he was married to her, and thought

she loved Williams best after all," said Bob to himself. "I'll try

Bramber and Williams, and then give it up."

Bramber was in a furious temper, and when Bob assured him that Penelope

loved Gordon best of any one, he swore horribly. As he rarely swore,

this was very impressive, and Bob almost shivered.

"I say, you mustn't kick Gordon," he urged. "After all, I may be

mistaken."

"I wish you were dead," said Bramber, "and you will be if you don't get

out."

Bob got out, and when he was in the open air he sighed.

"I don't think I'll try Williams," he said, thoughtfully. "He's much

bigger and stronger even than Goby, and they say he's a terror when he's

very angry. My scheme doesn't seem to work; there's something wrong

with it."

But there was nothing wrong with it, and it worked marvellously. The

report that Bob said positively that Pen wasn't married carried much

weight. Goby and Rivaulx both gave it away. And all the men now loathed

each other openly. Rivaulx cut Goby and Goby cut Williams and Bramber

sneered at Gordon, and there was great likelihood of there being the

devil to pay. Pen tried to patch up peace among them, and failed, and

wept about it, seeing so much of the good she had done melt like sugar

in warm rain. At last she announced her intention of leaving them and

the world alone.

"I almost think I'll give up reform," she sighed.

And the season went by and the autumn came, and Titania found herself at

Goring in October with a large house-party which didn't include

Penelope.

"She is, of course, somewhat ashamed of herself," said Titania, happily.

"This comes of having ideas and foolishly attempting to carry them into

practice. Now that I am certain she is not married and that she only

says so, I feel quite different. I no longer abhor the poor, foolish

men who are so much in love with her. I see plainly (for I, too, am

naturally a democrat of the proper kind) that they have fine qualities.

I have marked my sense of this in a way which appears to amuse Lord

Bradstock for some reason that I do not follow,--but then, I never could

follow Augustin, poor fellow,--by asking them all down here. I dare say

they think Penelope will come, for they have all accepted. I am

delighted, for I really admire them. Mr. Carew is the handsomest young

man in London, and will paint my portrait between meals. I wonder

whether I shall try to get thinner by eating less, or will it be better

to tell Mr. Carew to make me thinner in his picture. That seems the

easiest course; for if Penelope's conduct has not made me thin, what

would? Neither hot weather nor despair has the least effect upon me. I

shall trust to Mr. Carew's idea of what is right and proper. I wish I

could rely with equal confidence upon poor, dear, misguided Penelope."

There was much discontent in the camp when the lovers learnt that their

beloved was not one of Titania's house-party. They were not civil to

each other, and with difficulty were civil to Titania.

"Confound the old harridan," said Goby. This was wicked, for Titania

was very sweet, and retained much more than a trace of her youthful

beauty. She belonged to the modern band of those who sternly refuse to

grow old.

"Great Scott!" said Carteret Williams. The others made equally

appropriate exclamations. They damned Goring in heaps, and looked at

each other like a crowd of strange dogs. Owing to Penelope's influence

they all came in motor-cars. Even De Vere turned up in one which was

guaranteed by age and its maker not to go more than ten miles an hour.

There wasn't room to get them into the temporary garage out of the wet.

But the marquis did not come in a balloon or a flying-machine. That was

something, at any rate, though Bob growled about it bitterly. Pen's

request that he should do his best to make the world believe she was

married was entirely forgotten. Without quite meaning to say so, he

practically asserted in every word that she was not.

"After all," said Bob, "I believe she is capable of deceiving even me,

for she is a woman. Horace, in his Odes, seems to think that. It seems

to me that classical authors had a very poor opinion of women."

He went to Rivaulx crossly.

"I say, I think you ought to have come in a flying-machine. Why didn't

you? Pen will be mad."

He introduced De Vere to Baker (who had been a sergeant in the Dublin

Fusiliers), and left him with him, discussing hydrophobia and bulldogs.

"Baker says he has a great admiration for you, sir," said Bob. "He has

lots of pups for you to look at. There's a very queer spotted one that

Pen said she was sure you would like. It's very cheap for a spotted dog

of the kind, Baker says."

But they were an unhappy crowd, and even the shooting, which was fairly

good for a poor duke's place, hardly consoled them.

At night the women, who all gambled, naturally were very cross. It

appeared that not one of the men would play bridge, because Penelope had

made them swear off. There were only three men in the house not in love

with Penelope. Titania had a dreadful time, and much regretted her

hospitality. Carew was furious, of course, and his notions of colour

were very morbid. And he appeared to see the duchess as she was, in

spite of the hints the poor woman threw out to the desperate painter,

who looked at her sorrowfully and sighed as he shook his head.

"Being painted is an ordeal," she said. Not one of the others consoled

her. De Vere wept with her in the drawing-room; Williams wrecked her

orchids in the hothouse; Plant and Gordon quarrelled in the

smoking-room. And Bramber, who was only there for four days, looked

horridly sorry for himself, and sneered at every one. The marquis went

around the park in a ninety-horse-power racer seventeen times between

breakfast and lunch. The chauffeurs quarrelled furiously; they even

fought in the stable yard with Baker as umpire and Bob as timekeeper.

At the dinner-table was the only time of peace, and then it was too

peaceful. Nobody but Bob and Ethel Mytton and Titania did any talking.

Bob spoke of very little but Penelope, which was natural but awkward.

He told them what Baker said, till they all desired to go out and

strangle Baker. Bradstock encouraged him, for Bradstock was the only man

there who had any apparent desire to be amused. The rest of them played

with the soup, toyed with the _entrees_, fooled with the roasts, choked

over the birds, and went out and oversmoked themselves. Then they met

in the big hall and the drawing-room, and Titania had to assure them all

one after the other, that she was certain Penelope was not married.

"Then why does she say she is?" they asked, bitterly.

"It must be to try you," said Titania. "Augustin, don't you think it is

to try them?"

Bradstock made that sound which the English write as "Humph" and the

Scotch put down as "Imphm." It means a great deal, but is intelligible

to the intelligent.

"Yes, it is to try you," said Titania. "She is a dear, sweet thing, but

has ideas which do not commend themselves to me. I understand them, of

course, but regret them. It may be, of course, that she does not love

any of you, and is trying to get out of it. By and by you will find out

if that is so. She is enthusiastic and impulsive. Oh, these impulses

of youth! How well I remember the delightful impulses of youth, when

one feels as if one could fly with wings! Even now I get impulses.

Poor Penelope! Ah, dear, I wish she would come. I have written again

and again to ask her, but I'm afraid she will not."

And, indeed, no one at that moment knew where she was, unless, indeed,

it was Timothy and Geordie Smith and Miss Mackarness and the pirate in

goggles of the motor-car who carried her off.

Titania and Bob between them, at any rate, accomplished one thing. No

one pretended to assign a satisfactory reason for Pen's conduct, but

every one, except one, perhaps, believed she was still single. They

were sure of it, and grew surer every day. As a result, they recovered

some little peace of mind; they quarrelled less and ate more and shot

straighter. Rivaulx only went fifteen times around the park before

lunch; De Vere bought more dogs; Plant agreed to go into some scheme of

trust robbery with Gordon, who assured the rest of them that he had

Rothschild up his sleeve. Williams stamped less on flower-beds and

swore half as much as usual. Goby and Bramber went out walks together

with Bob and Ethel Mytton. Titania's barometer went up and her size

went down in Carew's picture. He saw her less yellow, and did not

insist on her wrinkles. Augustin sat in the library and read books which

were of so humourous a character that they compelled him to put them

down and laugh continually. It was certainly a most amusing house-party.

"I thought there would have been duels in the park," said Augustin. "I

wonder what the deuce Pen would think of them if she saw them now."

And then one day something serious happened. It was on a Sunday, and on

Sundays the post came in at half-past ten, just at the time they were

all having breakfast before going to church. They were just about as

happy as they could ever hope to be till Penelope married one or all of

them. Bob, who was especially greedy that morning, was eating against

time and winning. Only Ethel was sad, for Goby seemed quite cheerful.

When he was mournful she was happier always. Titania flowed

wonderfully. Augustin was saying the kind of thing he could say when

sitting down. Goring himself was eating as if he was in rivalry with

Bob. He never said anything, but looked like a duke, which is a very

fine thing when a man is a duke, and can afford it with care. Gordon

was eating bacon as if he had no great appetite for it.

"Oh, here's the post," said Titania. Augustin took Saturday's _Times_

and opened it.

"I wonder whether dear Penelope has written to me," said Titania. The

"horde" looked up; they hoped even yet that Penelope would give in and

come at last.

"Any news?" grunted Goring.

"I don't see any," replied Augustin.

"What are Jack Sheppard's United?" asked Gordon, slipping a piece of

bacon into his pocket.

And Augustin made his celebrated speech over again, his single speech in

the House of Lords.

"Good God!" said Augustin, and he turned almost as white as the _Times_

paper before it went through the machines. Every one stared at him.

"What is it?" screamed Titania. Bob jumped up and deserted a pig's

cheek just as it was showing signs of utter defeat.

"It's--it's--" said Augustin, and he stammered vainly.

"I say, let's look," cried Bob. "Granny, it's something in the Births,

Marriages, and Deaths!"

"Good heavens, speak, Augustin!" implored Titania.

The band of lovers went as white as Augustin; they stood up

simultaneously.

"I see it, I see it," said Bob, and he actually snatched the paper from

Lord Bradstock's hand.

"Is she married? Is she dead?" asked Titania.

"No, no," said Bob, sputtering and aflame with wild excitement; "it's

'Brading--Lady Penelope Brading on the 18th of a son!'"

*CHAPTER XIV.*

There are blows which stun; this was, of course, one of them. Titania

did not shriek or faint at the awful intelligence conveyed by the

Thunderer of Printing House Square. She nodded her head as if she was

partially paralyzed, and at last murmured in a dry whisper:

"Of a son! Of a son!"

Bradstock's eyebrows were as high as they would go, and he stared at

Titania, and then look around on the circle of men and women. Ethel

squeaked a little squeak, like a mouse behind the wainscot and was

silent.

