had not seen it before and removed it.  He watched it, curious to know if it were still alive.  He had a fancy at the back of his head—­that if the small body fluttered again he would go back to his rooms, fetch a revolver, and give the coup de grace.  And he smiled as he played with the fancy, foreseeing the rush of agitated officials that a revolver-shot in the gardens would instantly bring upon him.  It would be great fun, explaining; but the offence no doubt would be punishable.  By what?  Banishment, probably.

He turned for a moment at the sound of a footstep, and was aware of his man Louis.

“A telegram, sir.”

“Eh?  Now who in the world—­Matters hasn’t burnt down Meriton, I hope?”

He opened the telegram and walked with it to the nearest of the electric lamps; read it, and stood pondering.

“Louis, when does the new night-express leave for Paris?”

“In twenty-five minutes, sir.”

“Then I’ve a mind to catch it.  Put up a travelling-suit in my bag.  I can get out of these clothes in the train.  You had better pack the rest, pay the bill, and follow to-morrow.”

“If you wish it, sir.  But if I may suggest—­”

“Yes?”

“In twenty minutes I can do all that easily, and book the sleeping-berths too.  I suggest, sir, you will find it more comfortable, having me on the train.”

“Admirable man—­hurry up, then!”

The admirable man saluted respectfully and retired “hurt,” as they say in the cricket reports.  He never hurried; it was part of the secret by which he was always punctual.  At the station he even found time to suggest that his master might wish to send a telegram, and to dispatch it.

This was on Sunday.  They reached London late on Monday evening, and there—­Louis having telegraphed from Paris—­Sir Miles found his favourite room ready for him at Claridge’s.  Next morning, as his hansom drew up a few minutes after eleven o’clock by the entrance to Paddington Station, he observed that the porter who stepped forward from the rank to attend on him, did so with a preoccupied air.  The man was grinning, and kept glancing along the pavement to his right.

“Luggage on the cab just behind,” said Sir Miles, alighting.  “Never mind me; my man will take the tickets and get me a seat.  But what’s the excitement here?”

“Lady along there, sir—­offering to fight her cabby.  Says he can’t drive for nuts—­”

“Hullo!”

Sir Miles looked, recognised Miss Sally, and walked briskly towards her.  She caught sight of him and nodded.

“Thought you would come.  Excuse me a moment.”

She lifted her voice and addressed the cabby again—­

“Oh, you can talk.  They taught you that at the Board School, no doubt.  But drive you cannot; and talk you would not, if you knew the respect due to a mouth—­your own or your horse’s.”