Had her aunt been a man or merely a woman, Patricia argued, she would not have been so dangerous; but she possessed the deliberate logic of the one and the quickness of perception of the other. With her feminine eye she could see, and with her man-like brain she could judge. Patricia felt that the one thing to do was to get rid of her aunt for the day and then think things over quietly and decide as to her plan of campaign. "Please, Aunt Adelaide," she said, "don't let's discuss it any more to-day, I've had such a worrying time at the Bonsors', and my head is so stupid. Come to tea to-morrow afternoon at half-past five and I will tell you all, as they say in the novelettes; but for heaven's sake don't get talking to those dreadful old tabbies. They have no affairs of their own, and at the present moment they simply live upon mine." "Very well, Patricia," replied Miss Brent as she rose to go, "I will wait until to-morrow; but, understand me, I am your sole surviving relative and I have a duty to perform by you. That duty I shall perform whatever it costs me." As Patricia looked into the hard, cold eyes of her aunt, she believed her. At that moment Miss Brent looked as if she represented all the aggressive virtues in Christendom. "It's very sweet of you, Aunt Adelaide, and I very much appreciate your interest. I am all nervy to-day; but I shall be all right to-morrow. Don't forget, half-past five here. That will give me time to get back from the Bonsors'." Miss Brent pecked Patricia's right cheek and moved towards the door. "Remember, Patricia," she said, as a final shot, "to-morrow I shall expect a full explanation. I am deeply concerned about you. I cannot conceive what your poor dear father would have said had he been alive." With this parting shot Miss Brent moved down the staircase and left Galvin House. As she stalked to the temperance hotel in Bloomsbury, where she was staying, she was fully satisfied that she had done her duty as a woman and a Christian. "Sole surviving relative," muttered Patricia as she turned back after seeing her aunt out. And then she remembered with a smile that her father had once said that "relatives were the very devil." A softness came into her eyes at the thought of her father, and she remembered another saying of his, "When you lose your sense of humour and your courage at the same time, you have lost the game." For a moment Patricia paused, deliberating what she would do. Finally, she walked to the telephone at the end of the hall. There was a grimness about her look indicative of a set purpose, taking down the receiver she called "Gerrard 60000." There was a pause. "That the Quadrant Hotel?" she enquired. "Is Lord Peter Bowen in?" The clerk would enquire. Patricia waited what seemed an age. At last a voice cried, "Hullo!" "Is that Lord Peter Bowen?" "Is that you, Patricia?" came the reply from the other end of the wire. "Oh, so it is true then!" said Patricia.