"Oh--of a son," said Goby, sighing and looking at the floor.

"Of a son!" said Plant, eyeing the ceiling.

"_Un fils!_" shrieked Rivaulx.

Gordon said "Damnation;" De Vere shook like a stranded jelly-fish;

Bramber went as scarlet as a lobster, and then as white as cotton;

Carteret Williams looked blue, and Carew looked green, and Bob said: "My

eye!"

There is something organic in any given number of people acting under

the same shock or the same impulse. What one thinks another thinks; and

now all the room fixed their eyes on Titania, whose lips moved in

silence.

"This is dreadful!" said Titania to herself. "I don't believe she's

married at all. One of these men is a scoundrel, a ruffian, a seducer!"

No one heard what she said, but as she thought it the men looked at each

other with awful suspicions. And then Titania, whose mind was whirling,

said feebly:

"We--we must hush it up!"

And there lay the _Times_! Hush it up indeed! And Bradstock recovered

some of his equanimity.

"Nonsense! She's married, as she says," he remarked, with comparative

coolness.

But no one believed it. The men drew apart from each other. De Vere

moved his chair, because Goby was looking at him like a demon. Carew

shrank from Carteret Williams. Gordon went livid under Plant's eyes.

Bramber looked at them all as if he would die on the spot. Rivaulx rose

up and waltzed around the room. It was a happy chance that he did so;

it is possible that he saved immediate bloodshed. Bradstock and Bob

caught the Frenchman in their arms, and led him outside to the lawn,

where there was ample room for a frantic _pas seul_.

"Steady, old chap!" said Bradstock, "steady! Her husband _must_

acknowledge now who he is!"

"Oh, no," said Bob, in immense delight, "not much! If she's married at

all, she's sworn him not to. She told me she'd swear him not to! And

she said if he broke his oath she'd never see him again!"

"Great heavens!" said Bradstock, "so she did. I remember now, she _did_

speak of oaths, dreadful oaths!"

Rivaulx danced over a flower-bed, came in contact with a fence, fell

over it, and uttered a howl which brought every one into the garden. He

tumbled into a ditch, fortunately a comparatively dry one, and lay

there, using the very worst French language.

The gloomy crowd lined the ditch and listened, and wished they

understood. As a matter of fact, only Bradstock and Bramber knew

sufficient decent French to guess what Rivaulx said, and they shivered.

In the background Titania and Ethel hung to each other and wept; old

Goring remained inside sucking at an unlighted cigar.

"The terrible, terrible disgrace!" said Titania. She believed the very

worst at once. "Is it the marquis? Is he smitten with remorse?"

Rivaulx got out of the ditch on the wrong side, and walked out into the

park, where he addressed a commination service to a nice little herd of

Jersey cows. After five minutes of this exercise, he returned toward

the house and climbed the fence. Then he shook his fist at the others.

"One of you is a _scelerat_," he howled, "a scoundrrrel! I challenge

you all to fight! Ha, ha!"

Bradstock took him by the arm and led him away.

"One of us is a hound!" said Goby.

"Yes," said the others, "yes!"

They glared at each other horribly, and clenched their fists. Bob ran

around them in the wildest excitement.

"Look here, I say, Captain Goby. Oh, Mr. de Vere! I say, Mr. Plant, if

you want to fight, come into the stables. Granny says you mustn't fight

here."

He grabbed several of them, and was hurled into space at once. He

finally laid hold of De Vere, who wasn't capable of hurling a ladybird

off his finger.

"You shall fight Goby if you want to," he roared.

[Illustration: THE MARQUIS DE RIVAULX. Anti-Semite to his manicured

finger-tips]

"But I don't want to," shrieked the poet. "What shall I do? My heart is

broken!"

"Oh, what rot!" said Bob. "I don't understand what the row is about.

Pen said she married, and she's got a kid. It will make her happy, for

she always loved kids."

But then the notice in her maiden name! Was it not awful, horrible,

brazen, peculiar, anti-social, against all law? It was wicked, immoral,

indecent. Behind it there must be a dreadful story.

"By God!" said Bradstock, speaking at large to all but Rivaulx, who was

breaking up a cane chair at a short distance, "I do think, oaths or

none, that the man who is married to her should tell the duchess in

confidence."

But Rivaulx heard in the intervals of destruction, and stayed his hand.

"Ha, ha!" he said aloud, "I love her! I am a man! I love her! What

shall I do?"

He threw the fragments of the chair into a fountain, kicked over a

flower-pot, and ran again into the park, taking the fence in his stride.

"I believe it's remorse," said Titania. "I begin to suspect the

marquis!"

But everybody suspected everybody, and yet at the very height of their

rage what Bradstock said sank into their hearts. Pen had selected them

with care for their inherent nobility. They said to themselves that

they would show how noble they were. With one accord they straightened

themselves up, and an air of desperate resolve was upon every man's

face.

"I will think it out and make up my mind this afternoon," said each of

them. They walked away in different directions, and in five minutes not

one of them was in sight but the marquis, who was knocking his head

against a sapling in a way that caused the herd of Jerseys to revise

their estimate of humanity. Even he gave up at last, and went off into

the distance with great strides.

"I say," said Bob, "I don't know what to make of this. Where are they

going, and what are they going to do? I wish I knew where Pen is; I'd

send her a telegram."

The rest of the party said nothing. Titania wept. Old Goring asked

Bradstock for a light, and at last got his cigar going. He said nothing

whatsoever. Ethel Mytton was in a fearful state of nervousness, and

shook with it. Bradstock walked up and down whistling. The men who

were not in it gathered in the billiard-room, and said they thought they

had better have urgent calls to town. They wanted to discuss the

scandal in their clubs. They knew that there wasn't a house in England

that would not consider their presence in the light of a tremendous

favour, considering all that had occurred at Goring while they were

there. They went, and regretted it afterward, for much occurred that

very afternoon that no man could have foreseen.

Not a soul came in to lunch but Bob and Bradstock and the old duke.

"Augustin, my boy," said Goring, "these are surprising events, very

surprising events. I thought I understood something about women, but I

find I'm as ignorant as a two-year-old. What the devil does Penelope

mean?"

Bob intervened.

"I believe, grandfather, that she wants to make you all sit up," he

said, eagerly.

"Shut up, Bob," said the duke. "Eat pie and hold your tongue.

Augustin, is she married, or isn't she?"

"I'm sure of it," said Bradstock, "but--"

"I think it's a damn silly business," said the duke. "I can't remember

any parallel except when Miss Wimple, who was a devilish pretty girl

fifty years ago, married Prince Scharfskopf morganatically, and kept it

dark in spite of twins. There was a devil of a fuss, but it was kept

quiet, no announcements in papers, and so on. The emperor boxed

Scharfskopf's ears in court when it came out, for it upset his

diplomatic apple-cart, as Scharfskopf was to have married Princess

Hedwig of Wigstein. She was virtuous and particular, and made trouble,

being thirty-five. Do you think Penelope has married any damn prince,

for instance?"

Bradstock didn't think so.

"Was any prince sneaking about, eh?"

"Oh, I say," cried Bob, who was listening eagerly, "there was the Rajah

of Jugpore!"

"Good heavens!" said Goring, "so there was. I say, Bradstock, what have

you to say to that? I'd like to have a look at the infant. Damme, it's

a wonderful world!"

And this bore its fruit afterward in scandal and conjecture, for Bob

threw out hints about it. But in the meantime they could only talk, and

presently they saw the marquis coming across the lawn. He kept on

stopping and looking up at the sky, as if for help or a balloon, and he

smote his breast repeatedly in a very peculiar fashion.

"Queer cuss, Rivaulx," said Goring. "Takes it hard. Give me a light,

Bob. Look at the Johnny smiting himself in the chest. What's he

thinking of now? Looks as if he was bound upon a desperate deed. Dear

me, I hope there will be no bloodshed, Bradstock! I'm too old for

bloodshed now. I won't have duels in the immediate neighbourhood of the

house, Bradstock, mind that."

"All right," said Augustin, still looking at Rivaulx gesticulating

violently in front of a large laurestinus. "Bob, give me those

glasses."

Through the glass Rivaulx's face was plain to see.

"Damn!" said Augustin to himself, "what's up? He's going to do

something, something desperate. He is looking like a hero on a

scaffold. He has an air of sad nobility. Oh, Pen, Pen!"

Rivaulx advanced on the house with his head up. He came in and sent

word to the collapsed duchess that he desired most humbly an audience

with her. Bob listened.

"He wanted to see granny," said Bob.

"Let him," said the duke. "I don't; I want peace."

Titania sent down word that she would see him.

"Poor sad Penelope, poor mournful Penelope!" said Rivaulx. "Ha, but I

will save her from further woe!"

He found Titania on a sofa, and he kissed her hand. This pleased poor

Titania; it reminded her of her youth.

"Oh, marquis, I am in despair!" she cried.

"Despair not," said Rivaulx, as he stood up and smote his forehead,

"despair not. All is not lost. But for me, I stand between two

dreadful alternatives, and I have resolved to do my duty."

There was an air of tragedy about him that covered him like a robe.

Titania shivered.

"What is it? What have you to tell me?"

"Ah, what!" cried Rivaulx. "But I shall do it. I shall do it at once,

immediately, if not sooner, as your poet says."

"You won't kill any one, at least not here," shrieked Titania.

"Far from it," replied the marquis. "Oh, but it is terrible, for I have

to smash, to break an oath. I swore not to reveal what I am about to

reveal."

"Good heavens!" said Titania. "Oh, what? Is it--can it be--no--"

"Yes, yes," cried Rivaulx, "it is true; I own it!"

"Own what, marquis?"

He smote his breast and looked above her.

"I am the man!"

"Oh, what man?" squealed the duchess.

"I am the husband--and--and--the father," said Rivaulx, with a gulp, as

if he were swallowing an apple whole.

"Of my Penelope?"

"Yes, yes," said the marquis. "Say nothing. It is a secret, full of

oaths. Why, I know not, but she, the dear, insists, and what am I?"

