But he found that Molly was determined that he should go. She had made up her mind that the Prince’s invitation was a repudiation of the Duke of Trent, and an intimation that Stuart’s irregular connection with herself had not lowered him in the royal estimation. Alistair, of course, knew better. He saw perfectly well that Prince Herbert’s reference to his family was a delicate way of saying that the visit must be a private one. The _Court Circular_ would not know of Lord Alistair’s presence at Gloucester Lodge. For this reason his acceptance was a little stiffer than the Prince’s invitation. He began it “My dear Prince,” and signed himself “Yours ever.” The Prince had written “Yours affectionately.” Nevertheless, Alistair was a good deal more touched by the overture than he was willing to betray. He had not yet been adjudicated a bankrupt. But the Duke of Trent had suspended negotiations on his behalf, and he was to meet his creditors on the Monday to undergo the customary useless cross-examination as to how he had managed to get rid of the money. At the very moment of departure he was confronted with the new difficulty of cash. Neither he nor Molly found themselves in possession of the price of a first-class ticket, and Alistair was too proud to go on such a visit unless he could do so in the way befitting his rank. He solved the problem by ordering a cab to drive him to the railway-station, and making it stop at a famous pawnbroker’s on the way. It was his first visit to such an establishment, but the prospect of the journey put him in good spirits, and he tendered his French watch to the shopman with a certain enjoyment of the situation. “I am going down to stay with the Duke of Gloucester, and I haven’t got my railway-fare,” he said, with perfect self-possession. The shopman grinned at what appeared to him a lively witticism, and after examining the piece, offered ten pounds. “What name shall I put?” he inquired, as Alistair signified his consent, preparing to write “Jackson” or “Thompson,” at his customer’s pleasure. “Stuart--Lord Alistair Stuart,” came in the same assured tone. This time the pawnbroker laughed out. “You will have your joke, sir. I’ll put ‘Mr. Stuart.’” “But I have told you my name,” said Alistair. “You can see it on my coat if you like.” He slipped off the light overcoat he was wearing, and gravely exhibited to the eyes of the wondering shopman the tailor’s parchment label, on which his name and rank were clearly legible. “I beg your lordship’s pardon, I’m sure,” stammered the man. “It’s so seldom that our clients give us their real names that I thought your lordship was pretending. The address, please?” “Care of Miss Finucane, Elm Side, Chelsea.” The shopman, scarcely able to believe his ears, wrote down the address with an amazement which he made no attempt to conceal. As he handed over the ticket he asked: “Would your lordship like a cheap watch to wear while this is with us?”