“I say, Andrew, dear fellow, perk up! Some one will surely arrest her for you soon. Monte, how’s this? Suppose the police chaps, who are after Miss Leigh, catch her; and then Andy, here, finding her, you see, should get her to marry him--would you call that marriage by capture? Rather rare, what?” “Oh, put it in _Punch_,” Andy appealed and let a servant hand him tea. He was in England, as his world knew, to find Roberta Leigh. She, as all the world was widely aware, had passed a very, very stirring summer in Britain burning and laying waste to win votes for women. Yet for more than a month, Andy had followed her trail vainly. Therefore, he now was abandoning the search; first, because it had begun to dawn upon him that, unless Roberta wished him to find her, the results of success in his search would be decidedly doubtful; and second, for some weeks the efforts of the London police, aided by the outraged local authorities of nine shocked shires and counties, had made any purely private pursuit of Miss Leigh seem superfluous. So, as he proceeded north, he contented himself with buying the papers to learn what the police were accomplishing. Between times he read his review. “Those observers who see in the feminist movement a weakening of the mating impulse in the woman,” he repeatedly rehearsed one paragraph, “are grievously mistaken. Indeed, the feminist movement--particularly in its most violent manifestations on the part of the so-called militant suffragettes--is only a newer phase of the pseudo defiance of man by woman which, from the earliest times, has been employed by woman to attract man.” He looked up and, carefully putting his finger in the place at the paragraph, he stared out the car window as the train stopped. It was at only a little country station where a spur of track ran from the main line. Passengers were changing to a couple of stubby cars standing on that spur. Since he personally resolutely had abandoned the search for Roberta, he did not scrutinize the passengers closely. He merely made sure that there were only two girls in sight, and that the one, who might possibly be mistaken for Roberta, was not she; then he drew his head back within the window. His train started deliberately. He was glancing down to find his page in the pleasant quarterly review, when a pile of luggage on the platform appeared. On top of the pile stood a small, black, oblong, week-end box--half trunk, half hand bag--much pasted with customs labels and scratched with chalk, but quite definite and individual of size and shape. Andy saw it, and, with the startled cry of the incredulous, jumped to his feet, reckless of where the tea splashed. “That’s hers. Join you later, if I’m wrong,” he condensed explanation, farewell, and promise to his hosts; and, as the train was still moving slowly, and the compartment was private and not locked, he opened the door and sprang down upon the end of the platform.