“Most certainly,” was the girl’s unaffected answer. He put her in a taxi and directed the driver to take her to Waterloo Station. It was not safe for him to go with her, much as he would have liked to do so. At this hour of the day some of the early birds might be returning home, and at this stage of the proceedings it was not politic for Miss Stormont to be seen by any of her neighbours in the company of a good-looking young man. The next week when he met her, almost the first words she said were, “Have you heard from Uncle Howard?” He answered that he had not, and she proceeded to explain: “Well, the idea has blossomed. Two days ago at breakfast, he announced solemnly to auntie and myself that he was going to write to you at the address in Ryder Street you gave him, and ask you down for a week-end. To-day is Wednesday; you ought to have had the letter by now. But perhaps he didn’t intend to ask you for this week-end but the next. Uncle is very impetuous in some things but slow-moving in others. And if it is for the following week, naturally he wouldn’t be in a hurry.” It was, however, this week-end that the genial Stormont had fixed in his mind. When Lydon went home that night the precious letter was awaiting him, having arrived by a midday post. If Mr. Lydon had no previous engagement, would he spend next Saturday to Monday, or, if possible, Tuesday, at Effington? If so, Stormont would meet him at Waterloo by a certain train and they would go down together. Of course, he sent an immediate reply. So, at last, he was made free of Effington; he would see his beloved Gloria in her own home, and be able to feast his eyes upon her for several hours. If Howard Stormont was as unconventional as his appearance and manners proclaimed, there would be an end of the _sub-rosa_ meetings. In these advanced days, when the chaperone is nearly as extinct as the dodo, he would be able to ask her openly to lunch with him when she came up to London to do her shopping. It was a great step gained. On the Friday before his visit, he had a summons from Shelford, the solicitor, who had heard from his agent in Nice. Elise Makris was alive, wonderful to relate. For some days the doctors had entertained little or no hope. Then suddenly the tide had turned, and she had made a remarkable rally. Three days before Shelford’s letter of instructions reached Nice, she had been discharged from the hospital, still somewhat weak, but in no danger of a relapse. She had returned to the Villa des Cyclamens, which on the next day was evacuated. Madame Makris had paid up all she owed, and she and her daughter had gone away, nobody knew whither.