‘Mum’s the word!’ said the lady.

‘Why, it’s—­hang it all, it’s Merton!’

‘Your sister is staying with you?’ asked Merton eagerly.

‘Yes; but what on earth—­’

’I’ll tell you in the brougham.  But you take a weight off my bosom!  I am going to stay with you for a day or two; and now my reputation (or Mrs. Lumley’s) is safe.  Your servants never saw Mrs. Lumley?’

‘Never,’ said Trevor.

’All right!  My portmanteau has her initials, S. M. L., and a crimson ticket; send a porter for it.  Now take me to the brougham.’

Trevor offered his arm and carried the dressing-bag; the lady was led to his carriage.  The portmanteau was recovered, and they drove away.

‘Give me a cigarette,’ said Merton, ‘and I’ll tell you all about it.’

He told Trevor all about it—­except about the emu’s feathers.

‘But a male disguise would have done as well,’ said Trevor

’Not a bit.  It would not have suited what I have to do in town.  I cannot tell you why.  The affair is complex.  I have to settle it, if I can, so that neither Logan nor any one else—­except the body-snatcher and polite letter-writer—­shall ever know how I managed it.’

Trevor had to be content with this reply.  He took Merton, when they arrived, into the smoking-room, rang for tea, and ‘squared his sister,’ as he said, in the drawing-room.  The pair were dining out, and after a solitary dinner, Merton (in a tea-gown) occupied himself with literary composition.  He put his work in a large envelope, sealed it, marked it with a St. Andrew’s cross, and, when Trevor returned, asked him to put it in his safe.  ’Two days after to-morrow, if I do not appear, you must open the envelope and read the contents,’ he said.

After luncheon on the following day—­a wet day—­Miss Trevor and Merton (who was still arrayed as Mrs. Lumley) went out shopping.  Miss Trevor then drove off to pay a visit (Merton could not let her know his next move), and he himself, his veil down, took a four-wheeled cab, and drove to Madame Claudine’s.  He made one or two purchases, and then asked for the head of the establishment, an Irish lady.  To her he confided that he had to break a piece of distressing family news to Miss Markham, of the cloak department; that young lady was summoned; Madame Claudine, with a face of sympathy, ushered them into her private room, and went off to see a customer.  Miss Markham was pale and trembling; Merton himself felt agitated.

‘Is it about my father, or—­’ the girl asked.

‘Pray be calm,’ said Merton.  ‘Sit down.  Both are well.’

The girl started.  ‘Your voice—­’ she said.

‘Exactly,’ said Merton; ‘you know me.’  And taking off his glove, he showed a curious mediaeval ring, familiar to his friends.  ’I could get at you in no other way than this,’ he said, ’and it was absolutely necessary to see you.’