“And will you insist on seeing Girasole also?” asked Mrs. Willoughby.

“I don’t know.  I’m awfully sorry for him,” said Minnie.

“Well, then, Captain Kirby will be here next.  Of course you will see him?”

“I suppose so,” said Minnie, resignedly.

“And how long do you think this sort of thing can go on?  They’ll meet, and blood will be shed.”

“Oh dear!  I’m afraid so.”

“Then I’m not going to allow it.  I’ve telegraphed to papa.  He’ll see whether you are going to have your own way or not.”

“I’m sure I don’t see what dear papa can do.”

“He won’t let you see those horrid men.”

“He won’t be cruel enough to lock me up in the house.  I do wish he would come and take me away.  I don’t want them.  They’re all horrid.”

[Illustration:  “MIN, IT’S ME!”]

“This last one—­this Gunn—­is the most terrible man I ever saw.”

“Oh, Kitty dearest!  How can you say so?  Why, his rudeness and violence are perfectly irresistible.  He’s charming.  He bullies one so deliciously.”

Mrs. Willoughby at this turned away in despair.

Minnie’s very peculiar situation was certainly one which required a speedy change.  The forced entrance of the Baron had thrown consternation into the family.  Ethel herself had been roused, and took a part in the debate.  She began to see Minnie in a new light, and Hawbury’s attention to her began to assume the appearance of a very mournful joke.  To her mind Minnie was now the subject of desperate attention from five men.

Thus: 

1.  Lord Hawbury.

2.  Count Girasole.

3.  Scone Dacres.

4.  Baron Atramonte.

5.  Captain Kirby, of whom Mrs. Willoughby had just told her.

And of these, four had saved her life, and consequently had the strongest possible claims on her.

And the only satisfaction which Ethel could gain out of this was the thought that Hawbury, at least, had not saved Minnie’s life.

And now to proceed.

The Baron called, as has been said, on the following day.  This time he did not bring the Reverend Saul with him.  He wished to see Minnie alone, and felt the presence of third persons to be rather unpleasant.

On reaching the place he was told, as before, that the ladies were not at home.

Now the Baron remembered that on the preceding day the servant had said the same, while all the time the ladies were home.  He was charitably inclined to suppose that it was a mistake, and not a deliberate lie; and, as he was in a frame of good-will to mankind, he adopted this first theory.

“All right, young man,” said he; “but as you lied yesterday—­under a mistake—­I prefer seeing for myself to-day.”

So the Baron brushed by the servant, and went in.  He entered the room.  No one was there.  He waited a little while, and thought.  He was too impatient to wait long.  He could not trust these lying servants.  So he determined to try for himself.  Her room was up stairs, somewhere in the story above.