But a month later he was far happier, for one morning towards the end of August, his mail brought him a letter from Watts, announcing that they had been four days installed in their Newport home, and that Peter would now be welcome any time. “I have purposely not filled Grey-Court this summer, so that you should have every chance. Between you and me and the post, I think there have been moments when mademoiselle missed ‘her friend’ far more than she confessed.” “Dat’s stronory,” thought Jenifer. “He dun eat mo’ dis yar hot mo’nin’ dan he dun in two mumfs.” Then Jenifer was sent out with a telegram, which merely said: “May I come to-day by Shore line limited? P.S.” “When you get back, Jenifer,” said Peter, “you may pack my trunk and your own. We may start for Newport at two.” Evidently Peter did not intend to run any risks of missing the train, in case the answer should be favorable. Peter passed into his office, and set to work to put the loose ends in such shape that nothing should go wrong during his absence. He had not worked long, when one of the boys told him that: “Mr. Cassius Curlew wants to see you, Mr. Stirling.” Peter stopped his writing, looking up quickly: “Did he say on what business?” “No.” “Ask him, please.” And Peter went on writing till the boy returned. “He says it’s about the convention.” “Tell him he must be more specific.” The boy returned in a moment with a folded scrap of paper. “He said that would tell you, Mr. Stirling.” Peter unfolded the scrap, and read upon it: “A message from Maguire.” “Show him in.” Peter touched a little knob on his desk on which was stamped “Chief Clerk.” A moment later a man opened a door. “Samuels,” said Peter, “I wish you would stay here for a moment. I want you to listen to what’s said.” The next moment a man crossed the threshold of another door. “Good-morning, Mr. Stirling,” he said. “Mr. Curlew,” said Peter, without rising and with a cold inclination of his head. “I have a message for you, Mr. Stirling,” said the man, pulling a chair into a position that suited him, and sitting, “but it’s private.” Peter said nothing, but began to write. “Do you understand? I want a word with you private,” said the man after a pause. “Mr. Samuels is my confidential clerk. You can speak with perfect freedom before him.” Peter spoke without raising his eyes from his writing. “But I don’t want any one round. It’s just between you and me.” “When I got your message,” said Peter, still writing, “I sent for Mr. Samuels. If you have anything to say, say it now. Otherwise leave it unsaid.” “Well, then,” said the man, “your party’s been tricking us, and we won’t stand it.” Peter wrote diligently. “And we know who’s back of it. It was all pie down to that dinner of yours.” “Is that Maguire’s message?” asked Peter, though with no cessation of his labors.