Suddenly, as they neared their destination, the fog lifted and his mind was as clear as day. His wife's unctuous reflections were shattered by the force of the explosion that burst from his lips. He remembered everything. This was the house in which Lady Jane Thorne was employed, and it was the scion thereof who had put up the job on young Trotter. Old Cricklewick had come to see him about it and had told him a story that made his blood boil. It was all painfully clear to him now. Their delay in arriving was due to the protracted argument that took place within a stone's throw of the Smith-Parvis home. Mr. McFaddan stopped the car and flatly refused to go an inch farther. He would be hanged if he'd have anything to do with a gang like that! His wife began by calling him a goose. Later on she called him a mule, and still later, in sheer exasperation, a beast. He capitulated. He was still mumbling incoherently as they mounted the steps and were admitted by the deficient Peasley. "What shall I say to the dirty spalpeen if he tries to shake hands with me?" Mr. McFaddan growled, three steps from the top. "Say anything you like," said she, "but, for God's sake, say it under your breath." However: the party was now complete with one notable exception. Stuyvie was sound asleep in his room. He had reached home late that afternoon and was in an irascible frame of mind. He didn't know the McFad-dáns, and he didn't care to know them. Dragging him home from Hot Springs to meet a cheap bounder,--what the deuce did she mean anyhow, entertaining that sort of people? And so on and so forth until his mother lost her temper and took it out on the maid who was dressing her hair. Peasley was sent upstairs to inform Mr. Stuyvesant that they were waiting for him. Mrs. Smith-Parvis met her son at the foot of the stairs when he came lounging down. He was yawning and making futile efforts to smooth out the wrinkles in his coat, having reposed soundly in it for the better part of an hour. "You must be nice to Mr. McFad-dán," said she anxiously. "He has a great deal of influence with the powers that be." He stopped short, instantly alert. "Has a--a warrant been issued?" he demanded, leaping to a very natural and sickening conclusion as to the identity of the "powers." "Not yet, of course," she said, benignly. "It is a little too soon for that. But it will come, dear boy, if we can get Mr. McFad-dán on our side. That is to be the lovely surprise I spoke about in my--" "You--you call _that_ lovely?" he snapped. "If everything goes well, you will soon be at the Court of St. James. Wouldn't you call that lovely?" He was perspiring freely. "My God, that's just the thing I'm trying to avoid. If they get me into court, they'll--" "You do not understand. The diplomatic court,--corps, I mean. You are to go to London,--into the legation. The rarest opportunity--"