Nixon, reaching the hotel bar that afternoon, had discovered an unforeseen weakness for what he termed "beer"--a word that with him, meant everything drinkable in the alcoholic line--and had, in spite of Ware's remonstrances, continued to imbibe beyond all reasonable limits: dragging Sir William, who felt responsible and could not well abandon him, to a big bar in the central portion of the city, and even paying for his own drinks after Ware had flatly refused to take the risk of buying any more for him. "You _are_ rather a thirsty chap, you know," Ware, who had himself taken only the original proposed glass of refreshment, had remarked, as at last he had managed to get Nixon's wobbling head faced toward home. It was while the two were in the act of crossing a street to a taxi Ware had hailed, that the motor dray had run the baronet down. With a last half-spasmodic push, he had thrust Nixon out of harm's way, and the latter had not received so much as a scratch. CHAPTER XX. JOHN NIXON'S INVITATION. "Well," said Sir William, a little feebly to Daisy, who sat on a stool beside his chair, with her head resting on the cushioned arm in such a position that Ware could stroke her hair with his "good" hand, "this has jolly well taught me to look about, on street-crossings. I suppose I am what the tram people would call a 'jay walker'. I say, Puss--aren't you sorry you married such a silly ass. Be frank, now! Say I'm a blundering idiot." "No, you're not," said Daisy; "how's your arm feeling?" "Tip-top," Ware, as he replied offhand about the broken limb, regarded the girl with a bright and tender approval. "And your head?" continued Daisy, "does it ache much, there where the bruise is? Let me get some fresh ice." "For the third and last time--no!" Sir William responded, flipping her ear; "this ice is cold enough: it has clotted every vein in my bally forehead. I say, kitten, isn't that somebody knocking?" The knock which sounded on the door--that of the small sitting-room of Sir William's bedroom suite--was clumsily-knuckled and hesitating. It sounded once, audibly--then a second time, feebly--and, after the second knock, the scuffle of a heavy foot receding indicated that the knocker was going away without entering. Daisy went quickly and opened the door. "Come on, Dad," she said. Nixon stopped in the hall, his back half-turned, and spoke to his foster-daughter over-shoulder. "You go on about your business a while," he said, gruffly, "I want to talk to the boss." Ware, hearing this dialogue from his chair, smiled queerly to himself. "Right-O," he called, "run along, my dear, for a jiffy; see if Mother has any messages for us. Come on, Nixon, old chap!" Reddening in an odd way at the cordial tone, John Nixon, his hands hanging awkwardly and his beard canted aside in a sheepish attitude, came in, pushing the door shut behind him. He lowered himself into the nearest chair.