“I recollect, in the hot weather of the year ’99—–­or was it ’93?—­I think ’93—–­one of my native bearers—­However, I sprang forward and caught the crook of my walking stick on Mr. Baxter’s ankle and brought him down.  And by the time explanations were made it was too late.  The train had gone, with Miss Peters in it.”

“And a telegram has just arrived,” said Lord Emsworth, “to say that they are being married this afternoon at a registrar’s.  The whole occurrence is most disturbing.”

“Bear it like a man, my boy!” urged Colonel Mant.

To all appearances Freddie was bearing it magnificently.  Not a single exclamation, either of wrath or pain, had escaped his lips.  One would have said the shock had stunned him or that he had not heard, for his face expressed no emotion whatever.

The fact was, the story had made very little impression on the Honorable Freddie of any sort.  His relief at Ashe’s news about Joan Valentine; the stunning joy of having met in the flesh the author of the adventures of Gridley Quayle; the general feeling that all was now right with the world—­these things deprived him of the ability to be greatly distressed.

And there was a distinct feeling of relief—­actual relief—­that now it would not be necessary for him to get married.  He had liked Aline; but whenever he really thought of it the prospect of getting married rather appalled him.  A chappie looked such an ass getting married!  It appeared, however, that some verbal comment on the state of affairs was required of him.  He searched his mind for something adequate.

“You mean to say Aline has bolted with Emerson?”

The deputation nodded pained nods.  Freddie searched in his mind again.  The deputation held its breath.

“Well, I’m blowed!” said Freddie.  “Fancy that!”

* * *

Mr. Peters walked heavily into his room.  Ashe Marson was waiting for him there.  He eyed Ashe dully.

“Pack!” he said.

“Pack?”

“Pack!  We’re getting out of here by the afternoon train.”

“Has anything happened?”

“My daughter has eloped with Emerson.”

“What!”

“Don’t stand there saying, ‘What!’ Pack.”

Ashe put his hand in his pocket.

“Where shall I put this?” he asked.

For a moment Mr. Peters looked without comprehension at what Ashe was holding out; then his whole demeanor altered.  His eyes lit up.  He uttered a howl of pure rapture: 

“You got it!”

“I got it.”

“Where was it?  Who took it?  How did you choke it out of them?  How did you find it?  Who had it?”

“I don’t know whether I ought to say.  I don’t want to start anything.  You won’t tell anyone?”

“Tell anyone!  What do you take me for?  Do you think I am going about advertising this?  If I can sneak out without that fellow Baxter jumping on my back I shall be satisfied.  You can take it from me that there won’t be any sensational exposures if I can help it.  Who had it?”