I was about to observe that such was my intention, when a passing motor suddenly drew up with a jerk alongside of us, and a good-looking, elderly man in a grey top-hat put his head out of the window. "Hullo, Northcote," he said; "you're the very man I wanted to see." This was flattering; but as I hadn't the remotest idea who he was, I felt slightly embarrassed. Maurice, however, unintentionally solved my difficulty. "Good morning, Lord Lammersfield," he remarked. "I hope Lady Lammersfield is better?" His lordship paid no great attention to Maurice's kind inquiry. He nodded coldly, and observed that her ladyship was "about the same." I took a fancy to him at once. "I can see you at any time you like," I said, truthfully enough. "Are you going to Sangatte's to-morrow night?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "That will do," he answered. "I'll look out for you there. I only want to have a short chat." With a careless wave of his hand, which was obviously not intended to include Maurice, he sat back in his seat, and the motor rolled on up Park Lane. "Pleasant fellow, Lammersfield," I observed mischievously. Maurice stared after the departing vehicle with anything but an amiable expression. "They don't seem to find him particularly pleasant in the Cabinet," he retorted. I was sufficiently ignorant of English politics for this to be news to me. "Perhaps he is misunderstood," I suggested gently. "A great many of us are." Maurice looked at me keenly. "You're in a devilish funny mood this morning," he said. "I'm sorry for the people you're going to do business with." From what I had seen of Northcote, this argued a perspicacity with which I had hardly credited my adopted "cousin." "One must be agreeable occasionally," I said, "if only for the sake of variety." Maurice laughed shortly. "I expect you'll be agreeable enough to Lammersfield," he replied. There was obviously some hidden meaning in his words, but it seemed a little too risky to angle for an explanation. So I contented myself with a noncommittal smile, storing away the remark in my memory for future reference. We turned into Hanover Square, and crossed the roadway towards Regent Street. I had not the remotest notion where "Seagrave's" was, but Maurice pulled up at a small house just beyond the big flower shop, and I at once noticed the name on a brass plate: MESSRS. SEAGRAVE AND CO. REGISTRY OFFICE. We opened the door and walked in. It was a superior sort of office, more like a private room, with arm-chairs scattered about, and a table containing the latest weekly papers. A rather pompous, elderly, grey-bearded man in a frock-coat at once stepped forward. "Good morning," I said, by way of opening the conversation. He bowed deferentially. "Good morning, gentlemen." "I looked in to see if you can let me have a butler for a few days," I said. "My own man is on the sick list."