This preposterous corkiness of youth! It had lifted him up from the sea of misfortune in which he had nigh been drowned, and now he was assuring himself that, given he could hide the Rose where a sudden glimmering idea suggested, he would be safer than ever before. The two men who were most dangerous to him--the detective and the _Daily's_ Special Commissioner at Paltley Hill, now slushing through the mud behind--were beneath his thumb. If he could keep them goose-chasing for a few days or so--! The turn of a corner brought them in view of the Clifford Arms. George pointed: “I want you to spend the night there and to stay there till I come to-morrow. A man is there whom you must watch--the landlord.” “One of the gangs?” Mr. Brunger asked, hoarse excitement in his voice. “Gang B--leader. Don't let him suspect you. Just watch him.” “Has he got the cat?” With great impressiveness George looked at the detective, looked at Bill. Volumes of meaning in his tone: “_Not yet!_” he said. Bill cried: “By Gad!” The detective rubbed his hands in keen anticipation. They entered the inn. Bill gave a story of belated tourists. A room was engaged. In a quarter of an hour George was speeding back to Temple Colney. At the post-office he stopped; purchased a letter-card; held his pen a while as he polished the glimmering idea that now had taken form; then wrote to his Mary:-- “My dearest girl in all the world,--You've never had a line from me all this time, but you can guess what a time I've been having. Dearest darling, listen and attend. This is most important. Our future depends upon it. Meet me to-morrow at 12.0 at that tumbled-down hut in the copse on the Shipley Road where we went that day just before my exam. Make any excuse to get away. You must be there. And don't tell a soul. “Till to-morrow, my darling little Mary.--G.” He posted the card. BOOK VI. Of Paradise Lost and Found. CHAPTER I. Mrs. Major Bids For Paradise. I. Impossible to tell how far will spread the ripples from the lightest action that we may toss into the sea of life. Life is a game of consequences. A throws a stone, and the widening ripples wreck the little boats of X and Y and Z who never have even heard of A. Every day and every night, every hour of every day and night, ripples from unknown splashes are setting towards us--perhaps to swamp us, perhaps to bear us into some pleasant stream. One calls it luck, another fate. “This is my just punishment,” cries one. “By my good works I have merited this,” exclaims another; but it is merely the ripple from some distant splash--merely consequences. Consequences.