John, in his relief at meeting Miss Merritt, had taken her arm in a cordial fashion, and steered her across the Strand to Romano's without waiting to choose a less conspicuously theatrical restaurant. Indeed in his anxiety to clear his reputation he forgot everything, and it was only when he saw various people at the little tables nudging one another and bobbing their heads together that he realized he was holding Miss Merritt's arm. He dropped it like a hot coal, and plunged down at a table marked "reserved." The head waiter hurried across to apprise him of the mistake, and John, who was by now horribly self-conscious, fancied that the slight incident had created a stir throughout the restaurant. No doubt it would be all over town by evening that he and his companion in guilt had been refused service at every restaurant in London. "Look here," said John, when at last they were accommodated at a table painfully near the grill, the spitting and hissing from which seemed to symbolize the attitude of a hostile society. "Look here, what stories have you heard about me? You're a journalist. You write chatty paragraphs. For heaven's sake, tell me the worst." "Oh, I haven't heard anything that's printable," Miss Merritt assured him, with a laugh. John put his head between his hands and groaned; the waiter thought he was going to dip his hair into the hors d'oeuvres and hurriedly removed the dishes. "No, seriously, I beg you to tell me if you've heard my name connected in any unpleasant way with Miss Hamilton." "No, the only thing I've heard about Doris is that your brother, Hugh, is always pestering her with his attentions." "What?" John shouted. "Coming, sir," cried the waiter, skipping round the table like a monkey. John waved him away, and begged Miss Merritt to be more explicit. "Why didn't she complain to me?" he asked when he had heard her story. "She probably thought she could look after herself. Besides, wasn't he going to British Guiana?" "He was," replied John. "At least he was going to some tropical colony. I've heard so many mentioned that I'm beginning myself to forget which it was now. So that's why he didn't go. But he shall go. If I have to have him kidnaped and spend all my savings on chartering a private yacht for the purpose, by Heaven, he shall go. If he shrivels up like a burnt sausage the moment he puts his foot on the beach he shall be left there to shrivel. The rascal! When does he pester her? Where?" "Don't get so excited. Doris is perfectly capable of looking after herself. Besides, I think she rather likes him in a way." "Never," John cried. "Liver is finished, sair," said the officious waiter, dancing in again between John and Miss Merritt. John shook his fist at him and leant earnestly over the table with one elbow in the butter. "You don't seriously suggest that she is in love with him?" he asked.