For a moment Sir Roderick was at a loss.  He was tired of shooting; he hated yachting; the ordinary country-house visit was nothing but shooting in the daytime and unmitigated boredom in the evening.  Really he didn’t know what to do with himself.  This alarming state of mind might have issued in some incongruous activity of a useful sort, had not he been rescued from it by the sudden discovery that he had a mission.  This revelation dawned upon him in consequence of a note he received from Lord Rickmansworth.  It appeared that that nobleman had very soon got tired of his moor, had resigned it into the eager hands of Bob Territon, and was now at Baden-Baden.  This was certainly odd, and the writer evidently knew it would appear so; he therefore appended an explanation which was entirely satisfactory to Sir Roderick, but which is, happily, irrelevant to the purposes of this story.  What is more to the purpose, it further appeared that Mrs. Welman, Kate Bernard’s aunt, had discarded Buxton in favor of the same resort, and that Mr. Haddington, M. P., had also “proceeded” thither.

“They are at the Victoria,” wrote Rickmansworth; “I am at the Badischerhof, and—­[irrelevant matter].  I go about a good deal with them, but it’s beastly slow.  Haddington is all day in Kate’s pocket, and Kate at best isn’t amusing.  But what’s Lane up to?  Do come out here, old fellow.  I’ll find you some amusement.  Who do you think is here with—­[more irrelevant matter].”

Sir Roderick was influenced in part, no doubt, by the irrelevant matter.  But he also felt that what concerns us concerned him.  He had come to a very definite conclusion that Kate Bernard ought not to marry Eugene Lane.  He was also sure that unless something was done the marriage would take place.  Kate did not care for Eugene, but the match was too good to be given up.  Eugene would never face the turmoil necessary to break it off.

“I am the man,” said Sir Roderick to himself.  “I couldn’t catch the parson, but if I can’t catch Miss Kate, call me an ass!”

And he took train to Baden, sending off a wire to Morewood to join him if he could, for a considerable friendship existed between them.  Morewood, however, wouldn’t come, and Ayre was forced to make the journey in solitude.

“I thought I should bring him!” exclaimed Lord Rickmansworth triumphantly, as he received his friend on the platform, and conducted him to a very perfect drag which stood at the door.  “Oh, you old thief!”

Rickmansworth was a tall, broad, reddish-faced young man, with a jovial laugh, infinite capacity for being amused at things not intrinsically humorous, and manners that he had tried, fortunately with imperfect success, to model on those of a prize-fighter.  Ayre liked him for what he was, while shuddering at what he tried to be.

“I didn’t come on that account at all,” he said, “I came to look after some business.”

“Get out!” said the Earl pleasantly; “do you think I don’t know you?”