I am sorry to say, Miss Ruth laughed as he disappeared into the house. The Admiral came towards Sempronius, who was now wide awake and watching the Eyesore’s float with lively interest; he shook his fist at him—I mean the Admiral shook his fist at the cat—with comic fury, and found himself shaking his fist at Lord Otford, who had just turned the corner. "Shaking your fist at me, Peter?" asked Lord Otford, with a grim laugh. "Hulloa, Otford!" cried the Admiral, feeling rather foolish. Moreover, he was not particularly pleased to see Otford at that precise moment. Only half-an-hour ago he had surprised Marjolaine’s confidence. He had not had time to think the matter over and make up his mind, and now that he found himself without warning face to face with Jack’s father, he was torn between two conflicting emotions. On the one hand he felt he ought to tell Otford about Jack and Marjolaine. That was his plain duty; but it was one of those forms of duty which everybody tries to find some plausible excuse for evading. He had surprised Marjolaine’s confidence: she had not given it voluntarily. On the other hand he suspected that Jack’s breach of faith in not coming near the Walk for a whole week was due to some interference on the part of his father, and he was so fond of Marjolaine, and so jealous of the status of the Walk, that he resented such interference even before he knew whether Otford had interfered. His keen eye saw, even while they were shaking hands, that there was something on his friend’s mind. "How are you?" asked Lord Otford, perfunctorily. "Have you a moment to spare?" "All day; thanks to this confounded government," growled the Admiral. Lord Otford plunged into the thick of his business at once. "I am in great trouble," he blurted out, in the tone of a man who expects sympathy. He didn’t get it. "Damme! you’re in trouble once a week!" said the Admiral. "Here! Come into the Gazebo." Lord Otford started at the word. "The Gazebo?—Ha! Very appropriate!" "Eh? Why?" asked Sir Peter, sitting on the seat in the summer-house and making room for his friend beside him. Lord Otford produced a crumpled letter from his pocket. "Here! Read this!" said he, thrusting it under Sir Peter’s nose. "Can’t," said the latter, curtly, "haven’t my spy-glass on me!" "Well, listen." Lord Otford read the letter aloud, with ill-suppressed fury.—"’My lord—It is my painful duty to inform your Lordship that your Lordship’s son, the Hon. John Sayle, is carrying on a clandestine love-affair with Mademoiselle Marjolaine Lachesnais, of Pomander Walk—’" The Admiral had grown purple in the face. "Belay, there!" he roared. Lord Otford took no notice, but went on reading: "’Yesterday they were together for an hour in the Gazebo—’"