Legend is enriched by the picturesque fates of those who have historically affronted Heaven with prevarications no more flagrant than this. But did punishment, then, descend upon the fair, false, and frail perpetrator of this particular taradiddle? Not at all. The Tyro was the sole sufferer. Had the word been a bullet he could scarcely have dropped more swiftly. When next he appeared to the enraptured gaze of the heckler, he was emerging, _ventre à terre_, from beneath the far end of the life-boat. "I'll be in my deck-chair between eight and nine to receive explanations and apologies," was her Parthian shot, as he rose and fled. At the time named, the Tyro took particularly good care to be at the extreme other side of the deck, where he maintained a wary lookout. Not twice should the huntress catch him napping. But he reckoned without her emissaries. Lord Guenn presently sauntered up, paused, and surveyed the quarry with a twinkling eye. "I'm commanded to bring you in, dead or alive," he said. "It will be dead, then," said the Tyro. "What's the little game? Some of your American rag-josh, I believe you call it?" "Something of that nature," admitted the other. "This will be a blow to Cissy," observed his lordship. "She's used to having 'em come to heel at the first whistle. I say, Mr. Daddleskink--" "My name's not Daddleskink," the Tyro informed him morosely. "I beg your pardon if I mispronounced it. How--" "Smith," said the proprietor of that popular cognomen. "I say," cried the Briton in vast surprise, "that's worse than our pronouncing 'Castelreagh' 'Derby' for short!" "S-m-i-t-h, Smith. The other was a joke and a very bum one! Alexander Forsyth Smith from now on." "Hullo! What price the Forsyth?" Lord Guenn regarded him with increased interest. "Did Miss Wayne say something about your having an interest in her house on the Battery?" "My house," corrected the other. "Yes, I've got an old option, depending on a ground-lease, that's come down in the family." "What family?" "The Forsyths. My grandmother was born in that house." "Then our portrait of the Yank--of the American who looks like you at Guenn Oaks is your great-grandfather." "I suppose so." "Well met!" said Lord Guenn. "There are some sketches of the Forsyth place as it used to be at Guenn Oaks that would interest you. My ancestor was a bit of a dab with his brush." "Indeed they'd interest me," returned the Tyro, "if they show the old boundary-lines. My claim on which I hope to buy in the property rests on the original lot, and that's in question now. There are some other people trying to hold me off--But that's another matter," he concluded hastily, as he recalled who his rival was. "Quite the same matter. It's Cecily Wayne, isn't it?" "Her father, I suppose. And as far as any evidence in your possession goes, of course I couldn't expect--considering that Miss Wayne's interests are involved--" "Why on earth not, my dear fellow?"