Peckover had taken the precaution to latch the French window. Finding it did not yield to his heavy hand, the gentleman from Australia applied his boot to it and burst it open. "This rotten window sticks," he remarked by way of apology. "Come in, Lalage. Mind the glass. This," he said aggressively to Peckover, "is my poor deceived sister, Miss Lalage Leo. My name is Carnaby Leo. Now, where's Lord Quorn?" "In bed," answered Peckover manfully. "What?" roared Mr. Leo. "You need not shout," Peckover suggested, fearful that the noise might reach other ears and occasion complications. "We had an accident on the lake the other day, and he has been in bed ever since." "We've heard of it," said Miss Leo, speaking for the first time. Her tone was as downright and masculine as her appearance. "And are you the rich young man who was rescued from drowning?" "I am." Brother and sister exchanged glances, and the glances, Peckover told himself, foretold a further complication. "Lord Quorn is very seriously ill," he said impressively. "Took a bad chill, and is suffering from congestion and--and fever. It is quite impossible that you should see him for at least a fortnight, if he isn't dead by that date." "I'll see him, dead or alive," shouted Mr. Leo, who was making a tour of inspection round the apartment. "Be calm, Carnaby," said his sister casually. "It would kill him," observed Peckover, with conviction. "Killing's too good for him," returned Carnaby, loudly. "Hush, Carnaby!" the lady commanded. "He is delirious," said Peckover, warming to his work. "I'll bring him to his senses," growled Leo. "Better leave him to me for the present," suggested Miss Leo. "He wouldn't recognize you, or you him," said Peckover, for once touching upon the truth. "I'll soon let him know who we are," bellowed Mr. Leo, "and what we are--and what he is." "Impossible, while he's in this state," Peckover maintained. "If you kill him----" "Good job too!" Mr. Leo interpolated. "He won't be much good for matrimonial purposes." "True," Miss Leo admitted. Peckover had noticed with some discomfort that of late her eyes had rested on him with increasing interest. He was always typically alive to the slightest sign of female attraction to himself, but this particular attention did not produce in him the usual sportive complacency. The situation was becoming tense. The very complexity of his position took from Peckover his usual volubility. Then he bethought himself of certain alcoholic sustenance which he and Gage kept in a closed cabinet in order to be able to indulge in it at uncanonical hours without the fuss of ringing and ordering drinks. _Noblesse oblige_, the new-fangled peer had observed in reference to his obligation to hide the evidence of irregular refreshment. "Have a drink?" he suggested, as he whipped out a decanter of derelict sherry which a foraging tour of the cellars had discovered.