He embraced all of it that was visible in a happy, sweeping glance. Then with the swiftness of lightning the smile on his face changed into consternation. For a moment he stood stock still, staring at the sudden figure of a man. It was Stone, the mad orator of Hyde Park. There was no possibility of mistaking him at a distance of fifteen or twenty yards. He wore the same rusty black frock-coat and trousers, the same dirty collar and narrow black tie, the same shapeless clerical hat. His long neck above the collar looked raw and scabious like a vulture's. In his hand he carried a folded newspaper. He had suddenly emerged upon the end of the terrace from the front entrance, and was descending the steps that led down to the tennis lawn. If he walked straight on, he would come to the group surrounding the princess and the Duchess of Wiltshire. Two or three people were already eyeing him curiously. Morland's strange dread of the man flashed upon Jimmie. He hurried forward to meet him. Of what he was about to do he had no definite idea. Perhaps he could head Stone off, take him away from the grounds on the pretext of listening to his grievances. At any rate, a scandal must be avoided. As he drew near, he observed Morland, who had been bending down in conversation with the duchess, rise and unexpectedly recognise Stone. A manservant bearing a small tray with some teacups ran up to the extraordinary intruder, who waved him away impatiently. The servant put down his tray and caught him by the arm. “You have no business here.” Stone shook himself free. “I have. Where is Mr. Rendell? Tell him I have to speak with him.” “There is no such person here,” said the servant. “Be off!” Jimmie reached the spot, as a few of the nearer guests were beginning to take a surprised interest in the altercation. Morland came forward from behind the duchess's chair and cast a swift glance at Jimmie. “If you don't go, I shall make you,” said the servant, preparing to execute his threat. The man looked dangerous. “I must see Mr. David Rendell,” he cried, beginning to struggle. Jimmie drew the servant away. “I know this gentleman,” he said quietly. “Mr. Stone, Mr. Rendell is not here, but if you will come with me, I will listen to you, and tell him anything you have to say.” Mr. Hardacre, who had seen the scuffle from a distance, came up in a fluster. “What's all this? What's all this? Who is this creature? Please go away.” He began to hustle the man. “Stop! He's an acquaintance of Padgate's,” said Morland, huskily. There was a short pause. Stone stared around at the well-dressed men and women, at the seated figures of the princess and the duchess, at the servant who had picked up the tray, at the band who were still playing the “Wedding March” from “Lohengrin,” at the red-faced, little, blustering man, at the beautiful cool setting of green, and the look in his eyes was that of one who saw none of these things. Morland edged to Jimmie's side.