“England? Not Roddy Carteret!” It was done almost as well as that accomplished actor, Mr. Jacob Remsen, could have done it. Harmon sprang across the street. “Carteret! Roddy Carteret!” he called. “What on earth are you doing over here?” The bell-ringer adjusted a monocle and ambled down the steps to shake hands. “Well met, m’deah fellah! Perhaps you can tell me what’s amiss with this beastly house.” “I’ll tell you,” proffered the obliging and innocent Mr. Murphy. He did so. “Then I’ll just go back and jolly well camp there till somebody jolly well lets me in,” decided the caller. Argument followed while the chauffeur burrowed into the mechanism of his car. It ended by the Englishman bestowing two dollars upon Mr. Murphy to get a message to Mr. Remsen containing a protest and an address. The two gentlemen then moved away in the extinguished taxi. Tickets had been provided by the forethoughtful Harmon. The fugitive was the first man in the parlor car. Hardly had he settled when a young couple in suspiciously new apparel arrived, and were shown into Drawing-Room “A,” at the upper end of the car. Shortly after, another couple, also glistening as to garb, entered and took possession of Drawing-Room “B,” at the lower end of the car. The eluder of justice eyed them and drew his own conclusions. “Here we are, all of us,” he said to himself, retiring discreetly behind his newspaper. This was just one short of the full and fateful facts. CHAPTER XI ONE into the dim recesses of the past was the nuptial day of October 15. Gone also, into what dim recesses their erstwhile flat-mate knew not, were Mrs. Holcomb Lee, _née_ Maud Raines, and Mrs. Paul Wood, _née_ Helen Barrett. Presently Darcy would be gone also, for this was October 17, and, although the fact had been successfully concealed from the society editors of the metropolis, ever avid of news with a title in it, on October 16 she had been married to Sir Montrose Veyze, of Veyze Holdings, Hampshire, England, at the Church of the Imagination. Sir Montrose had sent a wireless (forged by Miss Gloria Greene) advising his fiancee that he would arrive on the 16th, and they would be married at once. All of which would have profoundly astonished and perhaps scandalized the authentic Sir Montrose Veyze, at that particular time huddled over an insufficient stove and fervently cursing a Siberian northeaster with three feet of snow in its clouds.