“My good Rebecca, I assure you that I am alive.” This was Mr. Rainshore’s attempt to calm the hysteric sobbing of his wife, who had recovered from her short swoon in the little retreat of the person who sold Tauchnitzes, picture-postcards, and French novels, between the main corridor and the reading-rooms. Geraldine and Cecil were also in the tiny chamber. “As for this,” Simeon continued, kicking the newspaper, “it’s a singular thing that a man can’t take a couple of days off without upsetting the entire universe. What should you do in my place, Thorold? This is the fault of your shaft.” “I should buy Dry Goods shares,” said Cecil. “And I will.” There was an imperative knock at the door. An official of police entered. “Monsieur Ryneshor?” “The same.” “We have received telegraphs from New York and Londres to demand if you are dead.” “I am not. I still live.” “But Monsieur’s hat has been found on the beach.” “My hat?” “It carries Monsieur’s name.” “Then it isn’t mine, sir.” “_Mais comment donc----?_” “I tell you it isn’t mine, sir.” “Don’t be angry, Simeon,” his wife pleaded between her sobs. The exit of the official was immediately followed by another summons for admission, even more imperative. A lady entered and handed to Simeon a card: “Miss Eve Fincastle. _The Morning Journal._” “My paper----” she began. “You wish to know if I exist, madam!” said Simeon. “I----” Miss Fincastle caught sight of Cecil Thorold, paused, and bowed stiffly. Cecil bowed; he also blushed. “I continue to exist, madam,” Simeon proceeded. “I have not killed myself. But homicide of some sort is not improbable if---- In short, madam, good night!” Miss Fincastle, with a long, searching, silent look at Cecil, departed. “Bolt that door,” said Simeon to his daughter. Then there was a third knock, followed by a hammering. “Go away!” Simeon commanded. “Open the door!” pleaded a muffled voice. “It’s Harry!” Geraldine whispered solemnly in Cecil’s ear. “Please go and calm him. Tell him I say it’s too late to-night.” Cecil went, astounded. “What’s happened to Geraldine?” cried the boy, extremely excited, in the corridor. “There are all sorts of rumours. Is she ill?” Cecil gave an explanation, and in his turn asked for another one. “You look unnerved,” he said. “What are you doing here? What is it? Come and have a drink. And tell me all, my young friend.” And when, over cognac, he had learnt the details of a scheme which had no connection with his own, he exclaimed, with the utmost sincerity: “The minx! The minx!” “What do you mean?” inquired Harry Vaux-Lowry. “I mean that you and the minx have had the nearest possible shave of ruining your united careers. Listen to me. Give it up, my boy. I’ll try to arrange things. You delivered a letter to the father-in-law of your desire a few days ago. I’ll give you another one to deliver, and I fancy the result will be, different.” The letter which Cecil wrote ran thus:--