This was about ten o'clock. Two hours later it was discovered that one of the minor bookkeepers, a new employe who had come well recommended about a month before, had just absconded with all he could lay his hands on--only a few thousand dollars--the merest trifle of a loss to Rockharrt & Sons, but extremely exasperating under the circumstances. So taking one provocation with another, at noon on that 13th of November old Aaron Rockharrt was about the maddest man on the face of the earth. It was his custom to lunch with his sons in the private parlor of Mr. Clarence's suit of rooms at the North End Hotel, every day at two o'clock. To-day, however, he showed no disposition to eat or drink. And although the two younger men were famishing for food they dared not go to lunch without him, or even urge him to make an effort to go with them. It was then three o'clock, an hour later than their usual hour, that Mr. Rockharrt made a movement in the desired way by rising, stretching his limbs, and saying: "We will go over to the hotel and get something to eat." The three men crossed the street and went directly to Mr. Clarence's room, where the table for luncheon was set out. But there was nothing on it but cut bread, casters, and condiments, for these men always preferred hot luncheon in cold weather, and it was yet to be dished up. The Iron King was not in a humor to wait. He hurried the servants. And at length when the dishes, which had been punctually prepared for two o'clock, were placed on the table at twenty minutes past three, everything was overdone, dried up, and indigestible. It was the Iron King's own fault for not coming to the table when the meal was first prepared to order. But he would not admit that into consideration. He ordered the waiter to take everything away and throw it out of doors, declared that he would have a restaurant started on the opposite side of the street where a man could get a decent meal, and rose from the table in a rage. It was while the Iron King was in this amiable and promising state of mind that a waiter brought in a card and laid it before him. He took it up and read aloud: "The Duke of Cumbervale." "Show him in," said Mr. Rockharrt. A few minutes later the visitor entered the parlor, bowed to his host, and then shook hands with the two younger men, whom he had not seen since the evening before. "So you braved the storm after all, duke? You found the old house too dreary for a long, rainy day. Take a seat," said Mr. Rockharrt, waving his hands majestically around the chairs. "No; it was not the weather that made Rockhold insupportable to me. But, sir, I have come a long way for a great disappointment," said the rejected lover. "What! what! what! Explain yourself, if you please, sir!" exclaimed the Iron King, bending his heavy gray brows over flashing eyes. "Mrs. Rothsay has rejected me." "What! what! Rejected you! Why, your engagement was declared in the family conclave only last night."