"If you like to put it that way," said Peggy. "Are you quite certain you would be acting wisely? From Marmaduke's point of view----" "Don't call him Marmaduke"--she bent forward and touched his knee caressingly--"Marmaduke could never have risked his life for a woman. It was Doggie who did it. She thinks of him as Doggie. Every one thinks of him now and loves him as Doggie. It was Oliver's name for him, don't you see? And he has stuck it out and made it a sort of title of honour and affection--and it was as Doggie that Oliver learned to love him, and in his last letter to Oliver he signed himself 'Your devoted Doggie.'" "My dear," smiled the Dean, and quoted: "'What's in a name? A rose----'" "Would be unendurable if it were called a bug-squash. The poetry would be knocked out of it." The Dean said indulgently: "So the name Doggie connotes something poetic and romantic?" "You ask the girl Jeanne." The Dean tapped the back of his daughter's hand that rested on his knee. "There's no fool like an old fool, my dear. Do you know why?" She shook her head. "Because the old fool has learned to understand the young fool, whereas the young fool doesn't understand anybody." She laughed and threw herself on her knees by his side. "Daddy, you're immense!" He took the tribute complacently. "What was I saying before you interrupted me? Oh yes. About the wisdom of your proposed action. Are you sure they want each other?" "As sure as I'm sitting here," said Peggy. "Then, my dear," said he, "I'll do what I can." Whether he wrote to Field-Marshals and Ambassadors or to lesser luminaries, Peggy did not know. The Dean observed an old-world punctilio about such matters. At the first reply or two to his letters he frowned; at the second or two he smiled in the way any elderly gentleman may smile when he finds himself recognized by high-and-mightiness as a person of importance. "I think, my dear," said he at last, "I've arranged everything for you." * * * * * So it came to pass that while Doggie, with a shattered shoulder and a touched left lung, was being transported from a base hospital in France to a hospital in England, Peggy, armed with all kinds of passports and recommendations, and a very fixed, personal sanctified idea, was crossing the Channel on her way to Paris and Jeanne. * * * * * And, after all, it was no wild-goose chase, but a very simple matter. An urbane, elderly person at the British Embassy performed certain telephonic gymnastics. At the end: "_Merci, merci. Adieu!_" He turned to her. "A representative from the Prefecture of Police will wait on you at your hotel at ten o'clock to-morrow morning." The official called, took notes, and confidently assured her that he would obtain the address of Mademoiselle Jeanne Bossiere within twelve hours. "But how, monsieur, are you going to do it?" asked Peggy.