Hilda concluded: "Yes, Harold Brookman married my college chum, Lottie Devine. They've been married about four years. They have two children and are very happy. Lottie wouldn't be my chum if she were not a nice girl, and if Harold Brookman were not a nice man, he wouldn't have married Lottie. He's over here training for a Transatlantic air race, and I hope he'll win." Raife Remington's discomfiture was complete. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS VISITOR IN THE NIGHT. Long after Hilda had retired to bed one night, Raife and Mr Muirhead having put on their heavy motor coats, sat enjoying the moonlight, and chatting over the events of the day. There was much to talk of, for there were many questions of settlements, entailing long consultations with lawyers. No reference was made between the two men to Raife's jealousy of the last few days. An interview was arranged with Mr Kellaway, the family solicitor, and the late Sir Henry Remington's old friend. The services of Messrs. Gordon and Gordon, the solicitors of Edinburgh, whom the late Sir Henry Remington had chosen to make his will, would have to be enlisted. Mr Muirhead explained that, whereas, he did not own valuable estates like Aldborough Park, his financial interests in American securities were extensive and sound. He proposed to endow Hilda with enough of his worldly wealth to enable her to play the Lady Bountiful among Raife's peasantry and elsewhere, and, at the same time, support herself in those directions in which every independent-minded American girl is accustomed. They were talking earnestly in this manner, when Mr Muirhead remarked, "Your servants are about late, to-night. I suppose that's a gamekeeper. I haven't much knowledge of such things. We don't preserve game in the United States--at least," he added, "not to the extent that you appear to do." Raife glanced in the direction indicated, and he saw a figure creeping stealthily in the dark shadows of the clump of cedars and pines. "That is not a gamekeeper," he said. He rose, followed by Mr Muirhead, and started in the direction of the retreating figure, which immediately commenced to run. Raife threw off his motor coat, exclaiming: "Heavens! I wish I had my revolver." Mr Muirhead, as is the practice of many Americans, had his. It was an old-fashioned Deringer. He handed it to Raife, saying: "Take mine." Then began a chase, but the retreating figure had, by now, a good start. Down the beech avenue for a hundred yards, then through a gap into a croft, skirting a hedgerow and over a gate at the end, Raife arrived in time to see his quarry jump into a grey car. There were two shots, one at Raife as he clambered over the gate, and one from Raife as the car sped down a side lane that led to the main road. Raife was near enough to see that the figure he had hunted was the omnipresent phantom Apache, who had haunted him half-way over Europe and Egypt.