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 "Indeed, she isn't, Uncle. She's Mary Bride—John Ruffin's housekeeper," Ronald emphatically protested. "Let go my arm or I'll call a policeman," cried Pollyooly fiercely, mindful of the Honorable John Ruffin's instructions.

Already a large group was regarding with interest the dapper but purple gentleman squabbling with two elaborately dressed children in the middle of Piccadilly; and, keenly alive to the risk of seeing his domestic affairs once more in print, the duke picked Pollyooly up bodily and stepped into the car with her. Ronald sprang in after him, and the duke cried, "Home!"

During the four minutes that it took them to reach Ricksborough House the duke said nothing and Pollyooly said nothing. He scowled at Pollyooly, and pulled at his neat and harmless mustache; Pollyooly gave him scowl for scowl. Ronald, to whom the occurrence was an extremely agreeable ending to an agreeable afternoon, twice assured the incredulous duke that he was making a mistake.

When the car stopped, the duke hurried Pollyooly into the house, through the hall, calling to the