“Yes, yes—I’m not a girl, you know. I’ve been married. I won’t go home. I can’t starve or live in awful lodgings. _Somebody_ must save me!” “Do you know what people will say?” his steady voice was slightly lower. “It won’t be said to me.” Rather wildly. “Nobody minds—really.” He ceased altogether to look serious. He smiled with the light detached air his world was most familiar with. “No—they don’t really,” he answered. “I had, however, a slight preference for knowing whether you would or not. You flatter me by intimating that you would not.” He knew that if he had held out an arm she would have fallen upon his breast and wept there, but he was not at the moment in the mood to hold out an arm. He merely touched hers with a light pressure. “Let us sit down and talk it over,” he suggested. A hansom drove up to the door and stopped before he had time to seat himself. Hearing it he went to the window and saw a stout businesslike looking man get out, accompanied by an attendant. There followed a loud, authoritative ringing of the bell and an equally authoritative rap of the knocker. This repeated itself. Feather, who had run to the window and caught sight of the stout man, clutched his sleeve. “It’s the agent we took the house from. We always said we were out. It’s either Carson or Bayle. I don’t know which.” Coombe walked toward the staircase. “You can’t open the door!” she shrilled. “He has doubtless come prepared to open it himself.” he answered and proceeded at leisure down the narrow stairway. The caller had come prepared. By the time Coombe stood in the hall a latchkey was put in the keyhole and, being turned, the door opened to let in Carson—or Bayle—who entered with an air of angered determination, followed by his young man. The physical presence of the Head of the House of Coombe was always described as a subtly impressive one. Several centuries of rather careful breeding had resulted in his seeming to represent things by silent implication. A man who has never found the necessity of explaining or excusing himself inevitably presents a front wholly unsuggestive of uncertainty. The front Coombe presented merely awaited explanations from others. Carson—or Bayle—had doubtless contemplated seeing a frightened servant trying to prepare a stammering obvious lie. He confronted a tall, thin man about whom—even if his clothes had been totally different—there could be no mistake. He stood awaiting an apology so evidently that Carson—or Bayle—began to stammer himself even before he had time to dismiss from his voice the suggestion of bluster. It would have irritated Coombe immensely if he had known that he—and a certain overcoat—had been once pointed out to the man at Sandown and that—in consequence of the overcoat—he vaguely recognized him. “I—I beg pardon,” he began. “Quite so,” said Coombe.