Bradbury followed her pointing finger. Standing in an attitude of negligent dignity beside a pile of trunks under the letter V was a tall, stout, ambassadorial man, at the very sight of whom, even at this distance, Bradbury Fisher felt an odd sense of inferiority. His pendulous cheeks, his curving waistcoat, his protruding eyes, and the sequence of rolling chins combined to produce in Bradbury that instinctive feeling of being in the presence of a superior which we experience when meeting scratch golfers, head-waiters of fashionable restaurants, and traffic-policemen. A sudden pang of suspicion pierced him. “Well?” he said, hoarsely. “What of him?” “Bradbury, you must not judge me too harshly. We were thrown together and I was tempted--” “Woman,” thundered Bradbury Fisher, “who is this man?” “His name is Vosper.” “And what is there between you and him, and when did it start, and why and how and where?” Mrs. Fisher dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “It was at the Duke of Bootle’s, Bradbury. I was invited there for the week-end.” “And this man was there?” “Yes.” “Ha! Proceed!” “The moment I set eyes on him, something seemed to go all over me.” “Indeed!” “At first it was his mere appearance. I felt that I had dreamed of such a man all my life, and that for all these wasted years I had been putting up with the second-best.” “Oh, you did, eh? Really? Is that so? You did, did you?” snorted Bradbury Fisher. “I couldn’t help it, Bradbury. I know I have always seemed so devoted to Blizzard, and so I was. But, honestly, there is no comparison between them--really there isn’t. You should see the way Vosper stood behind the Duke’s chair. Like a high priest presiding over some mystic religious ceremony. And his voice when he asks you if you will have sherry or hock! Like the music of some wonderful organ. I couldn’t resist him. I approached him delicately, and found that he was willing to come to America. He had been eighteen years with the Duke, and he told me he couldn’t stand the sight of the back of his head any longer. So--” Bradbury Fisher reeled. “This man--this Vosper. Who is he?” “Why, I’m telling you, honey. He was the Duke’s butler, and now he’s ours. Oh, you know how impulsive I am. Honestly, it wasn’t till we were half-way across the Atlantic that I suddenly said to myself, ‘What about Blizzard?’ What am I to do, Bradbury? I simply haven’t the nerve to fire Blizzard. And yet what will happen when he walks into his pantry and finds Vosper there? Oh, think, Bradbury, think!” Bradbury Fisher was thinking--and for the first time in a week without agony. “Evangeline,” he said, gravely, “this is awkward.” “I know.” “Extremely awkward.” “I know, I know. But surely you can think of some way out of the muddle!” “I may. I cannot promise, but I may.” He pondered deeply. “Ha! I have it! It is just possible that I may be able to induce Gladstone Bott to take on Blizzard.” “Do you really think he would?”