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 to serve him and you—if it can be called serving you,” he added with a thoughtful gravity that puzzled the girl.

She shook hands with a warmth that bespoke the death of old prejudices, and General Sadgrove, who had hardly exchanged two words with his visitor, accompanied him to the halldoor.

“Are you walking, Duke? Or shall I whistle a cab?” he asked.

Beaumanoir looked up the street and down the street, and gave a queer little shrug.

“It won’t make any difference whether I walk or drive,” he said. “Good-bye, General.”

Having gazed the limping figure out of sight, the General went back into the house and made for his private den—a cozy apartment crammed with Eastern spoils. There he leisurely selected a cigar and seated himself in a big saddle-bag chair.

“There is something brewing,” he growled gently. “I perceive a vibration in the moral atmosphere which quite recalls old days. I wonder what it means?”