Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs were seated at the table. Lydia, a trifle pale and distrait, was pouring their third cup of coffee. The old men showed no sign of their midnight experience. They were very wideawake, clear-eyed, and alert, as old men will be who do not count the years of life left in the span appointed for them. “Good morning, Freddy,” said they, almost in one voice. As he passed behind their chairs on his way to Lydia's side, he slapped each of them cordially on the back. They seemed to swell with relief and gratitude. He was not in the habit of slapping them on the back. “Good morning, gentlemen,” said he. Then he lifted Lydia's slim fingers to his lips. “Good morning, dear.” She squeezed his fingers tightly and smiled. A look of relief leaped into her eyes; she drew a long breath. She poured his coffee for him every morning. Her hand shook a little as she lifted the tiny cream-pitcher. “I didn't sleep very well,” she explained in a low voice. His hand rested on her shoulder for a moment in a gentle caress. Then he sat down in the chair Jones had drawn out for him. “Well, gentlemen, when does the relief boat start?” he asked, with a forced attempt at humour. Mr Dawes regarded him with great solemnity. “Freddy, it's too late. A man can be saved from the scourge, tigers, elephants, lions, snakes, and almost everything else in God's world, but, blast me, he can't be protected against women! They are deadly. They can overpower the strongest of men, sir. Your poor father is lost for ever. I never was so sorry for anyone in my life.” “If he had only called for help a week or so ago, we could have saved him,” lamented Mr Riggs. “But he never even peeped. Lordy, Lordy, and just think of it, he yelled like an Indian when that lion leaped on him at Nairobi!” “Poor old Jim!” sighed Mr Dawes. “He'll probably have to ask us to pull out, too. I imagine she'll insist on making a spare bedroom out of our room, so's she can entertain all of her infernal relations. Jones, will you give me some more bacon and another egg?” “And I thought it was nothing but a shipwreck,” murmured Mr Riggs plaintively. Frederic hurried through breakfast. Lydia followed him into the library. “Are you going out, dear?” she asked anxiously. “Yes. I've got to do something. I can't sit still and think of what's going to happen. I'll be back for luncheon.” Half an hour later he was in the small bachelor apartment of two college friends, a few blocks farther up-town, and he was doing the thing he did nearly every day of his life in a surreptitious way. He sat at the cheap upright piano in their disordered living-room and, unhampered by the presence of young men who preferred music as it is rendered for the masses, played as if his very soul was in his fingers. CHAPTER III