Titania lay and gasped. The relief was tremendous. Three hours ago she

would have refused to think of Rivaulx as Pen's husband. Now she

welcomed the notion; she sighed and almost fainted. Rivaulx muttered

strange things to himself.

"Can I announce it?"

"No," said the marquis, "it is a secret. But it is all right. I go."

"Take my blessing," said Titania. "Go to her quickly, poor dear, and

implore her to let me come to her, and bid her tell all the world. What

is her address?"

"I cannot give it," said Rivaulx, pallidly. "It is a secret. But I go,

I hasten. Adieu, duchess; I am distracted. Oh, my mother and my

country!"

He fled from the room, and, leaving his man to bring on his things, went

away at an illegal speed toward London.

"Well, well," said Titania, with a gasp, "I cannot understand anything.

But, after all, the marquis is a fine man and of a good family. I could

almost sleep a little."

But just as she was composing herself to rest, Mr. Plant sent up word

that he wished to see her for a few moments on urgent business before he

went back to town.

"Let him come up," said the duchess. When Plant entered, he stood bolt

upright in front of her, with a strange air of determination.

"I shall surprise you, I reckon," he said, in an American accent as

thick as petrol fumes. "I know I shall."

"No, you won't," said Titania. "Nothing can surprise me now, I assure

you."

"I shall surprise you, ma'am," said Plant, "and you'll have to own it.

Prepare yourself and remember that what I tell you is in the nature of a

secret. I can stand it no longer. I have to let it out. To hear Lady

Penelope, whom I adore, spoken of as I do, makes my blood boil. She may

have made some mistakes, but I've made some, too. I am going to surprise

you--"

"No, you are not, Mr. Plant," said Titania.

"I--I am Lady Penelope's husband," said Plant, desperately, fixing his

eyes on space.

"You are _what_?" shrieked Titania.

"Her husband--and--the parent of the announcement in the _Times_," said

Plant, firmly.

"Am I mad?" asked Titania.

"No, but I am," said Plant, who was as pale as a traditional ghost.

"I'm mad both ways. I want to kill."

"You mustn't," cried Titania, feebly. "I don't know where I am. What

did you say? Oh, say it again!"

He said it again, and before she could say anything further, he rushed

from the room and bounded down-stairs. She heard him turn his motor-car

loose, and knew that in twenty seconds he was a mile away.

"What's wrong with everything, and me, and them?" asked Titania. "I

wish I was a dairy-maid in a quiet farm, and had no relations. Am I

mad? Did the marquis say it? Or did I dream it?"

Lord Bramber was announced.

"Oh, oh, oh!" said Titania. "Yes, I'll see him."

Bramber came in fuming, and, like the others, fixed his eyes over her

head. He was nervous and abrupt.

"I can't stand any more, duchess," he began.

"I can't stand much," said Titania.

"It's a secret of course," said Bramber, "and I'm breaking my word!"

"Are you the husband of Penelope?" asked Titania.

"I--I am," replied Bramber, "and the cause, so to speak, of the notice

in the _Times_."

"I thought so," said Titania. "Look at me, Ronald. Do I look mad? does

my hair stand on end? do I seem wild and wandering?"

"No, of course not," said Bramber. "I'm telling you this because I feel

I ought to. Now I'm going to her at once. This last news was rather

unexpected, of course. Good-bye--"

"Stay!" shrieked Titania, but she was too late. Bramber was down-stairs

and bounded into his motor-car and let her rip.

"What's the matter with everybody?" wailed Titania. "The marquis made

me happy, but now I'm confused, very sadly confused, and I can't think

she's married them all."

Gordon was announced, and in about three sentences he told her that,

though the affair was a secret, he was Penelope's husband.

"I knew you were," said Titania. "When I heard you wanted to see me, I

knew you were coming to say so. Oh, good-bye. Ask Lord Bradstock to

send for a doctor. Good-bye, Mr. Gordon. Go now."

And Gordon went, just as De Vere came in.

"You have come to say you have married Penelope, I _know_," said

Titania. "I feel sure you have."

"I have a heart for sorrow, for disgrace, for all things lovely. I--I

am responsible for everything, even the _Times_," said De Vere, who was

as pale as plaster.

"Leave me," said Titania. "Go and see her at once. Settle who it is.

Go!"

And when he had gone, Carteret Williams and Carew came one after the

other with the same confession. And she received them sadly, and

appeared to wander. When the house was empty, she sent for Bradstock.

"Augustin, dear Augustin," she said, "you won't let them put me in an

asylum. Have me taken care of at home, won't you? Don't let Goring

give me cruel keepers. I am quite gentle and broken down!"

"I won't let anything beastly be done," said Bradstock. "But, my dear

child, what's the matter?"

And Titania told him:

"By the Lord," said Bradstock, "they are damned good chaps! but where

the devil are we?"

He went down-stairs when the doctor came and told everything to Goring.

And Goring told Bob. For Titania forgot to mention to Augustin that all

the husbands had insisted it was a dead secret.

"I say," said Bob, "of all the larks I've ever heard of, this takes the

cake! I wonder what I ought to do. I think I'll ask Baker."

And he asked Baker. And in less than twenty-four hours the world knew

all about it.

*CHAPTER XV.*

But when it is said that all the world knew of it, Penelope herself must

be excepted. She knew nothing for some time, and, whoever her husband

was, he certainly never acquainted her with the horrible details of all

the good men who sacrificed their honour in the noble attempt to save

her from the results of the terrible misfortune they believed had

happened to her. It was, indeed, Miss Mackarness who told her about it,

and Miss Mackarness was the old governess whom Penelope had once sacked

and sent away. The poor woman was in a terrible state of mind about the

affair, and in that was no different from all the rest of the world. To

her went Timothy Bunting with the strange story.

"If you please, ma'am, Geordie Smith 'as just brought in a paper wiv a

true and pertic'ler account of 'ow all the gents that was courtin' our

lady told the Duchess of Goring as 'ow they 'as married 'er!"

"What!" said Miss Mackarness.

"A true and perticuler account as 'ow they 'ad hall married our lady,

sayin' as they 'ad concealed it till they could no longer!" repeated

Timothy more loudly.

"Good heavens!" said Miss Mackarness, trembling very much, "I fear it

will upset Lady Penelope, to say nothing of the infant. Do they all

claim the infant, Bunting?"

"I presume so, ma'am," said Bunting. "It looks likely."

"Under these circumstances, Bunting," cried Miss Mackarness, "I feel it

is my duty to communicate the facts to our lady. Give me the paper,

Bunting!"

Bunting said he would get it, and came back with a hatful of fragments.

"If you please, ma'am, this is hall I can rescue of the details. The

cook and the parlour-maid and the two 'ousemaids 'ave fought over it in

the servants' 'all, and are now in tears, not 'aving read a word."

And Miss Mackarness took the hatful up to Penelope, who sat with her

nurse and the cause of all the trouble in a south room overlooking the

moat.

"In the name of all that is wonderful, what's in that hat?" asked

Penelope.

"It is Timothy Bunting's hat, my lady," replied the Mackarness.

"So I perceive," said Penelope. "Is a bird in it?"

"Oh, no, my lady. It's the bits of a newspaper," replied the

housekeeper, as if she served up the _Times_ in a groom's hat every day.

"It's Timothy's hat, but a clean new one."

"But why do you bring it, and why do you put newspaper in it?" asked

Penelope.

"If you please, my lady, I cannot help it. The cook and the

parlour-maid and the two housemaids fought over it in the servants'

hall, and are now in tears, not having read a word of it."

To all appearance the housekeeper had lost her senses. Though this was

no wonder, Penelope wondered at it.

"Well," she said at last, "I see what's in the hat, but what's in the

newspaper?"

"If you please, my lady, according to Timothy Bunting and Smith, who

appear to have read it, it contains the true account of what happened at

Goring House the other day, when all the gentlemen staying there,

hearing from the _Times_ that your ladyship had a fine boy on the

eighteenth, and no husband named by your ladyship's particular

directions, all got up one after the other, and, requesting private

interviews with her upset Grace, the duchess, declared upon their oaths,

though in secret, that they had married you themselves!"

She recited this in a strange, mechanical way, which would have been

extremely effective upon the stage, as a picture of hopeless

conventionality wounded to death, and at last dying in sheer

indifference to all things.

"Dear me!" said Penelope, "dear me!"

"It furthermore appears, my lady, begging your pardon for mentioning it,

and I have reproved Bunting bitterly for daring to do so, though I

haven't read the fragments in the hat, that no one believes your

ladyship's word at all as to your being married."

"Oh, how shameful!" said Penelope. "Why, here's baby!"

The nurse coughed and hid her mouth with her hand.

"Yes, my lady, so he is," said Miss Mackarness. "There doesn't seem any

doubt whatsoever about that, but--"

And Penelope sighed. Suddenly her face lighted up.

"Ah!" she said, "I see why they said it to aunty. How very, very noble

of them! I knew they were all splendid men; men of the highest

character and attainments and possibilities. Will you have telegrams

written out to all of them, saying, 'Your conduct is noble, and I am

deeply grateful'?"

"Yes, my lady," replied the housekeeper, "and how will you sign it?"

"Sign it Penelope Brading," said Penelope. "And tell Smith to take his

car as quickly as he can to Spilsborough, and send them from there."

She lay back in her pillows.

"They are noble fellows," she said. "I have done them an immense amount

of good. A year ago not one of them could have risen to such heights of

abnegation, such love, such tenderness. I shall see them bringing in a

new era yet. Leopold Gordon will inaugurate a new and pure finance.

The dear marquis will abolish anti-Semitism and duelling in France. De

Vere will write poems of a purity appealing equally to Brixton and

Belgravia, and my dear friend Carew will vindicate the Royal Academy's

policy of showing that charity begins at home. And the rest--ah, me!

Poor dear aunty, how I love her!"

And by the time that she had pondered over a renewed world, Geordie

Smith was sending off the wires from Spilsborough with wonderful

results.

