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ATER in the evening, Mr. Thomas Trotter—(so far as he knew he was still in the service of Mrs. Millidew, operating under chauffeur's license No. So-and-So, Thomas Trotter, alien)—strode briskly into a Western Union office and sent off the following cablegram, directed to Lord Fenlew, Fenlew Hall, Old-marsh, Blightwind Banks, Surrey:

"God bless you. Returning earliest possible date. Will wire soon as wedding day is set. Eric."

It was a plain, matter-of-fact Britannical way of covering the situation. He felt there was nothing more that could be said at the moment, and his interest being centred upon two absorbing subjects he touched firmly upon both of them and let it go at that.

Quite as direct and characteristic was the reply that came early the next day.

"Do nothing rash. Who and what is she? Fenlew."

This was the beginning of a sharp, incisive conversation between two English noblemen separated by three thousand miles of water.

"Loveliest girl in the world. You will be daffy over her. Take my word for it. Eric."

(While we are about it, it is just as well to set forth the brisk dialogue now and get over with it. Some