A man-servant busied himself directing the removers, and the elder of the two tenants, at last said— "That’s finished, Duke." He spoke with a drawling, lazy, American accent. The young man nodded, and called the servant. "We shall be back before ten," he said in a pleasant voice. "Very good, m’lord," replied the man with the slightest of bows. The man looked round and saw Willie. "Hank," he said, "there’s the information bureau—find out things." The elder jerked his head invitingly, and Willie sidled into the garden. "Bub," said Hank, with a hint of gloom in his voice, "Where’s the nearest saloon?" He did not quite comprehend. Willie gasped. "Saloon, sir!" "Pub," explained the young man, in a soft voice. "Public-house, sir?" Willie faltered correctly. Hank nodded, and the young man chuckled softly. "There is," said the outraged youth, "a good-pull-up-for-carmen, at the far end of Kymott Road, the _far_ end," he emphasized carefully. "At the far end, eh?" Hank looked round at his companion, "Duke, shall we walk or shall we take the pantechnicon?" "Walk," said his grace promptly. Willie saw the two walking away. His young brain was in a whirl. Here was an epoch-making happening, a tremendous revolutionary and unprecedented circumstance—nay, it was almost monstrous, that there should come into the ordered life of Kymott Crescent so disturbing a factor. The agitated youth watched them disappearing, and as the consciousness of his own responsibility came to him, he sprinted after them. "I say!" They turned round. "You—here I say!—you’re not a duke, are you—not a real duke?" he floundered. Hank surveyed him kindly. "Sonny," he said impressively, "this is the realest duke you’ve ever seen: canned in the Dukeries an’ bearin’ the government analyst’s certificate." "But—but," said the bewildered boy, "no larks—I say, are you truly a duke?" He looked appealingly at the younger man whose eyes were dancing. He nodded his head and became instantly grave. "I’m a truly duke," he said sadly, "keep it dark." He put his hand in his pocket, and produced with elaborate deliberation a small card case. From this he extracted a piece of paste-board, and handed to Willie who read— "THE DUC DE MONTVILLIER," and in a corner "San Pio Ranch, Tex." "I’m not," continued the young man modestly, "I’m not an English duke: if anything I’m rather superior to the average English duke: I’ve got royal blood in my veins, and I shall be very pleased to see you at No. 64." "From 10 till 4," interposed the grave Hank. "From 10 till 4," accepted the other, "which are my office hours." "For duking," explained Hank. "Exactly—for duking," said his grace. Willie looked from one to the other. "I say!" he blurted, "you’re pulling my leg, aren’t you? I say! you’re rotting me." "I told you so," murmured the Duke resentfully, "Hank, he thinks I’m rotting—he’s certain I’m pulling his leg, Hank." Hank said nothing.