"But you can't settle matters quietly with an organ-grinder, Charley. Look here, my plan is simple. I'll get Maude away, then it's a question of pounds, shillings, and pence." "In any case then, from respect to your sister, let the affair be arranged quietly." "Very well," said Tom, sulkily. "You will let me go first--say, to prepare her for your coming?" "No. I'll go." "You do not wish to inflict pain upon the poor girl?" "No. I want her home again, and free from this degrading tie." "But suppose--" "No, no--don't say that, Charley, old fellow. You couldn't look over it. Impossible now, old chap. Poor Maudey, she'll have to be like a widow to her very end. There: we shall have the old woman here directly." "Then you'll let me go and prepare your sister?" "No; it's my business, sir. I'll do it myself." "But you'll forgive her, Tom?" "Perhaps. Now leave me alone. Stop, where's _dieci otto_?" "Ask the waiter," said Melton, coldly, and he left the room. "He needn't have turned rusty," grumbled Tom, crossing to reach the bell: but at that moment her ladyship came in, hurriedly followed by Tryphie and Lord Barmouth. "No, no, my dear," said Lord Barmouth, who seemed to have been strung up to resistance by some stirring news, and at a glance Tom saw that her ladyship knew as much as he. "Silence, Barmouth. Tryphie, ring the bell. I suppose there are police of some kind in a benighted place like this. What number did he say, Tryphie, _dieci otto_?" "Yes, aunt dear, eighteen," said Tryphie, whose face was working and eyes twinkling in a peculiarly malicious manner. "Eighteen! That will do," cried Tom. "Here, governor, come with me." "Tom! stop! Barmouth, I forbid--" Her ladyship did not finish her speech, but hurried to the door, followed by her niece--the door through which her husband had passed, followed by her son. CHAPTER THIRTY. LIGHT ON THE SCENE. First floor only. _Dieci otto_--a door in a corridor whose rooms looked out upon the tranquil sea. A lady and gentleman started from their seats as the couple rushed in; and in a moment Viscount Diphoos had seen that they were right--that he was in the presence of his sister and the man with whom she had eloped. He saw too in the same rapid glance why they had been so long off the scent. For there was no black curly hair, no long black beard, but all was brown, and flashed as it were with gold. This was all seen as the young man literally hurled himself upon the tall, sturdy man, who rose to meet him, and in a twinkling they had one another by the throat. "Take her away, father, quick, quick," cried Tom; and the next moment, in choking tones--"No, stop!" as he loosed his hold, staggered back to a chair, and uttered a shriek. Wounded? Stabbed by the treacherous Italian? Oh, no; it was a shriek of the laughter with which his frame was convulsed, as he rolled from side to side, while Lord Barmouth stared from one to the other. "Tom, my son--are you hurt?"