"Haven't played for nearly fifteen years, Dawson. But I tell you what--I daresay my friend Mr. Wilbraham will play. Mr. Stabb's no use." "Every one helps," said Dawson. "We've got two of the gentlemen from the Grange--Mr. Stillford, a good bat, and Captain Irons, who can bowl a bit--or so John Goodenough tells me." Lynborough's eyes had grown alert. "Well, I used to bowl a bit, too. If you're really hard up for a man, Dawson--really at a loss, you know--I'll play. It'll be better than going into the field short, won't it?" Dawson was profuse in his thanks. Lynborough listened patiently. "I tell you what I should like to do, Dawson," he said. "I should like to stand the lunch." It was the turn of Dawson's eyes to grow alert. They did. Dawson supplied the lunch. The club's finances were slender, and its ideas correspondingly modest. But if Lord Lynborough "stood" the lunch----! "And to do it really well," added that nobleman. "A sort of little feast to celebrate my homecoming. The two teams--and perhaps a dozen places for friends--ladies, the Vicar, and so on, eh, Dawson? Do you see the idea?" Dawson saw the idea much more clearly than he saw most ideas. Almost corporeally he beheld the groaning board. "On such an occasion, Dawson, we shouldn't quarrel about figures." "Your lordship's always most liberal," Dawson acknowledged in tones which showed some trace of emotion. "Put the matter in hand at once. But look here, I don't want it talked about. Just tell the secretary of the club--that's enough. Keep the tent empty till the moment comes. Then display your triumph! It'll be a pleasant little surprise for everybody, won't it?" Dawson thought it would; at any rate it was one for him. At this instant an elderly lady of demure appearance was observed, to walk up to the lych-gate and enter the churchyard. Lynborough inquired of his companion who she was. "That's Miss Gilletson from the Grange, my lord--the Marchesa's companion." "Is it?" said Lynborough softly. "Oh, is it indeed?" He rose from his seat. "Good-by, Dawson. Mind--a dead secret, and a rattling good lunch!" "I'll attend to it, my lord," Dawson assured him with the utmost cheerfulness. Never had Dawson invested a glass of beer to better profit! Lynborough threw away his cigar and entered the sacred precincts. His brain was very busy. "Another wedge!" he was saying to himself. "Another wedge!" The lady had gone into the church. Lynborough went in too. He came first on Stabb--on his hands and knees, examining one of the old brasses and making copious notes in a pocket-book. "Have you seen a lady come in, Cromlech?" asked Lord Lynborough. "No, I haven't," said Cromlech, now producing a yard measure and proceeding to ascertain the dimensions of the brass. "You wouldn't, if it were Venus herself," replied Lynborough pleasantly. "Well, I must look for her on my own account."