“Yes, Joyce,” he said. “I’ve been thinking matters over. I’m afraid I was rather prejudiced against young Steele.” The girl made no reply. “I’m not even certain that he was guilty of the offence with which I charged him,” Claythorpe went on. “You see, I was very worried at the time, and it is possible that I may have signed a cheque and overlooked the fact. You were very fond of Steele?” She nodded. “Well,” said Lord Claythorpe heartily, “I will no longer stand in your way.” She looked at him steadily. “You mean you will consent to my marriage?” He nodded. “Why not?” he asked. “Why not, indeed?” she said, a little bitterly. “I understand that my fortune no longer depends upon whether I marry according to your wishes or not--since I have no fortune.” “It is very deplorable,” said his lordship gravely. “Really, I feel morally responsible. It is a most stupendous tragedy, but I will do whatever I can to make it up to you, Joyce. I am not a rich man by any means, but I have decided, if you still feel you cannot marry my son, and would prefer to marry Mr. Steele, to give you a wedding gift of twenty thousand pounds.” “That is very good of you,” said the girl politely, “but, of course, I cannot take your verbal permission. You will not mind putting that into writing?” “With all the pleasure in life,” said Lord Claythorpe, getting up and walking to a writing-table, “really Joyce, you’re becoming quite shrewd in your old age,” he chuckled. He drew a sheet of paper from a writing-case and poised a pen. “What is the date?” he asked. “It is the nineteenth,” said the girl. “But date it as from the first of the month.” “Why?” he asked in surprise. “Well, there are many reasons,” said the girl slowly. “I shouldn’t like people to think, for example, that your liking for Mr. Steele dated from the loss of my property.” He looked at her sharply, but not a muscle of her face moved. “That is very considerate of you,” he said with a shrug, “and it doesn’t really matter whether I make it the first or the twenty-first, does it?” He wrote quickly, blotted the sheet, handed it to the girl, and she read it and folded the paper away in her handbag. “Was that really the reason you asked me to date the permission back?” he asked curiously. She shook her head. “No,” she said coolly. “I was married to Jamieson last week.” “Married!” he gasped. “Without my permission!” “With your permission,” she said, tapping her little bag. For a second he frowned, and then he burst into a roar of laughter. “Well, well,” he said. “That’s rather rich. You’re a very naughty girl, Joyce. Does your mother know?” “Mother knows nothing about it,” said the girl. “There is one more thing I want to speak to you about, Lord Claythorpe, and that is in connection with the robbery of the mail last night.” It was at that moment that Peter Dawes was announced. “It’s the detective,” said Lord Claythorpe with a little frown. “You don’t want to see him?”