"I like this," said Smith. "This is what I like! There's nothing dull

about it. I wonder what'll happen now? I'll lay five to one I can

guess!"

He guessed right as to some, for in about four hours Rufus Plant arrived

in Spilsborough on his racing-car, and put up at the Grand Hotel.

"I guess she must be somewhere in this neighbourhood," said Plant. "And

here I stay till I find her. And by the tail of the sacred bull,

whatever happens, I'll marry her right here in this hyer noble pile of a

cathedral. And if she'll do it, I'll restore it for the authorities

free of charge, till it's as gawdy as a breastpin and right up to date."

He ran against Gordon, and the two men fell back in horrible surprise.

"You--"

"You!"

"Oh, yes," said Plant, "I'm here on business connected with the

cathedral."

"And I'm to see the--bishop, who will join the board on allotment,"

mumbled Gordon.

And then Goby roared into town on his motorcar. The others saw him, and

he saw them, and ignored them palely. He, too, put up at the Grand, but

never spoke to them. And De Vere came in while they were at dinner, and

sat down opposite to Goby. He said, "Oh!" and, rising, at once bolted

from the table.

"I'm damned," said Goby, and he lost his appetite.

"How many more of us?" they asked themselves.

They looked up at every one who entered.

"Bramber will be in any moment," said Plant.

Poor De Vere sat in his bedroom and was ill.

"If I look out into the corridor, I know I shall see that beast

Williams," he sobbed.

"Where's that French fool, Rivaulx?" asked Gordon. They all believed

the other was the scoundrel of the dreadful drama.

And then the evening papers came in. They declared in big lines that

there had been "A Fracas in High Life." They added that it had taken

place in the Row at four o'clock that very afternoon. They went on to

say that Lord Bramber and the Marquis de Rivaulx, well known as a great

sportsman and a balloonist, had fought in a flower-bed, and had been

torn from each other's arms and a big rhododendron by two dukes, three

earls, and a viscount. They further declared that it was a matter of

public notoriety that all the trouble rose out of the mystery connected

with the _Times_ and Lady Penelope Brading. They promised more details

in later editions.

"They'll fight," said Gordon, savagely. "I hope they'll kill each

other. But especially I hope that the marquis will be killed first and

most!"

And about eleven o'clock Rivaulx turned up with his chauffeur and a bad

black eye.

"He shall fight me here," said Rivaulx. "This is a quiet town. No one

will think of Spilsborough! He does not know that _she_ sent me a

telegram from here!"

He put up at the Angel, and escaped seeing the others for the time. On

his way up he had sent a defiant telegram to Bramber, desiring him to

come to Spilsborough, and fight there with swords or pistols or any

weapon that commended itself to him. This telegram Bramber never got,

for, on reaching home and washing away the traces of the struggle in

Hyde Park before all the loveliness of London, he had found his telegram

from Spilsborough sent by Geordie Smith. After looking in the ABC

guide, and finding no good train, he pelted off in his motor-car,

leaving a note for Rivaulx, saying that, though duels were absurd and

illegal, he would not refuse to meet the marquis in France or Belgium,

if he desired to make a bigger fool of himself than he had already done

in the park.

"Curse and confound them all," said Bramber, who was horribly cross and

exceedingly sick of the whole world, even including Penelope. "I wonder

what she means by this telegram. I wish I was dead! Is she at

Spilsborough?"

Just in the middle of Spilsborough he met Rivaulx and pulled up short,

not having the least notion, of course, that he would meet him there.

But Rivaulx grinned a ghastly smile and raised his hat, as Bramber

stopped.

"Ha, I am pleased to see you," said the French marquis. "You have come

quickly. It is a fine night, there is a moon, and close by here under

the shadow of the cathedral there is a most beautiful piece of grass.

There we will fight. I have brought swords with me. Or have you

brought guns?"

"I haven't brought guns," said Bramber, who was entirely stunned and at

a loss for a word.

The marquis bowed.

"We will fight with swords, my lord. I think this hotel is good; the

lady is amiable; there are rooms to spare. When the moon rises, ha! I

will call you forth."

And Bramber went to the hotel to think what he should do.

"The ass! the lunatic! How did he get here? I can't get out of fighting

him."

He sat outside in his car.

"No, I won't. I'm damned if I do!" he said.

He went in and wrote a note for Rivaulx, who was out in the cathedral

close picking what he considered a good place for a duel. The spot he

chose was not far from the dean's house.

"I wish it had been Mr. Plant," he said. "Of Bramber, who is a young

ass, I am not jealous. But of Plant I am horribly jealous, and he is a

bad man. If I met Plant I would say, 'Fight me at once now, and I will

put off Lord Bramber till another day.'"

And, going around the corner, he ran right into Plant, who was raging

about the town, wondering where Penelope was and how everything was

going to end.

"The scoundrel is that marquis," said Plant. And he ran into the

scoundrel's arms.

And just while Bramber was shaking the dust of Spilsborough from the

tires of his motor-car, Bob himself came into the town in a hired

Daimler, full of the most extraordinary news. And Titania was having a

series of fits down at Goring, with Dr. Lumsden Griff in attendance.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

It cannot be imagined that Titania, who had survived so many shocks, was

ill for nothing. When Bob discovered what she was ill of, he stood

outside on the lawn with his hands deep in his pockets and with his legs

wide apart.

"I must tell 'em this at once," said Bob, gloomily. "If I don't tell

Gordon, he'll forget he's invested a hundred of mine in something to

make hair curl, and I shall lose the money. I mean to make money to

keep up Goring by and by. And he said he'd make me a director, too.

For the sake of the family, I can't neglect him. Or De Vere, either.

Or any of 'em. But--but I never thought it of Pen!"

With his pockets full of money derived from the sale of dogs to De Vere,

he rushed off to the station and caught a train for town. When he

reached London, he sent a wire to "Old Guth."

"I'm in town on important business. Break it to grandmother between

fits. I hope to be back to-morrow."

He rushed off to Park Lane to find Gordon.

"Mr. Gordon has gone to Spilsborough, sir," said Gordon's man.

"D-- I mean confound it!" said Bob. He went to Plant's.

"Mr. Plant went to Spilsborough in a great hurry this afternoon, sir,"

said Plant's landlady. The American millionaire still lived in

Bloomsbury, though not on ten shillings a week.

"Oh," said Bob, "I wonder what this means. There's a secret here!"

He drove in a hansom to find Bramber. A very ingenuous piece of

humanity in buttons told Bob that Lord Bramber came in about four

o'clock torn to ribbons, and found a telegram waiting him.

"And off he went in his motor-car."

"Where?" asked Bob.

"I don't know," said the buttons. But on Bob's going to Bramber's room,

he found the ABC open on the table at the page with Spilsborough on it.

"Sherlock Holmes would say he has gone to Spilsborough," cried Bob.

"And if Gordon and Plant have gone there, too, I'll bet all the rest

have gone. I'll go, too."

But there was no train for three hours!

"I'm done," said Bob, "No, I'm not. I'll hire a motor-car."

He went to the nearest place in Regent Street and hired one.

"Very well, sir," said the man, "but it's rather expensive, you know."

Bob pulled out a handful of sovereigns.

"Take as many as you think fair," he said, grandly. "And don't forget I

want a speedy one, and a man that can drive, and I'll pay the fines of

course!"

That was how he came to Spilsborough just in time and about the hour

when the moon was to rise. He passed a motor-car in the ditch about ten

miles out of the cathedral city, and did not stop to find out what was

the matter. He thus missed the discovery that Bramber and his chauffeur

were both sitting upon the wreck, using very awful language to each

other on the subject of losing the way and coming bolt down a side road

into the opposing hedge. It is astonishing how an accident at thirty

miles an hour brings owners and mechanics down to the same human level.

When Bob reached Spilsborough, he was covered with dust, but was as spry

as a grasshopper and awfully full of his news.

"You _can_ drive," said Bob to his man. "I'm very much pleased with

you. Stop at this hotel."

He went into the Angel, and staggered blithely to the office.

"Is Mr. Gordon here, or Mr. Plant, or the Marquis of Rivaulx?" he

demanded.

He thus discovered the marquis.

He drove off to the Grand, and found Plant and Goby and De Vere and

Gordon were there. They were all in bed but Plant, and Plant had gone

to see the cathedral by moonlight.

"All right, we'll put up here," said Bob, "and I'll see if I can find

Plant. I say, I wonder what Baker will think of this? It beats me!"

He got to the cathedral precincts just about an hour after Rivaulx and

Plant had run into each other's arms. Much had occurred since then.

For Rivaulx started back from Plant and almost forgot the existence of

Bramber.

"You are a scoundrrrel," said Rivaulx, rolling his r's in the most

fearful manner.

"You are a lunatic," replied Plant, coolly; "when did you escape?"

"I have not escaped, I am here," snorted Rivaulx, "but you shall not

escape. I meant to kill Lord Bramber upon this spot, but I prefer to

keel you. I let him go; he is nothing. You are the scoundrrel!"

"Oh, dry up!" said Plant, crossly. "You tire me, you fatigue me very

much. I am exhausted by looking at you. Go home, or I will break you

in three pieces and eat them!"

Rivaulx foamed at the mouth.

"Do you refuse to fight me, sare?"

"Certainly not," said Plant. "Take your coat off and hang it on a

tombstone, and I'll leave nothing of you but a smear."

"I do not fight with fists," said Rivaulx, contemptuously. "I fight

with swords, with steel, with guns or pistols."

Plant shook his head.

"I've none of 'em about me, my son!"

"At the hotel I have swords," cried Rivaulx, eagerly. "I brought them

to kill Bramber, who punched my eye in the Rotten Row, and we rolled in

bushes. But I will first fight you. Wait and I fetch the swords."

He ran violently into the darkness, and Plant sat on a railing.

"What am I to do? Am I to wait and fight a lunatic? Or shall I go back

to the hotel? I think I'll go back. If that raging idiot is found

prancing about here with swords, they will run him in."

