"Ronald," said she, when the wandering of her eyes had found decision, "this is a friend of mine, Mr. Grey." Ronald held out a horny hand. "How do you do, sir." Surely that settled matters? St. Joseph was approved of. She had said--this is a friend of mine. They shook hands then with a heavy grip. It is the recognised way with those who go down to the sea in ships. "When do you take your next voyage?" asked John. "As soon as we can ship a cargo of gravel." "And where are you bound for?" "Port of Lagos--West Africa." "Dangerous country, isn’t it? Fever? White man’s grave, and all that sort of thing?" "Those are the orders," said Ronald staunchly, looking up to his sister for approval. "I suppose you couldn’t execute a secret commission for me," said John. He laid a gentle stress on the word secret. "You couldn’t carry private papers and run a blockade?" Private papers! Secret commission! Run a blockade! Why the good ship _Albatross_ was just built for such nefarious trade as that. John took the short story out of his pocket. "Well, I want you to take this to the port of Venice," said he. "The port of Venice on the Adriatic, and deliver it yourself into the hands of one--Thomas Grey. There is a fortune to be made if you keep secret and talk to no one of your business. Are you willing to undertake it and share profits?" "We’ll do our best, sir," said Ronald. Then the secret papers were taken aboard--off started the good ship _Albatross_. The other mariner came up just as she had set sail. "What cargo have you got this time?" he whispered. Ronald walked away. "Mustn’t tell," he replied sternly, and by such ready confession of mystery laid himself open to all the perils of attack. That other mariner must know he was bound on secret service, and perhaps by playing the part of Thomas Grey on the other side of the round pond, would probably be admitted into confidence. There is no knowing. You can never be sure of what may happen in a world of romantic adventure. John watched their departure lest his eagerness to talk to her alone should seem too apparent. Then he turned, suggested a seat under the elm trees and, in silence, they walked across the grass to the two little penny chairs that stood expectantly together. There they sat, still in silence, watching the people who were promenading on the path that circles the round pond. Nurses and babies and perambulators, there were countless of these, for in the gardens of Kensington the babies grow like the tulips--rows upon rows of them, in endless numbers. Like the tulips, too, the sun brings them out and their gardeners take them and plant them under the trees. Every second passer-by that sunny morning in April was a gardener with her tulip or tulips, as the case might be; some red, some white, some just in bud, some fully blown. Oh, it is a wonderful place for things to grow in, is Kensington Gardens.