“I am willing to give you a try,” was the generous response. “It would be nice and considerate if we could get it all finished up in time to wire aunty that we are perfectly well married before she grows hysterical about Mary. Mary is very fond of her family and would appreciate a little attention like that.” “And have you considered the time it takes to drive one hundred and twenty miles over those infernal, hog-backed roads?” queried Mr. Burrow with suspicious politeness. “Really, I can’t say, but it’s only ten o’clock now. You can start as soon as you’re ready, you know. You have about thirteen hours.” “I salaam before your unparalleled nerve! Do you realize that I have public duties to perform?” Mr. Copewell shrugged his shoulders. The stenographer’s brown head was thrust into the door. “Alderman Grotz says——” she began. “Send him right in,” exclaimed Mr. Burrow energetically. “Ah, Mr. Grotz, I’m very sorry indeed to have kept you waiting! Miss Farrish, tell the other gentlemen I have just received urgent news that will call me out of town until to-morrow. ’Phone over to the City Hall and make my apologies to the Mayor. Call up the garage and have my car ready for a long trip in a half-hour; telephone to my rooms and have my man pack a suit-case and rush it over to the garage. Let’s see—yes, I believe that’s all, thank you.” CHAPTER III ON THE WAY TO JAFFA JUNCTION The allegation that Love laughs at locksmiths has become more generally accepted than verity warrants. In point of fact the locksmith has never been altogether without the honors of war, and during the last century or two he has made commendable progress in the matter of bolts and tumblers and burglar-proof devices. Love was supervising the packing of Mary Asheton’s steamer-trunks and was particularly interested in the single suit-case surreptiously intended for the Jaffa Junction trousseau. Love giggled as he looked on, but the giggle was rather hysterical. “_He_ likes that black gown,” said Mary, alone in her room with Love. “I wore it the evening he proposed the last time—no, it was the third from the last time.” The small god, Love, approved of Mary. Her red-brown hair, hanging in braids, was very thick and long. About her temples were soft, tendril-like curls of the variety that is most valuable to Love in his business, because they are more enmeshing and binding than some of the other links he is supposed to forge with the aid of his stout smith, Hymen. He approved of her deep violet eyes, liquid with the electric potency of personality. He approved of her willowy slenderness and the grace of her carriage.