They dined together--it was still not too late to dine--in a private room at the Piccadilly Restaurant. Mrs. Tranmer found that she was, indeed, not irreparably damaged; and by the time she could be induced to look over the fact that she was not what she called "dressed" she began to enjoy herself uncommonly well. Delia Angel was in the highest spirits, which, on the whole, was not surprising. The recovery of the bag and the will had transformed the world into a rose-coloured Paradise. The evening was one continuous delight. As for Philip Roland--his mood was akin to Miss Angel's. Everything which had begun badly was ending well. He was the host. The meal did credit to his choice--and to the cook. The wine was worthy of the toasts they drank. There was one toast which was not formally proposed, and of which, even in his heart he did not dream, but whose presence was answerable for not a little of the rapture which crowned the feast--"The Birth of Romance." His life had been tolerably commonplace and grey. For the first time that night Romance had entered into it. It was just possible that, maintaining the place it had gained, it would continue to the end. So might it be; for sure, the Spirit is the best of company. After dinner the three journeyed together to Miss Angel's solicitor. He lived in town, not far away from where they were, and though the hour was uncanonical it was not so very late. And though he was amazed at being required to do business at such a season, the tale they had to tell amazed him more. Nor was he indisposed to commend them for coming straight away to him with it at once. He heard them to an end. Then he looked at the bag; then at the will. Then once more at the bag; then at the will again. Then he smoothed his chin. "It seems to me--speaking without prejudice--that this ends the matter. In the face of this the other side is left without a leg to stand upon. With this in your hand"--he was tapping the will with his finger-tip--"I cannot but think, Miss Angel, that you must carry all before you." "So I should imagine." He contemplated Mr. Roland. "So you, sir, are one of the jury. As at present advised, I cannot see how, in the course of action which you have pursued, blame can in any way be attached to you. But, at the same time, I am bound to observe that in the course of a somewhat lengthy experience I cannot recall a single instance of a juryman--an actual juryman--playing such a part as you have done. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, the position you have taken up is--in a really superlative degree--irregular."