Only for an instant had he entertained the suspicion that there might be Another Man, but this he dismissed as ridiculous. Alicia’s refusal was very natural. She had been piqued by the fact that he had not been able to make her a definite offer. He resolved to bide his time, and come to his father on the crest of that prosperous wave which was to hand the Denver Silver Streak Mine into the lap of his astute progenitor. Then he would speak out boldly, trusting to the generosity of his father. Constructing these pleasant dreams, he found himself discussing the coming concert with Alicia, and the girl pleasantly relieved that her refusal had had so little effect upon his spirits, was a little sorry she had been so severe. They were talking over the songs Alicia was to sing, when there was the sound of a carriage stopping outside the door, followed by an important rat-tat. "Whoever can it be?" wondered Alicia. She had not to wait in suspense for very long. In a few seconds the servant announced— "Sir Harry Tanneur and Mr. Slewer." *Part II* *THE DUKE DEPARTS* *I* Years ago I discovered that truth was indeed stranger than fiction—that curious and amazing things happened daily that caused one to say, "If I had read this in a book I should have said that it was impossible." Following upon this discovery, I have observed that all the best chroniclers, exercise unusual caution in dealing with unexpected situations, carefully and laboriously laying solid foundations on which to build their literary coincidences. Fortunately Sir Harry saves me the trouble, for his first words explained his presence. "Ah, Alicia," he pecked at her, "let me introduce our good friend Slewer—just arrived from the United States of America with a letter of introduction from the gentleman in charge of my affairs in Denver." Alicia regarded the new arrival with polite interest. Mr. Bill Slewer, in a ready-made suit of clothing that fitted him badly, in a soft grey shirt and a ready-made tie, shuffled uneasily under the scrutiny. He was a tall man, with shoulders a trifle bowed and long arms that hung awkwardly. But it was his face that fascinated the girl. Scarred and seamed and furrowed till it seemed askew, what held her, were his eyes. They were pale blue and large, and in the setting of his mahogany skin he looked for all the world like one sightless. Two white discs that shifted here and there when she spoke, but which never once looked toward her. "Mr. Slewer," Sir Harry went on, with an air of quiet triumph, "can serve you, Alicia." "Me?" The girl’s eyes opened in astonishment. Sir Harry nodded and chuckled. "I don’t think you are likely to be annoyed with your neighbour after to-day," he said, "eh, Mr. Slewer?"