He nodded, and chuckled in his infernally oily manner. "It was just possible, seeing that Lord Cannington and Lady Mabel, to say nothing of Lady Denham, were our mutual friends, that we might meet, so I made ready. I certainly did not expect to meet you quite so soon, however. Tell me," he glanced sideways at me curiously, "why did you not address me by my real name?" "I remembered that you were Gertrude's father." "How lucky--for me," said Mr. Monk sarcastically. "Julia Destiny hinted that you were in love with my daughter." "She didn't hint enough. I am _engaged_ to your daughter." "Without my consent." "I ask it now." "Then you shall not have it." I laughed. "Your consent matters very little, Mr. Monk." "Marr, I tell you, Marr. And Gertrude will never marry you without my permission. You may be sure of that." "I am not at all sure of it. She loves you better than you deserve, but when she finds that you are keeping her in poverty at Burwain, while you live in splendor in London, and under another name, which looks fishy, will she continue to regard you as the perfect father?" Mr. Monk moved uneasily in his seat. "Here we are," he said, when the car stopped in a somewhat dark street; "in my rooms I can explain. And in any case I am obliged to you for carrying off the situation so well. Not that I was unprepared, had you driven me into a corner. But as a gentleman, I do not like stage melodrama in private life." "Yet you make ready for every opportunity to exercise it," I retorted, as the footman opened the door. "Your explanation----" "Will take place in private," he said sharply, and we alighted. The motor departed hastily--to the nearest garage, I suppose--and Mr. Monk ushered me up a flight of well-lighted stairs. "These are my quarters," he said complacently, and I was shown into a really splendid hall, perfectly decorated. It is useless to describe the rooms in detail, but Mr. Monk had done himself full justice in the way of art and comfort. We went into a Moorish smoking-room, which reminded me of Cairo, and I accepted coffee and cigarettes. Perhaps Mr. Monk had some hazy idea connected with the Eastern decorations that, having partaken of his bread and salt, I would not betray him, for he pressed tobacco and Mocha on me very assiduously. I took all he offered, but reserved my private right of judgment. To save Lady Mabel from this fraudulent adventurer by denouncing him was not a betrayal in my eyes. The sole thing that had prevented me stripping him of his fine feathers hitherto had been the undoubted fact that he was Gertrude's father. And so I had told him in the motor. "You see that I am comfortable here," said Mr. Monk, who was smoking a very fine cigar, "but I beg leave to contradict you when you say that I do not give my daughter sufficient money. Gertrude has whatever she asks for, and, being fond of the simple life, is quite content."