But he did not know how fast the marquis could run and how near the

hotel was. Before he had made up his mind to go, Rivaulx came back

again. He flung the swords at Plant's feet.

"Take one and let us begin," he said.

"I think on the whole I'll have both," said Plant, suiting the action to

the word. "Now go home, marquis, like a good little boy, and come to

the Grand Hotel in the morning and tell me why you want to be hanged in

England."

He put both the weapons under his arm.

"You will not fight?" said the marquis, gasping like a dying dolphin.

"What kind of a galoot do you reckon me?" asked Plant, quite

unintelligibly.

"Ha!" said the marquis, "I know not what a galoot is, but I will fight

you here and leave your body on the grass."

Neither of them had observed the approach of a portly and pleasant

gentleman behind them. He was now leaning upon the railing, watching

them with a great deal of kindly curiosity.

"I think, gentlemen, that the dean will object," he said at length, and

they both turned around suddenly.

"You must not interfere," said Rivaulx; "we do not know you."

[Illustration: RUFUS Q. PLANT. Born in Virginia]

"To be sure, to be sure," replied the gentleman, who was dressed very

curiously, as Rivaulx noticed. "I hate interfering, especially with

anything belonging to a dean. Deans, gentlemen, are very touchy about

matters connected with their cathedrals. Now Dean Briggs, gentlemen,

takes the very greatest care of that grass on which you both are now

illegally trampling, and I understand that he has made a rule never to

have duels upon it. He is very firm on that point. Do I mistake you if

I say that it looks to an unprejudiced observer as if you were going to

fight a duel?"

Rivaulx bowed.

"I do not know you, sare, and I do not want to. I want to keel this man,

who is a scoundrrel."

The stranger addressed Plant.

"And are you equally anxious to break this very rigid rule of the

dean's?" he asked, suavely.

"Certainly not," replied Plant; "I want to go to bed."

"I am delighted to hear it. I am intensely gratified to hear it. If

one duellist, having possession of both deadly weapons, desires to go to

bed, I cannot see anything to hinder him, unless, indeed, he wants to

lie down on Mr. Dean's grass. You see, gentlemen, I am a bishop, and a

bishop's first desire is to be on good terms with the dean. If Mr. Dean

heard that I encouraged any one to break his rules about duelling or

going to bed in the precincts of this cathedral, I should _not_ be on

good terms with him, I assure you."

"I do not understand," said Rivaulx. "I want to fight, that is all I

want to do!"

"Stay!" said the bishop, mildly. "If the somewhat excited gentleman,

who is, I gather, not an Englishman, will accompany me a few yards, we

will go to the dean's, with whom I have been dining, and will refer the

matter to him."

"Of course," said Plant, "that is the right thing to do. Marquis, his

lordship the bishop suggests the only course open to gentlemen. I trust

you will accept his offer, and, if you do, I undertake to fight you if

the dean gives his permission."

"Stay, sare, my lord the bishop," said Rivaulx, "one moment, sare, the

bishop. Is this dean of whom you speak a gentleman?"

"Certainly, certainly," replied the bishop, hastily. "He is of the

highest breeding, and in his youth he fenced like a fencing-master."

"Then he understands the code of honour, sare the bishop?"

"Absolutely, for a dean," replied his lordship.

"Then I agree, sir lord," cried Rivaulx.

"Ha, we will go to his house, then," said the bishop, "if you will step

over this railing. But stop here one moment and observe the moon rising

over Mr. Dean's cathedral. Is it not a peaceful, pleasant spot,

gentlemen?"

"It beats thunder," said Plant.

"It does, it does," nodded his lordship. "Many Americans, who admire

this cathedral immensely, have made the same acute observation. May I

ask your names, gentlemen? I am the bishop of this diocese."

"My name is Plant, Rufus Q. Plant, and my friend is the Marquis of

Rivaulx."

"Indeed," returned the bishop, "is the gentleman the French nobleman who

is interested in balloons?"

"Yes," said Plant.

"Dear me! I am delighted," said his lordship. "I, too, am interested in

balloons. I saw one go up once."

"You like them?" asked Rivaulx, warmly. "That is good! I will take you

up in one."

"We will talk of it later," said the bishop, rather hastily for a man of

his gentle flowing speech. "But this is the dean's house. If I knock at

this window, he will put his head out."

He knocked at the window, and Mr. Dean did put his head out.

"I am _so_ loath to disturb you, Mr. Dean," said his lordship, "but, as

I was leaving you and taking a little stroll before retiring, I met two

gentlemen, one from the United States and one a French marquis, who were

engaged in a warm discussion on a point of honour. I am ignorant of the

exact point, and I dare say there is no necessity for our knowing. As a

result of this discussion, the French marquis desired to fight a duel

with swords (you will observe them under the arm of the gentleman from

the United States), and I ventured to intervene, as the duel was to take

place upon your grass."

"Humph, indeed!" said the dean, in great astonishment. "And what did you

say?"

"I said that it was against your rules to allow any one to fight duels

there. Was I not right?"

"Rather!" said the dean. "I should say so."

"And on the other hand," continued the bishop, "the gentleman from

across the Atlantic wished to go to bed."

"Then why the--why doesn't he?" asked the dean.

"It seemed to me that the gentleman from across the water wanted to go

to bed upon your grass," said the bishop. "I pointed out to him that

there was a very old and strict rule dating from the time beyond record

which forbade this. Was I not right?"

"You were," said the dean. "I never go to bed on the grass myself, and

do not permit others to do so. I never fight duels there, either, and

do not allow it."

"You see, gentlemen," said the bishop, but before he could add another

word Bob rushed right upon the group outside the dean's windows, and saw

that Plant made one of them. He saw the swords also, and then

recognized Rivaulx.

"Oh, I say," said Bob, "you were going to fight a duel about Pen! I've

come in time! It's no good. She has married Timothy Bunting, her

groom!"

*CHAPTER XVII.*

It was such an awful shock to Plant and Rivaulx, and, for the matter of

that, to his lordship the Bishop of Spilsborough, that they all gasped

dreadfully. Plant took the bishop by the sleeve. Rivaulx lay down upon

the grass under the dean's window, and howled as he tore at the turf.

The dean said:

"I'll come out! This is becoming serious!"

He came out, and, as he opened the door, the light of the hall lamp fell

upon Bob's face.

"Good heavens!" said the bishop, "I thought I knew the voice. Is that

you, Robert Goring?"

Bob said it was, but added that he didn't know the bishop.

"Boy, I christened you," said the bishop. "Is all this trouble about

Penelope Brading, whom I also christened?"

"Yes," replied Bob; "shall I tell you about it?"

"Let us retire a few paces, and you can tell me," said the bishop. "In

the meantime, Mr. Dean, I beg you to exercise patience with the French

nobleman on the grass. Come, Bob."

"Well, it's awful rot, you know," said Bob, speaking very rapidly. "We

don't know where we are in the family, and grandmother is lying on a

sofa screaming."

"Why, Bob?"

"You must have heard of it."

The bishop had heard a great deal, but not all.

"Pen says she's married and has a kid," said Bob, "and she won't say who

it is. And all these jossers, including Plant, he's the American over

there, and the marquis chewing the grass, said they had married her

themselves. Do you see, sir,--my lord, I mean?"

"I see," said the bishop, putting his finger-tips together. "It was, I

think, very noble of them."

"But granny said it was very trying, and it made her ill, for she wasn't

any further than before, unless Pen had married them all. And

grandfather, who kept cool, said that was unlikely."

"It certainly seems unlikely," said the bishop. "But when you came to

us, you made some very astonishing remarks about a groom, one Bunting, I

think. Now what is there to know about him?"

"Weekes said that, the beast!" cried Bob.

"Who is the beast Weekes?" asked the bishop.

Bob told him who Miss Harriet Weekes was.

"And not an hour after these had said they were married to Pen, this

Weekes woman came in black and in a cab and said she must see granny.

And granny saw her, and is now in fits, with the doctor feeling her

pulse and giving her brandy. For Weekes was very solemn (I listened),

and she said: 'Your Grace, I shall reveal the truth, which lies upon my

bosom like a tombstone. Her ladyship treated me cruel, and gave me the

sack moreover, and I've no call to be silent no more 'avin' diskivered

the truth.' She talks like that. Weekes is an uneducated beast, and

why Pen ever had her as a maid I can't tell. And granny was confused

with the others, having said they were all married to Pen, and she

waggled her head awfully. 'I shall surprise your Grace,' said Weekes,

and granny said she wouldn't. And she said, 'I shall surprise your

Grace, for I've to reveal that I know the man, the serpent, that her

ladyship 'as married.' And granny smiled very curiously, and said,

'Weekes, who do you say it is?' And then Weekes cried, the crocodile,

and she said that Penelope had married Timothy Bunting, the groom, and

that Timothy had been engaged to her, and had as good as told her that

he was looking high and despised a public-house at a corner. I don't

know what she meant. And she was so solemn and furious that granny

believed her, and went off into fit after fit most awful, my lord, and

they sent for the doctor, and I came away, for I knew the others would

fight when they learnt that all of them had said the same thing. And I

believe it is Timothy myself."

"Dear, dear me!" said the bishop, "this is even more remarkable than I

anticipated from the very strange reports in the papers. But I think

you have done well, Robert, and I do not regret having christened you by

any means, which is more than I can say for some of the aristocracy.

Let us return to the dean, who is, I am afraid, having some trouble with

the French marquis. He is not accustomed to foreign noblemen and to

Americans, except when they come here to see his cathedral."

They turned toward the deanery, where Rivaulx was still rolling on the

grass.

"Do you think it is Timothy?" asked Bob.

The bishop shook his head gently.

"I do not see what grounds we have to go on, Robert. Here we have an

American who states, if I understand you rightly, that he has married my

poor Penelope, and a French marquis of high repute who also states the

same. And there are others--"

"Five or six!" said Bob.

