VII Luckily Mrs. Terrill, by her simple device of opening the folding doors that separated the drawing-room from the breakfast-room, was able to offer one fair sized apartment for the accommodation of her guests. Built almost identically on the same lines as that occupied by the Duke, No. 66 had been transferred (as the _Lewisham and Lee Mail_ in a breathless article described it) into "a veritable bower of roses equalling in stateliness and expensiveness the most splendid habitations of Belgravia and the West End." It was Hal’s idea that the conservatory at the back, and which, as in the Duke’s house, was an _annexe_ to the breakfast room, should be converted, by means of three flags and a red carpet ("a lavish display of bunting," said the _Lewisham and Lee Mail_), into a sort of throne room. Hither Tuppy was conducted. Tuppy was very irritable and very beautiful in his dress kit, and one by one the guests were ushered into the presence. Hal was a self-appointed M.C. "Mr. Gosser and Miss Gosser," announced Hal. "Glad to see you—how do you do." "Mr. James Fenton, Mrs. James Fenton and Mr. Fenton, Junior." "Happy to meet you—how de do?" "Mr. Copley, Mr. Minting, Mr. Arthur Brown." "Oh damn it! How de do, how de do?" wearily. It must be understood that much of Tuppy’s greeting was _sotto voce_. "Miss Sprager, who’s a very fine fiddle player." "How de do—beastly cold isn’t it?" "Mr. Willie Sime—brought any songs, Sime?" "Got a shocking cold, old chap." "Thank heavens—glad to meet you, Mr. Sime." "Mrs. Outram." "Weird old bird—how are you, Mrs. Outram, glad to meet you." "Mr. R. B. Rake, B.A. The editor of the _Lewisham_——" "I am honoured to make your acquaintance, my lord," said the boisterous journalist, "there is no more pleasing feature of our modern life than the democratizing of the peerage." "Noisy devil! How de do—glad to meet you." "Mr. Pulser, Mrs. Pulser, Miss Pulser." "Oh Lord! how many more of em? Glad to meet you, how de do?" There was scarcely room to move, the guests overflowed into the hall and on to the stairs. Sir Harry, wedged in one corner, surveyed the scene with a glow of pardonable pride. To him it represented the Duke’s _coup de grâce_. Mr. Rake wormed his way through the press of people to his side. "Well, sir?" demanded Mr. Rake. He said this in a tone that suggested that he had only omitted "what did I tell you?" out of pure politeness. For Mr. Rake had an unpleasant knack of claiming personal credit for all and sundry happenings, from weddings to earthquakes, no matter how little he had to do with their instigation, that had earned for him amongst his colleagues the title of "Prophet of the Afterwards." "This, I think," Mr. Rake went on, "effectively settles our friend." Sir Harry nodded. "The letter of course was the official suicide, this might aptly be described as the wake." Arousing no enthusiasm he continued—