Peckover gave a short awkward laugh. "I should hope not," he replied, recovering his mental balance. "If I thought I was anything like that tuppence-coloured Johnnie I'd go and hang myself." He pointed to a depressing portrait labelled, "Everard, fourth Baron Quorn." "Good old Everard," he went on. "I've no use for a nose like that, nor for the dial of that old juggins in the Dutch oven--what's his name? Marmaduke. He'd only have to take the top off the pepper-castor to give the enemy a shock. Useful face that to fall back on, and it looks as though some one had been falling back on it." And he flicked the ash off his cigarette scornfully at the doughty warrior. "We don't run to beauty, do we?" Gage remarked. "At least we didn't till quite recently," he corrected politely. "Fact is," said Peckover, "the old crowd were an over-rated lot. Making allowances for bad workmanship on the painters' side, we should have no use for them except on the Fifth of November. They are fair frauds. What do you think of a man who wears a steel lounge suit like that?" He flung the end of his cigarette, having lighted a fresh one, at the nearest suit of armour. "Well, it covered up his deficiencies," observed Gage. "Yes," said Peckover, "it's about as clever as wrapping a twopenny smoke in silver-foil." Gage gave a look round the gallery as though to see that they were alone, and then sat down beside his friend. "Tell you what it is, old man," he said seriously; "to change the subject, we must do something to make things hum a bit more for me. I became my lord to get some fun out of it, but as things are, it strikes me that I've got the empty title, and you're having all the fun." "What do you mean?" "Why," Gage proceeded, "what's my position here? I'm Lord Quorn with a million of money; but because Lord Q. is known to have next to nothing a year, nobody looks at me. You're supposed to be the millionaire and every one runs after you." "Is that my fault?" Peckover asked pertinently. "I don't say it is," Gage returned. "It suited our purpose to fix it so. But it don't work. There must be a change. I don't pay five thousand a year to stand out in the cold on the bleak eminence of an impoverished peerage, looking on and seeing every girl in the place tumbling into your arms." "One can have too much of that sort of tumbling," Peckover remarked sententiously. "And----" "Well, I'd like a little of it," snapped Gage, "and I'm going to have it." "That's reasonable," Peckover agreed. "What do you propose?" "Well," answered Gage, "I've thought it out, and it's simple enough. I've got to find an excuse for spending my money, or, rather for having money to spend. I've a plan. I'm going to save your life." "What?" Peckover jumped a foot away and turned a suspicious and alarmed face on his companion. "What--what do you mean?" "Just what I say," the other replied quietly. "I've got to save your life----"