"And there are five or six others who commit themselves to the same

statement. And then a lady's maid says she knows that Penelope has

married a groom. I do not see what logical grounds we have for

concluding anything more than that some one has told a lie, or that

Penelope has been breaking the law by marrying more than one man at a

time. Speaking _a priori_, I think this latter alternative unlikely,

and, as a matter of probability, I am forced to believe that only one at

least out of seven (is it seven?) gentlemen of unblemished reputation

has told the truth."

It was all very sad. But there were practical details to be attended

to. Though the marquis had ceased to raise the echoes of the stilly

night, to say nothing of the echoes of the cathedral's west front, he

was still in a fearfully mournful condition. He was now weeping in the

dean's arms, and the dean was endeavouring to soothe him as best he

could. When the bishop came back, Mr. Dean seemed much relieved.

"Don't you think you could get them to go away, bishop?" he inquired,

pathetically. "This kind of thing is beyond my experience, and I am

extremely fatigued by it."

"I will do my best," replied the bishop.

Turning to the marquis, he said:

"Get up, marquis. I will walk with you to the hotel. Mr. Plant, please

follow with Robert, and be good enough to take care of those lethal

instruments, which are, I rejoice to say, little understood in a quiet

cathedral town. It appears to me we are all in a state of mind which

needs repose. On the morrow, after I have slept upon it, I shall be

happy to receive you all and give you the best advice in my power. Now,

marquis, I am waiting for you. The grass is damp."

And they walked to the hotel, leaving the dean staring open-mouthed.

"This is very unusual," sighed the dean. "I cannot recollect anything

exactly like it in my long experience."

No more could the bishop. Plant was in the same state of mind. Rivaulx

wept silently. Bob was in the seventh heaven of delight, in spite of

Bunting. He thoroughly believed in what Harriet Weekes said. Neither

Plant nor Rivaulx knew that he knew they both claimed to be Pen's

husband.

"This story of Bunting is a goldarned lie," said Plant, hoarsely. Bob

did not reply. He was sorry for them all, and relied on the bishop.

What he relied on him for he did not know. All he did know was that the

bishop seemed fully equal to the situation.

"How many more of you are there, Mr. Plant?" he asked at length.

"Gordon and Goby and De Vere," replied Plant, miserably.

"I must see Mr. Gordon," said Bob. And then they came to the Angel. By

this time Rivaulx and the bishop were great friends, for Rivaulx was a

clerical in his heart of hearts, and, if there wasn't a Catholic bishop

to lean on, a Protestant one was a good substitute. He stopped weeping,

and held the bishop's hand.

"You are a good man, sare bishop," he said. "I wish I was a good bishop,

but I cannot. Life is a very terrible thing. I wish I could cut my

throat. I am weary."

"I should go to bed," said the bishop, "and I'll look in and see you in

the morning. Bed is the best place when one is weary. I assure you

that I am not wholly ignorant of the world, or of the desire to cut my

throat, but I find that after a good night's rest the wish to do so

evaporates, and one determines to live for another twelve hours at

least. But before you go, I hope you will give me your word that you

will cut no one else's."

"I give it," said Rivaulx. "The desire to kill Mr. Plant has left me.

I am no longer furious, even with Bramber. I am simply sad and

fearfully mournful. I thank you, sare; good night."

"Good night," said the bishop. "Stay, marquis, I think Mr. Plant has

the weapons."

The marquis waved them off.

"I have no need of them. I give them you, sare bishop. Take them."

And when the bishop had bidden Plant and Bob good night, and had

arranged to see Bob in the morning, the curious sight might have been

witnessed of a great ornament of the Episcopal bench walking through the

precincts of the cathedral to his palace, with a couple of

duelling-swords under his arm.

"This has been a very interesting evening," said the bishop. "I very

much wonder what Ridley will think when he sees me come in. A butler's

mind is naturally limited."

He went in and gave the swords to Ridley.

"Take these," said his lordship.

"Yes, m'lord," said Ridley, stolidly.

"I think you can hang them up in the dining-room, Ridley."

"Yes, m'lord."

"They are trophies, Ridley."

"So I perceive, m'lord," said Ridley.

"What are trophies, Ridley?"

"These, m'lord," said Ridley.

"Exactly so," said his lordship.

And while he was taking off his gaiters and thinking of Penelope, Bob

was sitting on the edge of Gordon's bed and telling him all about it.

"Why are you here?" asked Bob.

"She sent me a telegram," said poor Gordon.

"I say, what about?"

"Sayin' I wath a noble character and so on," replied Gordon, miserably,

"and I came here at onth becauth the telegram came from here."

As the sleep went out of his eyes, he talked less Hebraically.

"I thought she might be here," he added, shaking his curly head.

Bob thought very hard.

"I say, this is awfully mixed, Mr. Gordon, because I know you told

granny you were married to Pen!"

Gordon gulped something down. It was probably very bad language.

"So--so I am," he said, sternly, without looking at Bob.

"Rivaulx says so, too."

"The devil!" cried Gordon.

"And so does Goby and Rivaulx and Bramber and De Vere and all of 'em!"

Gordon fell back on his pillows.

"So you see," said Bob, "we're no further than we were, except that

Weekes, who used to be Pen's maid, came to granny this afternoon and

told her, the beast, that Pen had married Timothy Bunting!"

Gordon bounced out of bed in his night-shirt.

"Who the devil is Timothy Bunting?" he roared.

Bob told him.

"It's a lie--a lie!"

"Of course it must be, if you've married her, as you say," said Bob.

"But perhaps I'm disturbing you. Would you like to go to sleep?"

"Very much indeed," replied Gordon. "I should like to go to sleep and

stay asleep. I wish you'd go and serve Goby and De Vere as you've

served me!"

"I'm so sorry," said Bob, "but you always said you wanted any news, and

that's why I told you first."

Gordon held out his hand, and Bob shook it warmly.

"By the way," he asked, "what about the hair restorer?"

"What hair restorer?" asked the astonished Hebrew.

"The one you put ninety pounds of mine in, sir."

"It wasn't in a hair restorer. What makes you say so?"

"Well," replied Bob, "I thought it was. You said it would make my hair

curl. How much did it make, whatever it was?"

A glow of pleasure spread over Gordon's sad countenance. Making money

was something even in despair.

"My boy, I bought you Amalekites at half a crown, five hundred and sixty

of 'em, and now they're at L4."

"Dear me," said Bob, "how much does that make? Why, it's L2,240."

"Less commission," agreed the financier.

"By Jove, that's a very, very good beginning," said Bob. "Do you think

they will go up more, Mr. Gordon?"

Gordon looked at him and sighed.

"They might. But don't you think it would be safer to get out now,

Bob?"

Bob shook his head.

"I'll follow your advice, sir, of course. If it was only myself, I'd

take the money, but I'm thinking of Goring, when my father and

grandfather and uncle die. What I want is fifty thousand, at least.

Grandfather often says that is the least that can put the house on its

legs again. Let me see, L2,240 is eight times four times L90. That's

thirty-two times L90. What's thirty-two times L2,240?"

"Seventy-one thousand six hundred and eighty," replied Gordon, promptly.

"That would do very well indeed," said Bob. "Please go on, sir, till

it's that. Or shall I take half and ask Mr. Plant to do something with

it? He offered to help me."

"Certainly not," replied Gordon, angrily. "Plant's a reckless speculator

and a liar, and he'll wake up some day worth half a million less than

nothing. I'll do my best for you and Goring, Bob."

"I'm sure you will, sir," said Bob. "Good night, Mr. Gordon. I'm sorry

if I've worried you."

And he went off to worry Goby. Gordon walked up and down the room

weeping.

"If I only had a boy like that!" he cried. "By Moses and all the

prophets, I'll put Amalekites up sky-high, and squeeze the bears till

they howl. Oh, Pen, Pen!"

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

By breakfast-time or a little later, Goby and Gordon and De Vere and

Rivaulx knew not only what was said about Timothy Bunting, but also that

every one of them had told the Duchess of Goring that he was married to

Penelope. When the bishop looked in to see the marquis, he found him

exceedingly difficult to manage. He wanted the duelling-swords back in

order to fight every one. His especial desire now was to put cold steel

through Gordon, and this led to a general evacuation of Spilsborough.

"I say, Mr. Gordon," said Bob, rushing in upon the financier while he

was shaving, "I've just met the bishop, and he wanted to know if I knew

you, and I said 'rather,' and he said would I ask you, in the interests

of peace, to go back to London, because the marquis wanted to cut your

throat with swords hanging in the bishop's dining-room. I say, will you

go, or stay and fight?"

Gordon cut himself, and then, as Bob said, "cut his stick" and went back

to town shaved on one side and not on the other. As a result of this,

several men in the city sold bears of everything that Gordon was

interested in, and they got left most horribly, especially on

Amalekites. Never afterward did they venture to think that any

financier was on the borders of ruin if he came into the city partially

shaved. In fact, three very shady Jews, with some wildcat stock to

boom, played the trick successfully, and, through not being shaved

themselves, they shaved others.

But this is all by the way, and it only shows that a real financier in

love or in despair is just as dangerous as at other times. Bob and the

bishop talked the situation over in Spilsborough while Gordon was going

to town, and the result was what might have been expected.

"All we know is that Penelope, poor dear Penelope is near Spilsborough,"

said the bishop.

"And that she's married," said Bob.

"We infer that from general grounds, our knowledge of her character,"

said the logical bishop. "Strictly we cannot be said to know it. It is

not a primary datum of consciousness, nor is it a judgment or a purely

rational conclusion, Bob."

"Oh," said Bob, "well, perhaps not."

"I think," said the bishop, "that I shall write to her--"

"Where to?"

"To everywhere," said the bishop, "and ask her to come and confide in

me. And in the meantime, as the others have gone, and your presence

here is no longer necessary, I think you should go home and console your

grandmother, and apply yourself to work."

"All right," said Bob; "I don't think it's interesting here any more.

But are you glad I came in time to stop the duel?"

"I am glad," said the bishop. "But, to tell the truth, Robert, I should

not have allowed a duel on Mr. Dean's ancient grass and under his

immemorial elms without a remonstrance, even a physical remonstrance."

