“I dislike subterfuge,” Gordon deprecated with a wry face. “Why should I tell her anything? When does shooting start?” “It has started. Go to Scotland: it is remote. You’re not likely to meet anybody you know because you won’t be there.” Gordon thought the flippancy in bad taste. “It is repugnant to me--this necessity for invention,” he said. “Why must I give an account of my comings and goings? It is preposterous! I had better make my objective Aberdeen, I suppose?” Diana! Of all the absurd arguments that had been raised against the Ostend trip, this was the most futile. The very mention of her name was a spur. By the time he had reached Cheynel Gardens the trip was definitely and irrevocably settled. He found a cable waiting for him at home. It was from his New York agent, advising him that Mr. Tilmet would call upon him on the Friday, and he realised with a shock that the to be, or not to be, of Ostend had put out of his mind an important business deal. His agent had purchased on his behalf the business of Tilmet and Voight, a none too prosperous firm of marine insurance brokers, operating in one of those queerly ancient offices on the Water Front. Mr. Tilmet had expressed a desire to be paid the money, fifty thousand dollars, in London, which he would visit _en route_ to the Continent. The documents had arrived by an earlier mail, and Gordon had been advised that, the hour of Mr. Tilmet’s arrival being uncertain, and his immediate departure for the more attractive countries of Europe being very likely, Mr. Tilmet would call at Cheynel Gardens to settle the deal. He glanced at the _Times_ shipping list, noted that the _Mauretania_ had been signalled five hundred miles west of the Lizard at twelve o’clock on the previous day, and made a mental calculation. He must have the money in the house to-morrow, though he objected emphatically to doing business except at his office. Still, the circumstances were unusual and the bargain excellent. He was not prepared to develop a grievance. Making a note on his memorandum pad, and a second note on the cover of his cheque-book, he went up to dress. He was dining with Heloise, and was carrying to her the news that he had made a decision in the matter which she had thought, and which she had had every right to think, had been settled beyond doubt. Coming down, he saw Diana on the stairs below. She also was in evening dress, a wonderful creamy white. There were two ropes of pearls about her neck; she wore no other jewellery. He followed her into The Study, and, as she turned, stared. It was a transfigured Diana, something ethereal, unearthly in her loveliness. “Why, Diana, you look awfully pretty,” he said. The generosity of his race compelled the statement. “Thank you,” she said indifferently. “I always look well in this colour. You are dining out too, I see? Where are you going?” He hesitated. “I’m dining at the Ritz,” he said. “And you?”