From the first he had known that Judith, and Uncle Bond, could never be as other people to him. It was this knowledge which had warned him not to betray his real identity. From the first, it had seemed of vital importance to him, that no shadow of his Royal rank should be allowed to mar the delightful spontaneity of his intercourse with these charming, unconventional people, who, looking upon him as merely a young, naval officer in trouble, had at once placed all their resources at his disposal, as if he had been an old and intimate friend. It was this knowledge which had prompted him, when he came to telegraph to Uncle Bond, to report his successful rejoining of his ship, to sign the telegram with his favourite incognito name, Alfred York. That he should have been in a position to telegraph to Uncle Bond was only one of the many lesser miracles of that wholly miraculous night. At some point in their wild drive, Uncle Bond had slipped his visiting card into his hand, and had contrived to make him understand, in spite of his dreamlike abstraction, that, while he was known to his admiring public as "Cynthia St. Claire," the notorious serial writer, he was known to his friends as plain James Bond, and that he, and his niece Judith, would be glad to hear that he had escaped a court-martial. Looking back at it all, now, with the wonder that never failed him when he thought of Judith, it seemed to the King that the miracles of that first memorable night, twelve months ago, had merely been the prelude to a whole sequence of other, and far greater, miracles. When leave came his way once again, it had seemed only natural to him that he should run out to see Judith and Uncle Bond, to thank them for their kindness which had included the salving, and the temporary storing of the derelict car. But that Judith and Uncle Bond should have welcomed him so warmly, and pressed him to repeat his visit, whenever he happened to be passing through town, that had been--a miracle! Again, it was only natural that he should have taken advantage of their invitation, and that he should have fallen into the habit of running out to see them, whenever he could snatch a few brief hours from the exacting demands of his semi-official life. But that Judith, and Uncle Bond, should have thrown open their house to him, so soon, without question, and made their home, his home, that had been--a miracle! That he should have been able to keep his frequent visits to, and his increasing intimacy with, Judith and Uncle Bond a secret, for nearly twelve months, was a miracle. That in all that time, Judith and Uncle Bond should never have suspected his real identity, never penetrated his incognito, was a greater miracle. But that his friendship with Judith should have remained unspoilt, innocent, that was the greatest miracle of all.