Within the memory of this portly and admirable pillar of the Church to

which the British Empire owes all its greatness, and to which it pays a

great deal of its money, were many fierce encounters at Oxford, that

haunt of ancient peace and modern progress.

"Would you have knocked 'em down?" asked Bob, eagerly.

"Certainly," said the bishop. "I would have knocked them as flat as a

flounder."

And Bob bade him good-bye.

"I think he's a ripping good bishop," said Bob. "I'll ask Mr. Gordon to

help restore the cathedral."

He got back to Goring to find Titania no longer suffering from fits.

Fits were not equal to the situation. All her friends were writing to

her to condole with her on the marriage of Penelope to Timothy Bunting.

They came down in droves to condole and to get the latest intelligence,

while gamekeepers and grooms were keeping journalists out of the grounds

with guns and pitchforks.

For the world was absolutely certain that Miss Weekes was right, and

Pen's _ci-devant_ maid was making the salary of a star at the Empire by

according interviews to those halfpenny papers which are England's glory

and her hope. The editors endeavoured to interview the lovers, but they

were stern and savage. They would not speak to each other and avoided

strangers. But it was no secret now that they each claimed to be Lady

Penelope's husband. As the acutest journalist of them all remarked,

this was hardly possible. The only theory that held water (or, at

least, "good" water, as the Baboo pleader remarked) was the Bunting

theory. But if Bunting was the man, where was he? and why this mystery?

A journalist solved it, or said he did. Bunting was a very handsome

man. There was no doubt of that. But he was an uneducated man. That

was quite certain. If a lady of Penelope's standing married a man of

Bunting's, what would she do? The answer was easy. She would send him

to Oxford to acquire the accent and the aplomb and the insolence which

have rendered Oxford men the idols of the mob, and have put them into

every position where tact with inferior races is a _sine qua non_. This

is what the journalist said. He ought to have known, as he had been

brought up in the Yorkshire Dissenting College, and dissented from all

other codes of manners, except those popular with the non-conformist

conscience, which, equally with the Church of England, has made the

empire what it is and what it should be.

But this journalist knew his market. The eyes of the civilized world

once more turned to Oxford.

"If it's Bunting, I'll kill him," said all the lovers who were not

married to Penelope. "She has made a mistake, if it's true, and he must

be got rid of."

Now was the time of the Marchioness of Rigsby's glory.

"Did I not tell you she had married her groom?" she demanded of Titania.

"Penelope was extremely rude to me. I am almost glad she has married a

groom. If he is a nice groom, he may improve her manners."

"She hasn't married any groom," cried Titania, furiously. "I am

perfectly certain it is the Marquis of Rivaulx."

She was certain of nothing. Bradstock was certain of nothing. They

both asked Bob what he was certain of, and Bob replied all the lovers

were in such a state of mind that it couldn't be any of them. And then

at last Titania hit upon a certain truth.

"Whoever it is would be just as miserable as all the others," she said.

"He'll be sorry now that he agreed to it, and he'll be asking her to

give in, and she won't. And they'll quarrel."

"You're right, Titania," cried Bradstock, slapping his thigh. "Bob, I

believe the most miserable of them all is the man. Which is the most

miserable?"

Bob thought.

"Gordon cried a little."

"Ha!" said the duchess.

"But Rivaulx cried a good deal," said Bob.

"Oh," said the duchess. "But which do you think it is, Robert?"

"I think it's Timothy Bunting," said Bob. "And I want to go to Oxford to

find out if he's there. Baker says--"

"Do you discuss these matters with Baker?" demanded his grandmother,

haughtily.

"He knows a great deal about the world," said Bob, "and about Bunting,

you know. Baker says--"

"You may go to Oxford," cried Titania, "and I will go to bed and stay

there. I am a most unhappy woman, and Goring does not care!"

So Bob went to Oxford all by himself, and called upon an undergraduate

who had just come up from Harrow, one of the schools which Bob had been

requested to leave on account of pugilism. Jack Harcourt was four years

Bob's senior, but could not fight so well in spite of that, and there

was much more equality between them than would seem possible at first

sight. But then it is almost impossible to feel very much superior to a

boy who has knocked you absolutely senseless, as Bob did Harcourt. And

Bob was one of those boys who make all the world equal. He was familiar

with princes, and said "Baker says" to cabinet ministers. And if his

uncle didn't marry, he was bound to be a duke. Dukes are very important

people, somehow, and the fact that Bob never showed any side was much in

his favour over and above that important fact.

"I say, is there a man up here called Bunting?" asked Bob.

And Harcourt, after consulting a calendar, said there was.

"Timothy Bunting?" asked Bob, jumping as if he were shot.

"Thomas," said Harcourt.

"Oh, he'd say Thomas, I dare say," said Bob. And he told Harcourt all

about it.

"Do you think she's married him?" asked the undergraduate.

"Who knows what girls will do?" said Bob. "Don't you remember the

black-eyed one in the pastry-cook's at Harrow who wouldn't look at you

and was in love with that beast Black?"

Harcourt did remember, but changed the conversation as quickly as

possible.

"This fellow is at All Saints," he said. "I dare say, they'd let a

groom in there."

"Let's go and find him," said Bob. "Poor old Bunting will be sick to

see me. I'm very sorry for him if he is a presumptuous beast. It will

be very awkward for the family. But we must know. The uncertainty is

killing my grandmother, and Baker says it's always best to know the

worst at once. Baker's the best judge of dogs and horses I know. He was

a sergeant in the Dublin Fusiliers. Oh, I told you that!"

And when they got into the High Street, they ran right into Plant, who

smiled a sickly smile and said he had come up to have a look at Oxford.

"I say, Mr. Plant, what's the matter with your clothes?" asked Bob.

"Have you fallen downstairs?"

Plant murmured something unintelligible and hurried away, leaving Bob

staring.

"That's one of 'em, Harcourt," he said to his friend. "He's a

millionaire."

"Then I think he might afford a hat without a dint in it," replied

Harcourt.

Bob shook his head.

"I can't make it out. He's very particular," he said. "But let's get

on."

Around the next corner they bumped into Gordon, who also announced that

he had been struck with a wild desire to have a look at the ancient

university city. Bob shook his head.

"I say, Mr. Gordon, you want brushing badly. Do you know you look as if

you had fallen downstairs?" he asked.

Gordon said, "Do I?" and bolted.

"I can't make this out," said Bob. "This has all the appearance of a

mystery, Harcourt."

"It has," said Harcourt. As they entered All Saints, they saw a man run

across the grass and disappear under the far archway which led out into

the Turl.

"That looked very much like De Vere," said Bob, "very much. Only I

never saw him run except that time when the bulldog chased him. And

then he ran differently. But of course it can't be De Vere."

After asking two reverend-looking members of the university, who looked

as if they knew all about the subjective world, and a scout with every

appearance of a deep acquaintance with the objective one, they

discovered Mr. Bunting's rooms.

"I think he's havin' some gents to lunch, though I'm not his scout, sir,

and they seems to be enjoying themselves now very much," said the scout.

"Mr. Bunting is readin' 'ard, so I 'ear, but he's relaxin' a little

to-day. Just now I see a gentleman drop hout of 'is window, sir. And

you're the third lot I've directed there. This is 'is staircase, gents,

first floor. Thank you, sir, I'm sure. I'll drink your 'ealth."

And here Harcourt said he thought he'd leave Bob. So Bob went up about

six dark steps by himself, and then he stopped.

"Whoever he is, he's making a devil of a row," said Bob, pausing, "a

devil of a row. I wonder if it is Bunting. I think Harcourt might have

stayed. But he never did like fighting or rows."

He climbed up another step or two, and heard a mighty uproar.

"I think they must be having a boxing party," said Bob. And then he

heard a door open on the landing above him.

"Confound you, sir! to the devil with you, sir!" said a voice that he

certainly did not recognize. Then he heard a noise which was presently

explained by the fact that Carteret Williams fell down the stairs,

turning a crooked corner most wonderfully in company with a very large

Liddell and Scott's Dictionary of that beautiful language, Greek.

"Oh, is that you, Mr. Williams?" asked Bob.

Williams appeared rather confused.

"Yes, Bob," he said, as he hugged the dictionary. "I--I think so."

"Why have you fallen down-stairs?" asked Bob.

"That damn groom threw me down," said Williams. "At least, he threw this

book at me, and I came down."

[Illustration: CARTERET WILLIAMS, WAR CORRESPONDENT. He wrote with a red

picturesqueness which was horribly attractive]

"What, is it really Bunting?" roared Bob, eagerly.

"He says his name's Bunting," replied Williams. "But he's very difficult

to handle."

"Oh, Tim can box," said Bob. "But is he our Bunting?"

"Whichever Bunting he is, you are welcome to him," said the enraged war

correspondent.

"I must go up and see," said Bob. "Do you think he threw Mr. Plant and

Mr. Gordon down, too? I met 'em just now, and they looked as if he

had."

"I'm sure he's capable of it," said Williams, bitterly. "Here, take

this book with you. I don't want it."

And Bob climbed up, hugging several pounds' weight of Greek with him.

He stood at the door and listened, and heard a man inside snorting

violently and slamming things about as if he was very much disturbed in

his mind. Bob knocked at the door, and it was opened suddenly. The man

who opened it was in deep shadow.

"It is--it is. No, it isn't," said Bob, quite aloud.

"Are you another of 'em?" asked the occupier of the rooms.

"Oh, it isn't," said Bob. And, choking down his disappointment, his

politeness returned.

"Is this your Greek dictionary?" he asked, courteously. "I found it

lying on Mr. Carteret Williams on the next landing, and he said he

didn't want it."

The man named Bunting seized the dictionary, and then took Bob by the

shoulder and led him in. Bob went like a lamb, for this Mr. Bunting was

six feet high, about three feet across the chest, more or less, and had

a grip like clip-hooks on a bale.

"Was that man named Williams?" he asked.

"Yes," said Bob.

"You know him?"

"Why, of course," said Bob. "I know 'em all."

"All I've thrown down-stairs this afternoon?"

