"Do you really?" She continued to hum beneath her breath. "Very well--here at four." "And--" he hesitated, fearing to break the spell. "In the meantime--" "In the meantime," she said, "I'll think only of--four o'clock." Minot left that pink and gold parlor at sea in several respects. The theory was that he had played with this famous actress--wound her round his finger--cajoled a delay. But somehow he didn't feel exactly as one who has mastered a delicate situation should. Instead he felt dazed by the beauty of her. Still more was he at sea as to what he was going to do at four o'clock. Of what good was the delay if he could not make use of it? And at the moment he hadn't the slightest notion of what he could do to prepare himself for the afternoon interview. He must wait for Jephson's cable--perhaps that would give him an idea. Minot was walking blankly down the street in the direction of his morning paper when a poster in a deserted store window caught his eye. It was an atrocious poster--red letters on a yellow background. It announced that five hundred dollars reward would be paid by Mr. Henry Trimmer for information that would disclose the present whereabouts of the real Lord Harrowby. As Minot stood reading it, a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. Turning, he looked into the lean and hostile face of Henry Trimmer himself. "Good morning," said Mr. Trimmer. "Good morning," replied Minot. "Glad to number you among my readers," sneered Trimmer. "What do you think--reward large enough?" "Looks about the right size to me," Minot answered. "Me, too. Ought to bring results pretty quick. By the way, you were complaining last night that you never heard of me until you came here. I've been thinking that over, and I've decided to make up to you in the next few days for all those lonely years--" But the morning had been too much for Minot. Worried, distressed, he lost for the moment his usual smiling urbanity. "Oh, go to the devil!" he said, and walked away. Lunch time came--two o'clock. At half past two, out of London, Jephson spoke. Said his cable: "Know nothing of G.R. except that she's been married frequently. Do best you can." And what help was this, pray? Disgustedly Minot read the cable again. Four o'clock was coming on apace, and with every tick of the clock his feeling of helplessness grew. He mentally berated Thacker and Jephson. They left him alone to grapple with wild problems, offering no help and asking miracles. Confound them both! Three o'clock came. What--what was he to say? Lord Harrowby, interrogated, was merely useless and frantic. He couldn't raise a shilling. He couldn't offer a suggestion. "Dear old chap," he moaned, "I depend on you."