"I am delighted to meet your lordship," said he to Harrowby. "Knew your father, the earl, very well at one time. Had business dealings with him--often. A man after my own heart. Always ready to take a risk. I trust you left him well?" "Quite, thank you," Lord Harrowby answered. "Although he will insist on playing polo. At his age--eighty-two--it is a dangerous sport." Mr. Jephson smiled. "Still taking chances," he said. "A splendid old gentleman. I understand that you, Lord Harrowby, have a proposition to make to me as an underwriter in Lloyds." They sat down. Alas, if Mr. Burke, who compiled the well-known _Peerage_, could have seen Lord Harrowby then, what distress would have been his! For a most unlordly flush again mantled that British cheek. A nobleman was supremely rattled. "I will try and explain," said his lordship, gulping a plebeian gulp. "My affairs have been for some time in rather a chaotic state. Idleness--the life of the town--you gentlemen will understand. Naturally, it has been suggested to me that I exchange my name and title for the millions of some American heiress. I have always violently objected to any such plan. I--I couldn't quite bring myself to do any such low trick as that. And then--a few months ago on the Continent--I met a girl--" He paused. "I'm not a clever chap--really," he went on. "I'm afraid I can not describe her to you. Spirited--charming--" He looked toward the youngest of the trio. "You, at least, understand," he finished. Mr. Minot leaned back in his chair and smiled a most engaging smile. "Perfectly," he said. "Thank you," went on Lord Harrowby in all seriousness. "It was only incidental--quite irrelevant--that this young woman happened to be very wealthy. I fell desperately in love! I am still in that--er--pleasing state. The young lady's name, gentlemen, is Cynthia Meyrick. She is the daughter of Spencer Meyrick, whose fortune has, I believe, been accumulated in oil." Mr. Thacker's eyebrows rose respectfully. "A week from next Tuesday," said Lord Harrowby solemnly, "at San Marco, on the east coast of Florida, this young woman and I are to be married." "And what," asked Owen Jephson, "is your proposition?" Lord Harrowby shifted nervously in his chair. "I say we are to be married," he continued. "But are we? That is the nightmare that haunts me. A slip. My--er--creditors coming down on me. And far more important, the dreadful agony of losing the dearest woman in the world." "What could happen?" Mr. Jephson wanted to know. "Did I say the young woman was vivacious?" inquired Lord Harrowby. "She is. A thousand girls in one. Some untoward happening, and she might change her mind--in a flash." Silence within the room; outside the roar of New York and the clatter of the inevitable riveting machine making its points relentlessly. "That," said Lord Harrowby slowly, "is what I wish you to insure me against, Mr. Jephson." "You mean--"