"I think so," said Bob, modestly. "At least, I met Mr. Plant and Mr.

Gordon, who looked very much as if they had fallen down-stairs. And I

think the little gentleman you dropped out of the window on the grass

must have been Mr. Austin de Vere."

"Oh," said Mr. Bunting, "sit down, boy, and look at me. Do I look mad?"

Bob looked at him and then at the room.

"The room looks mad," he replied. And it certainly did.

"That was the last one," said Mr. Bunting. "He was very troublesome."

"He's a war correspondent," said Bob. "But why is your name Bunting?"

"How the devil do I know?" asked the other, in reply. "Perhaps, as you

seem to know them, you can explain what it all means?"

"I will try, sir, if you will tell me what occurred," said Bob.

"First of all," said the outraged member of All Saints, "the American

person knocked and came in, and he said: 'Is your name Bunting?' And I

said, 'Yes, confound you, for your infernal impudence, and what is

yours?' And he said, 'What the devil do you mean by saying you have

married her?' And I said I'd said nothing of the kind, and I said if he

didn't get out in two shakes of a lamb's tail, I'd throw him out. And

he was furious, and couldn't and wouldn't explain, so I did throw him

out. And, as he tumbled down-stairs, he said he'd married her himself.

And he went away, and I sat down to read Thucydides. He's under the

sofa now somewhere. And then the Jew came, and he said: 'You mutht

contradict the report of your being married to her at onth,' and that

made me very cross, and I said I wouldn't, and that made him very wild,

so I said I was married to her just as he said he was--"

"Oh," said Bob, "and are you? Oh, dear, I am so confused! Are you

really, really married to Pen?"

"I shall drop you out of the window in a minute," said Mr. Bunting. "I

said it to annoy him, and it did, and he said I was a liar. So I opened

the door and took him by the neck and dropped him down-stairs, and he

howled awfully. And I said to him over the bannisters, 'I am married to

her, and have been married for years to her, and she loves me very much,

and we are going to acknowledge it as soon as I've taken my B.A.' And

he went away holding his neck, and then the little man came in. Did you

say he was a poet?"

"A very good poet, too," said Bob. "And I sell him bulldogs."

"Oh," said Mr. Bunting, blankly, "you do, do you? Why?"

"Because Pen thought they would do him good."

Mr. Bunting shook his head.

"Thicksides is lucid compared with this!" he murmured. "But patience,

patience, and I shall construe it yet."

"And what did Mr. de Vere say?" asked Bob.

"The same thing. He stood there and said I must contradict it. And he

said of course it was very kind of her to have me educated, but that, if

I had a spark of decency, I should know that a man who had once occupied

the position I had couldn't possibly marry her. And, by the way, what

position had I occupied in regard to her?"

"A groom," said Bob. "You were supposed to have been a groom."

"Dear me," said Mr. Bunting, "how interesting and remarkable. Still no

light, no real light! And of course I said I had married her, and I

asked him did he think I would desert the lady now? And he went

scarlet. Why did he go scarlet do you think?"

"I know," said Bob, "it must have been on account of the baby!"

Mr. Bunting smote his forehead.

"So it must," he said. "I never thought of that. What a fearful

complication! And then he, too, said I was a liar. So I took him by

the collar and led him to the window, and I opened it and dropped him

out. And then the one you call Williams came, and he also was

indignant, and said I was to deny it, and I wouldn't of course. And

then we fought, and the furniture was much disarranged and Thicksides

went under the sofa, and at last I got him outside, and finished him

with Liddell and Scott. And now you know all! In your turn you can

explain what it means. I beg you to do it, and then we will have some

tea."

And Bob explained the whole story.

"You might have seen it in the papers," said Bob.

"I don't read 'em," said Bunting, "except to turn a _Times_ leader into

Greek. But it seems a complicated situation, doesn't it?"

"It is very complicated," sighed Bob, "and my grandmother is very ill

about it. And now she will wonder if it's you, after all!"

"Dear me, so she will," said Bunting. "Have some tea."

They had tea, and Bob rose to go.

"Will you write to the _Times_, and say you haven't married her?" he

asked.

"Certainly not," said Mr. Bunting. "Didn't I say to the others that I

threw down-stairs that I _had_ married her?"

"So you did," said Bob. "But of course you haven't?"

Bunting smiled.

"Good-bye. When you come to Oxford again, come and see me. I must

crawl under the sofa now."

"What for?" asked Bob.

"For Thucydides, of course," replied Mr. Bunting.

And when Bob was in the train for London, he turned very pale.

"Good heavens!" he said, "how do I know it isn't this Bunting, after

all?"

*CHAPTER XIX.*

After this, things by no means cleared up, as they should have done

considering the amount of trouble that all the world took to find out

the truth. Every one said something different from some one else. Bob

gave horribly imaginative accounts of his adventures at Oxford, and

threw out suggestions that Pen was really married to a Bunting, if not

to Timothy Bunting. But when he appealed for corroboration to Gordon,

that gentleman shuffled and prevaricated dreadfully, as he did not like

to acknowledge he had been thrown down-stairs. There was a very curious

scene, in which Gordon and Bob had the best part of a row before

Titania, who came up to town to be near Dr. Lumsden Griff, who knew all

about the left or right ventricle of her heart. As his jealous

confreres said he knew nothing else, perhaps he did. However, that is

by the way.

"Tell it me again, Robert," said Titania.

Bob told her again.

"He said he was married to her?"

"He said he said so to Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon, and Williams and De

Vere," said Bob, gloating over the details of the row. "And he slung

'em all down-stairs. He's about six feet six high, and as broad as a

billiard-table, and as strong as three Sandows, I should say."

"I am much confused again," said Titania, plaintively. "I had come to

the point where certain news of her marriage to a groom would have been

a relief to me. Where are we now?"

As she asked, Gordon was announced. Bob rushed at him.

"I say, Mr. Gordon, tell us how he threw you down-stairs, and what he

said?"

"He didn't throw me down-stairs," said Gordon, quite crossly. "I threw

myself down--I mean I slipped."

"Tell us how you slipped, then, and why," said Bob.

But Gordon wouldn't.

"Oh, I say!" said Bob.

Titania begged Gordon to tell her.

"But then he told me he had married Pen," she said to herself. "What is

the use of asking any one anything?"

"How did you find him?" asked Bob.

"I looked him up," said Gordon.

"Why did you look him up?"

"Because I wanted to find him out," returned Gordon, sulkily. "But I

didn't come to be cross-examined by you, Bob."

In spite of the large sums of money which Gordon owed Bob, Bob was on

the point of an explosion. But trouble was averted by Plant's entrance.

Before he could say a word, a telegram was brought to Titania, and she

read it at once and uttered dismal groans.

"What is it?" chorused the two men and Bob.

"It's from Penelope."

"Please read it out."

Bob read it for his grandmother.

"Am exceedingly displeased with latest reports and news. Contradict at

once. Am not married to Bunting, who is much upset by report, and can

hardly look me in the face. PENELOPE."

"Bunting is with her!" said Titania.

"Which Bunting?" asked Bob. "He--I mean the one at Oxford--told Mr.

Gordon and Mr. de Vere that he was married to her."

Gordon groaned, and, seizing his hat, fled from the room. He came back

again.

"Where does the wire come from?"

"From Spilsborough," said Bob. "Granny, I wonder if the bishop is in

it."

Gordon groaned and went. And went a little too early, for another wire

came. It was a very long one.

Titania looked at the signature first, and she sat up.

"It's from Penelope's husband," she cried.

"Who is he really?" shrieked Bob.

"It's signed Penelope's husband, I mean," said Titania, "and he seems

very unhappy."

The telegram read:

"Am in great distress. Penelope is furious because told you confidence

that was married to her. She has heard this, and has learnt that others,

lying scoundrels, said they were, too. She says their noble conduct

saved her, and will not speak at present, though holding out hopes of

reconciliation later to her and infant, which is doing well, if I say

nothing and do not fight with others, but do my duty, which I find hard

under peculiar circumstances. Hence am precluded from confirming what I

told you, and can only communicate anonymously, as Penelope threatens to

have divorce or equivalent, being headstrong, as you are aware, and I am

in distress about it. Wire reply.

"PENELOPE'S HUSBAND."

"He's mad," said Titania. "How can I wire reply to a man I know nothing

of?"

She turned to Plant.

"You told me in confidence, Mr. Plant. Did you send this?"

Plant turned all the colours of the rainbow.

"Yes," he said, desperately, and he bolted from the room and the house

and disappeared, while Bob gasped, and Titania nodded her head in a most

awe-inspiring manner.

"Get some telegraph forms," she said. And when Bob brought them, she

dictated telegrams to all the horde in the diplomatic form of identic

notes.

"Have received sad telegram signed Penelope's husband. Recognize under

painful circumstances he cannot reveal himself. Am much composed and

have given up hope. It appears it cannot be Bunting, though Bunting is

with her. Contradict this; also the rumour that it is the Rajah of

Jugpore.

"TITANIA GORING."

"Send them," she said, "and let me rest. I presume that the right one

will get it. The only trouble is that six of the wrong ones will, too."

"Goby will go insane," said Bob. "I know he will. I can't see how this

will end without murder."

And Titania laughed dreadfully. She laughed so queerly that Doctor

Griff was sent for, and refused to allow her to see De Vere and Goby and

Bramber and Gordon and Plant and Williams and Carew. The last turned up

first in a hansom cab, with a large palette knife in his hand. He had

forgotten to put it down. As hansom after hansom came up and discharged

one furious lover after another at the steps of Titania's town house, it

looked as if Bob's foreseen murder would occur there and then. It is

possible that nothing but the timely arrival of Bradstock saved London

from the desirable news of a murder in high life and Belgrave Square.

He got hold of the men one by one, and sent them away. As they went, a

telegraph boy came to the house with another telegram addressed to

Titania.

"I shall open this, Bob," said Bradstock. It was another from Pen.

"Have just learnt that you and others have been trying to discover my

whereabouts. If I am pursued, I shall leave and go elsewhere. This is

final.