“Doesn’t sound like Mrs. van Oynne,” he said, hope dawning in his breast. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. You’re sure?” Carslake nodded. “We trailed her to Paris and missed her. I shouldn’t think he’d be working again for a very long time. He likes to allow the excitement to die down, and I shouldn’t think that he’d take on a new partner; they require very careful training.” He chuckled. “Double Dan’s getting on the nerves of some of your commercial people,” he said, “but I don’t think I should worry very much about him. Anyway, I’ll come along and see you on Monday.” Bobbie went home, feeling happier than he had been for the past twenty-four hours. CHAPTER XIX His servant had news for him. “Miss Ford rang you up this morning, sir.” “Oh, what had she to say?” Bobbie turned, lather brush in hand. “She only asked if you were at home.” “What time was this?” “About five o’clock, sir.” “Five o’clock! You graven image, why didn’t you tell me?” Lathered as he was, he dashed to the telephone and got through to Diana. “Is that you, Bobbie? Can I see you to-day?” “I’ll come at once.” There was a silence at the other end of the wire. “I don’t think you need come at once,” said Diana. “Just call in--don’t be surprised if you find somebody here you’ve heard me speak about.” “Not Dempsi?” he asked, astonished. “Yes, he is ... staying for a day or two. I’ll explain when you come.” Bobbie whistled softly. He lunched in the gloomy solitude of his club (it was Sunday, the day on which all clubs are at their worst) and early in the afternoon strolled round to Cheynel Gardens. The door was opened by a stage butler. Bobbie looked fascinated at the glittering display of shirt-front and the ill-fitting dress suit, several times too small for its wearer. “Mrs. Ford is in The Study,” said the apparition gruffly. Bobbie gazed in wonder; the servitor with the concertina trousers might have stepped out from any burlesque of any triangle drama. Had there been printed across the dazzling shirt-front “James: an old family servant, devoted to the children,” he could not have been more obvious. “So you’re the new butler?” The new butler put his hand on his heart, bowed and growled: “Yes, sir--name of Smith.” He was squinting, his face fearfully distorted. “Well, I’m going to call you Superbus. Take that look off your face and stop looking round corners.” Mr. Superbus obeyed. He was for a while disappointed. “Lord, sir, did you recognise me?” he asked. “Maybe Mrs. Ford told you?” Bobbie smiled derisively. “Recognise you! Good heavens, why, you absolutely shouted! I spotted you the moment I saw you!” “That’s funny,” said Mr. Superbus. “My good lady always says that when I disguise my face that way she would pass me in the street.” “How can you blame her? Who wouldn’t pass you in the street with that face? Even your wife has some illusions left, I suppose. Now, Superbus, what is the game?”