That is all. He says no more, but with a stately inclination to the vast audience turns back to where his friends stand. His horse is led forward by a youthful orderly in the uniform of the White Regiment, and as he mounts it the band strikes up once more. Bareheaded as he entered, he rides slowly from the scene of his triumph, and passing again through the portals of the Hall of Liberty comes out into the densely, wall-lined street, amidst the roar of the thousands that are there to greet. Such is the welcome of _the people_ to Hector D’Estrange. [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII. Lord Westray sits alone in his sanctum in Grosvenor Square. There is an anxious expression on his face, for he has been expecting some one who has not turned up. He has already consulted his watch about half-a-dozen times, and he consults it again. Then he gets up and rings the bell. He can hear it tinkling downstairs from where he sits. “A smart servant,” he thinks to himself, “would have answered it quickly.” Yet he would think this no longer, if he could only hear “his smart servant’s” remark anent that bell. “James,” calls out that worthy, who is seated in the room on an easy armchair in front of the fireplace, with his feet against the chimney-piece, “what bell’s that?” “My lord’s, sir,” is the laconic reply from the lackey outside. “Oh! ah! tha-a-anks. Let him ring again.” The bell does peal again, this time furiously, and Stuggins, with a face of disgust, pulls his feet down from the chimney-piece. “My word! what a hard time of it we have’s,” he ejaculates to himself, as he rises slowly from his seat to go upstairs. On reaching Lord Westray’s sanctum, however, his face is composed and affable. “This is the second time I’ve rung,” exclaims Lord Westray angrily. “Surely, Stuggins, there is some one in the house to answer the bell.” “I was in my room, my lord, and did not hear it,” responds Stuggins in a conciliatory voice. “Has no one called yet, Stuggins?” “No one, my lord.” “Well, he’ll be here at any moment now. Mind he is shown up without any delay.” “Certainly, my lord.” And the sleek, over-fed domestic goes off smiling. Ten minutes later, and there is a ring at the doorbell. Lord Westray starts and listens. “It’s he!” he ejaculates briefly. And in a few minutes the “he” is politely waved in by Stuggins. “Mr. Trackem, my lord.” “All right, Stuggins, shut the door. Not at home if any one else calls.” “Very good, my lord.” The door is shut, and Lord Westray rises and shakes the new-comer by the hand. “Glad to see you, Mr. Trackem,” he observes heartily. “Began to fear you were not coming. A little late, eh?” “A little, my lord, but I was usefully employed.” “Made out where she is, Mr. Trackem?” “Yes,” responds this latter solemnly. Lord Westray rubs his hands delightedly. “Where?” he asks eagerly. “Near Windsor, my lord. I found it out by shadowing Mr. D’Estrange.”