“Well, go and see Jim—my brother—now, at once!” She stamped her foot at him in her excitement. “When he was secretary to Mr. Hoode he was full of those attacks in the press. I remember we thought he was rather silly about them. He used to say there was something more than mere—what did he call it?—policy behind them, and swore he’d make Mr. Hoode take notice of them. I _think_ it was what they eventually quarreled about, but I’m not sure, because he’d never tell me. He wouldn’t even tell Loo—my sister. But if you want to know anything about those papers, Mr. Gethryn, Jimmie’s more likely to be able to tell you than any one else!” Anthony looked at her and said: “The best apology I can make to you is to go up to town now. Your brother ought to be well enough by this time. He’s got to be!” He paused; then added with a smile: “You know you wouldn’t have found me out if I’d been less preoccupied. I’m a bit tired, too.” Dora, forgetting herself, looked at him closely. “Why—why, you look almost _ill_!” she cried, “p’r’aps you—oughtn’t to go to-night.” “Oh, I’m going right enough,” Anthony said; “and now. And I’m not ill; that’s only my interesting pallor. You must go home—and don’t worry.” She cried: “How can I _help_ worrying? Worrying till I wish I’d never been born! Unless there’s a miracle——” “Chesterton once wrote,” Anthony interrupted her, “that ‘the most wonderful thing about miracles is that they sometimes happen.’ And he’s a great and wise man.” The girl flashed a tremulous smile at him and passed out of the door. 2 At ten minutes past ten the great red Mercedes drew up outside the block of flats where Spencer Hastings lived. Anthony had broken his own record of that afternoon for the Kensington-Marling journey. Stiffly, he clambered to the pavement, noted with curiosity that his hands were shaking, and ran up the steps. As he went he wondered would he see Her. He arrived at the door of No. 15 more out of breath than the climb should have made him. Wonderfully, it was She who opened it, and at her smile the shortness of his breath was foolishly increased. For the smile was one, it seemed, of open delight at seeing him. Hastings, she told him, was out, being at his office. His housekeeper, too, was out, being on holiday. But wasn’t Mr. Hastings a dear? Wasn’t Mr. Hastings’s betrothed a charming betrothed? The invalid was ever so much better; temperature down; sleeping; in fact, almost all right. And she hadn’t forgotten how everything, everything was due to the sagacity, kindliness, and general wonderfulness of Mr. Gethryn!