“But there is a London correspondent here who hands in a long telegram at that hour.” “What’s his name?” “Mr. Peters.” “Great Scott! Jimmie Peters here? I’ll soon put a stopper on him. He’ll come, too—jumping. See if he doesn’t. Is it a bargain? Short telegram at six. Dinner for five at 7.30. Come, now, Mr. Martin. It’s up to you. I can see ‘Yes’ in Doris’s eye. Over the port—most delectable, I assure you—I’ll give full details of the peculiar case of a man in Worcestershire whose crop of gooseberries increased fourfold after starting an apiary. And what does it matter if you do lose a queen or two in June? The drones will attend to that trifle.... It’s a fixture, eh? Where’s Peters? In the Pull and Push? I’ll rout him out.” The whirlwind subsided, but quickly materialized again. “Peters nearly fell on his knees and wept with joy,” announced Hart. “He believes he was given a bull steak for luncheon. He pledges himself to have only five hundred words on the wire at five o’clock.” Meanwhile, father and daughter had decided that there was no valid reason why they should not dine with Mr. Grant. Martin already regretted his aloofness on the day of the inquest, though, truth to tell, Hart’s expert knowledge of bee-culture was the determining factor. On her part, Doris was delighted. Her world had gone awry that week, and this small festivity might right it. Not one word of the improvised dinner-party did Hart confide to Grant. He informed the only indispensable person, Mrs. Bates, and left it at that. Grant, a restless being these days, took him for another long walk. It chanced that their road home led down the high-street. The hour was a quarter past seven, and Peters hailed them. Hart introduced the journalist, saying casually: “Jimmie is coming to dinner, Jack.” “Delighted,” said Grant, of course. Peters looked slightly surprised, but passed no comment. Then Doris and her father appeared. They joined the others, shook hands, and, to Grant’s secret perplexity, the whole party moved off down the hill in company. When the Martins turned with the rest to cross the bridge, Grant began to suspect his friend. “Wally,” he managed to whisper, “what game have you been playing?” “Aren’t you satisfied?” murmured Hart. “Sdeath, as they used to say in the Surrey Theater, you’re as bad as Furshaw!”