Sir Harry had seen "the bounder;" he had breathed a sigh of relief on seeing him. The Duke was the first man he had looked for when he entered the hall. Sir Harry’s anxiety was mainly a matter of dates. For instance to-day was the 20th. Twenty plus eight=28. And the _Ironic_ did not call at Queenstown. Sir Harry was happy in the thought that on this auspicious day the "Redhelm Line" and the "Nord Deutscher Line," had begun their famous record-breaking race across the Atlantic. The _Ironic_ had the advantage of twelve hours’ start. She left Liverpool at four o’clock that afternoon (she does not call at Queenstown, repeated Sir Harry mentally), the _Kron Prinz Olaf_, was due to leave Hamburg at 7 p.m. but she had distance to make up. With these reflections to occupy his mind he paid little heed to his son’s expressions of indignation. Instead he asked abruptly—"You have that cutting, Hal?" "Which cutting?" demanded Hal aggressively. "The order of the court—you can call upon our friend to-morrow and show it to him," he chuckled. Strangely enough, the subject of the Atlantic race was under discussion at another table. It came à propos of the postponed concert. "It would have been jolly inconvenient if this concert had occurred next week," said the Duke. "Why?" she looked at him over her tiny fan. "Because next week—next Wednesday as ever is, I must leave you," he said tragically. She made no disguise of her disappointment. "Bear up," he encouraged her, "I shall be away a fortnight." "To America?" A shadow of alarm fell on her face. "Thinking of Bill Slewer?" he bantered, "Big Bad Bill?" "Yes," she confessed. "Oh, it isn’t vendetta that takes me away," he said lightly, "something less romantic. When a man’s single," he said sententiously, "he can afford to let money go hang, but when he has a wife—did you speak?" "No," she said, and looked at her programme. "When a man has a wife who is pretty certain to be extravagant—you’re sure you didn’t speak?" She shook her head. "Well, in that case, one has to look around one’s silver mines, and floating investments and besides——" Something in his tone made her look up; she saw a look half puzzled, half amused. "Well—I’ve got feelings, Hank laughs at ’em, says it’s all your fault." "What kind of feeling?" "A dread," he said slowly, "a sort of uneasiness about my property—a sort of—I don’t know." He ended weakly and she thought irritably. She looked at him steadily and silently, and Hank found an opening. "Suppose this concert had come along next week, Duke—you could have still gone. Caught the midnight from Euston." There must have been telepathic communication between Sir Harry and the Duke, for he replied— "The _Ironic_ does not call at Queenstown." "S—sh!" There was tremendous applause for the vicar. His audience smiled at him proprietorially and approvingly.