“But it’s false,” he screamed out, as Anthony finished. “I never put it there. I know nothing about it. It is a plot.” “Don’t excite yourself,” said Anthony soothingly. “If that’s the case you’ll easily be able to prove it.” “Prove it? How can I prove it?” “If I were you,” said Anthony gently, “I’d come to Chimneys to-night.” Isaacstein looked at him doubtfully. “You advise it?” Anthony leant forward and whispered to him. The financier fell back in amazement, staring at him. “You actually mean——” “Come and see,” said Anthony. 27 The 13th of October (contd.) The clock in the Council Chamber struck nine. “Well,” said Lord Caterham, with a deep sigh. “Here they all are, just like little Bo Peep’s flock, back again and wagging their tails behind them.” He looked sadly round the room. “Organ grinder complete with monkey,” he murmured, fixing the Baron with his eye. “Nosy Parker of Throgmorton Street——” “I think you’re rather unkind to the Baron,” protested Bundle, to whom these confidences were being poured out. “He told me that he considered you the perfect example of English hospitality amongst the _haute noblesse_.” “I daresay,” said Lord Caterham. “He’s always saying things like that. It makes him most fatiguing to talk to. But I can tell you I’m not nearly as much of the hospitable English gentleman as I was. As soon as I can, I shall let Chimneys to an enterprising American, and go and live in an hotel. There, if anyone worries you, you can just ask for your bill and go.” “Cheer up,” said Bundle. “We seem to have lost Mr. Fish for good.” “I always found him rather amusing,” said Lord Caterham, who was in a contradictory temper. “It’s that precious young man of yours who has let me in for this. Why should I have this Board meeting called in my house? Why doesn’t he rent The Larches or Elmhurst, or some nice villa residence like that at Streatham, and hold his company meetings there?” “Wrong atmosphere,” said Bundle. “No one is going to play any tricks on us, I hope?” said her father nervously. “I don’t trust that French fellow, Lemoine. The French police are up to all sorts of dodges. Put India-rubber bands round your arm, and then reconstruct the crime and make you jump, and it’s registered on a thermometer. I know that when they call out ‘Who killed Prince Michael?’ I shall register a hundred and twenty-two, or something perfectly frightful, and they’ll haul me off to gaol at once.” The door opened and Tredwell announced: “Mr. George Lomax. Mr. Eversleigh.” “Enter Codders, followed by faithful dog,” murmured Bundle. Bill made a bee-line for her, whilst George greeted Lord Caterham in the genial manner he assumed for public occasions. “My dear Caterham,” said George, shaking him by the hand, “I got your message, and came over, of course.”