He came closer. Thacker and Jephson faded. New York was far away. He was young, and the moon was shining-- "--going to keep it--always. The first letter you ever wrote me--" "And the last, Mr. Minot. Really--I must go. Good night." He stood alone, with the absurd check in his trembling fingers. Slowly the memory of Trimmer came back. A bomb? What sort of a bomb? Well, he had given his word. There was no way out--he must protect old Jephson's interests. But might he not wish the enemy--success? He stared off in the direction the advertising wizard had gone. "Trimmer, old boy," he muttered, "here's to your pitching arm!" CHAPTER V MR. TRIMMER THROWS HIS BOMB Miss Cynthia Meyrick was a good many girls in one. So many, indeed, that it might truthfully be added that while most people are never so much alone as when in a crowd, Miss Meyrick was never so much in a crowd as when alone. Most of these girls were admirable, a few were more mischievous than admirable, but rely upon it that every single one of them was nice. It happened to be as a very serious-minded girl that Miss Meyrick opened her eyes on Tuesday morning. She lay for a long time watching the Florida sunshine, spoken of so tenderly in the railroad's come-on books, as it danced across the foot of her bed. To-day the _Lileth_ was to steam into San Marco harbor! To-day her bridegroom was to smile his slow British smile on her once more! She recalled these facts without the semblance of a thrill. Where, she wondered, was the thrill? The frivolous girl who had met Lord Harrowby abroad, and dazzled by dreams of social triumphs to come had allowed her aunt to urge her into this betrothal, was not present at the moment. Had she been, she would have declared this Cynthia Meyrick a silly, and laughed her into gaiety again. Into the room toddled the aunt who had stood so faithfully on the coaching line abroad. With heavy wit, she spoke of the coming of Lord Harrowby. Miss Cynthia did not smile. She turned grave eyes on her aunt. "I'm wondering," she confessed. "Was it the thing to do, after all? Shall I be so very happy?" "Nonsense. Ninety-nine out of a hundred engaged girls have doubts. It's natural." Aunt Mary sat down on the bed, which groaned in agony. "Of course you'll be happy. You'll take precedence over Marion Bishop--didn't we look that up? And after the airs she's put on when she's come back to Detroit--well, you ought to be the happiest of girls."