Gordon came home prepared to face a storm and ready to present a rocky face either to the waves of her wrath or the drizzle of her tears. He found her trying a new record on a brand-new gramophone, her feet moving lightly to the magical rhythm of “I Ain’t Nobody’s Darling.” He resented the gramophone, but had other matters of greater moment to discuss. There was no sign of the excellent Miss Staffle. “Anybody been?” he asked carelessly. She stopped whistling. “Nobody except an elderly lady who made the curious mistake of thinking I wanted a companion.” “Where is she?” asked Gordon, his heart sinking. “I didn’t trouble to take her address,” said Diana. “Why--did you want her?” “You sent her away?” Diana nodded. “Yes; her industry was appalling.” And then, as a thought occurred: “Was the jumper for _you_?” “You sent a--er--um--person I engaged away from my house?” sternly. “Really, Diana! This is a little too much! Let’s have this out, my dear.” Diana changed the record. “Tea will be served in ten minutes,” she said. “And Gordon, my dear, your shoes are muddy. Run up and change them.” Revolt flew red signals on his cheeks. “I will do nothing of the kind!” he said sharply. “I will not be ordered about in my own house. Diana, you have gone too far! This intolerable situation must end here and now.” He brought his hand slapping down on the back of the easy chair. He was determined. “Either you or I leave this house to-night,” he said. “I have had enough! Already the servants are talking. I saw a particularly sinister smile on Trenter’s face when you came down to breakfast in your negligee this morning. I have a position, a reputation, a name in the City of London--I must guard my interests against the thoughtless, selfish folly of reckless adolescence!” “What a name to call a lady!” she said reproachfully. “I will not temporise; I will not allow a very serious situation to be turned into a jest. Either you leave Cheynel Gardens or I.” She thought a moment, then walked out of the room. Gordon heard her at the telephone in the hall and smiled. A little firmness was all that was required. “Is that the _Morning Telegram_? This is Miss Diana Ford speaking. Will you send a reporter to 61 Cheynel Gardens----” In two seconds he was in the hall and had covered the transmitter with a frantic hand. “What are you going to do?” he asked frenziedly. She shrugged a shoulder. “Life without you is insupportable, Gordon,” she said brokenly. “You are the only relation I have in the world, and if you turn me out what is there left but the river?” “You’re mad,” he wailed. “The coroner will take that charitable view, I hope--don’t interrupt me, Gordon. They want to speak to me.” By sheer force he lifted her away from the instrument and took the receiver in his own hand. “Don’t bother to send anybody ... she is quite well ... alive. I mean, there’s no suicide ...” Out of breath, he strode back to The Study.