"A gentleman should fight his own battles, Cromlech," he cried to his friend. "I did no more than put a bullet in his arm--in a fair encounter--and he let me go to prison!" "Monstrous!" Stabb agreed with a smile. He had passed the year in a dirty little inn by the prison gate--among scoundrels, but fortunately in the vicinity of some mounds distinctly prehistoric. Old Lord Lynborough's death occurred suddenly and unexpectedly, at a moment when Ambrose and his companion could not be found. They were somewhere in Peru--Stabb among the Incas, Ambrose probably in less ancient company. It was six months before the news reached them. "I must go home and take up my responsibilities, Cromlech," said the new Lord Lynborough. "You really think you'd better?" queried Stabb doubtfully. "It was my father's wish." "Oh, well--! But you'll be thought odd over there, Ambrose." "Odd? I odd? What the deuce is there odd about me, Cromlech?" "Everything." The investigator stuck his cheroot back in his mouth. Lynborough considered dispassionately--as he fain would hope. "I don't see it." That was the difficulty. Stabb was well aware of it. A man who is odd, and knows it, may be proud, but he will be careful; he may swagger, but he will take precautions. Lynborough had no idea that he was odd; he followed his nature--in all its impulses and in all its whims--with equal fidelity and simplicity. This is not to say that he was never amused at himself; every intelligent observer is amused at himself pretty often; but he did not doubt merely because he was amused. He took his entertainment over his own doings as a bonus life offered. A great sincerity of action and of feeling was his predominant characteristic. "Besides, if I'm odd," he went on with a laugh, "it won't be noticed. I'm going to bury myself at Scarsmoor for a couple of years at least. I'm thinking of writing an autobiography. You'll come with me, Cromlech?" "I must be totally undisturbed," Stabb stipulated. "I've a great deal of material to get into shape." "There'll be nobody there but myself--and a secretary, I daresay." "A secretary? What's that for?" "To write the book, of course." "Oh, I see," said Stabb, smiling in a slow fat fashion. "You won't write your autobiography yourself?" "Not unless I find it very engrossing." "Well, I'll come," said Stabb.