“That’s where your help would be wanted. I’d like you to lay the whole thing before Lord Cyril to-day, and have him operate it.” But the King started back, aghast. “My dear Miss Logan, do you not see that it would be fatal--suicidal--for me to appear in the matter? Count Mortimer has his nephew’s interests to consider.” “That is so; we mustn’t go ahead too fast,” said Maimie. “Then you incline to think Félicia and I may fight all of the battle for ourselves?” “Quite so. There can be no objection to your consulting Count Mortimer, purely on her behalf, you know; and if by any chance your efforts should be crowned with success, why--you have given me hope--I am happy again!” “Oh no, you aren’t--not yet. We shall want your help any way. I know well enough there’s no hope of having Félicia’s family recognise her unless some one puts pressure on them. Are you ready to intimate at the critical moment that you are real keen on marrying her, if they can fix things right?” “That would be highly injudicious. I think I had better not appear----” “As you please. You throw up your cards, then, and Félicia will just marry Usk.” “You place me in a most difficult position, but rather than lose Félicia----” “I thought so. Then you would better go way back to the Riviera right now, and make a little gentle love to the Grand-Duchess Sonya, just to keep your folks sort of interested, you know. I’ll let you hear when you’re wanted.” CHAPTER IX. A CHANGE OF VENUE. “Why, Uncle Cyril! how awfully good of you to come and meet me!” Yet Usk’s eyes strayed to the dogcart waiting in the road just beyond the station fence, and the stolid groom in charge of it. “Is--is any one else here?” “No; Félicia is not here. What do you think of putting your bag into the cart, and walking up?” “All right. I shall be glad to stretch my legs. Félicia isn’t ill, is she?” “I saw no signs of it when I started. But why should you expect her to meet you? I understood you and she had quarrelled?” “Quarrelled? Why, it was nothing--the most utter nonsense! She never wrote me a word for four whole days, though. But I wrote to her every day, and at last, on the fifth evening, I had a letter from her--an awfully jolly letter, but making the most tremendous fuss about the way she had behaved, calling herself names, and all sorts of things. It seemed so uncalled-for that I really thought she must be going to be ill, for she’s not a bit morbid generally, is she?” “Few people less so, I should think. The letter reached you five days after you left here, you say. It was written the day before, of course?” “The evening before. I know she said she was writing when the house was quiet. But I’m awfully glad she’s all right. She’s so unexpected, isn’t she? You never can tell what she’ll do next.”