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, on the terrace, Mr. Preserved Higgins asked Tomps, the butler, the way to the nearest telegraph station; jumped into his roadster, hatless, coatless, and was off to the village where he flustered Miss Prudence Hutchison, the local post mistress, telegraph operator, and proprietress of a general merchandise store including everything needed from red flannels to sticky North country treacle, by sending a lengthy wire in a mad jumble of code words to an address in Upper Thames Street and, not content with having spent for it the exorbitant sum of seven and sixpence ha’penny, despatching a cablegram to a Mr. Ezra W. Warburton, 59b Pine Street, New York City, U. S. A., which read:

Inside, the Earl of Dealle faced his two sons. Gone was his slangy, nonchalant manner, his slangy, nonchalant diction.

“You are ruined, Hector,” he repeated, in a