Despite all that had come to pass at the Grantham the previous evening, Larry was just now feeling restless and rather forlorn.  His breakfast had been brought to him in his room, and he had not seen a single member of last night’s party at the Grantham since they had all divided up according to Miss Sherwood’s orders and driven away; that is he had really seen no one except Dick.

Dick had gripped his hand when he had slipped in beside Dick in the low seat of the roadster.  “You’re all right, Captain Nemo!—­only I’m going to be so brash as to call you Larry after this,” Dick had said.  “If you’ll let me, you and I are going to be buddies.”

He was all right, Dick was.  Dick Sherwood was a thoroughbred.

And there was another matter which had pleased him.  The Duchess had called him up that morning, had congratulated him in terms so brief that they sounded perfunctory, but which Larry realized had all his grandmother’s heart in them, and had said she wanted him to take over the care of all her houses—­those she had put up as bail for him.  When could he come in to see her about this? . . .  He understood this dusty-seeming, stooped, inarticulate grandmother of his as he had not before.  Considering what her life had been, she also was a brick.

But notwithstanding all this, Larry was lonely—­hungrily lonely—­and was very much in doubt.  Miss Sherwood had spoken to him fair enough the night before—­yet he really did not know just how he stood with her.  And then—­Maggie.  That was what meant most to him just now.  True, Maggie had emerged safe through perils without and within; and to get her through to some such safety as now was hers had been his chief concern these many months.  He wanted to see her, to speak to her.  But he did not know what her attitude toward him would now be.  He did not know how to go about finding her.  He was not even certain where she had spent the night.  He wanted to see her, yet was apulse with fear of seeing her.  She would not be hostile, he knew that much; but she might not love him; and at the best a meeting would be awkward, with so wide a gap in their lives to be bridged. . . .

He was brooding thus when there was a loud knocking at his door.  Without waiting for his invitation to enter, the door was flung open, and Hunt strode in leaving the door wide behind him.  His face was just one great, excited grin.  He gave Larry a thump upon the back, which almost knocked Larry over, and then pulled him back to equilibrium by seizing a hand in both of his, and then almost shook it off.

“Larry, my son,” exploded the big painter, “I’ve just done it!  And I did it just as you ordered me to!  Forgot that Miss Sherwood and I had had a falling out, and as per your orders I walked straight up to her and asked her.  And Larry, you son-of-a-gun, you were right!  She said ’yes’!”

“You’re lucky, old man!” exclaimed Larry, warmly returning the painter’s grip.