He drifted through the walls and corridors with it and at last left it lying outside the present Duke’s bedroom door. He then decided to float invisibly about the grounds for some air. It was when he was drifting through the great hall just below the level of the ceiling that he looked down and saw a familiar face. Lord Harold Webb—and with him was his weedy friend Mr. Harry Russell. He gently descended to hear what they were saying.

It appeared that the friends were meeting again for the first time since the end of Webb’s engagement to Alice and appeared quite overjoyed to see one another.

“I heard all about the Snapper-business,” Mr. Russell was saying. “Are you leg-shackled yet?”

“Not I,” said Webb cheerfully. “The Snapper’s gone where she can’t cause any trouble.”

“Where?” said Mr. Russell avidly.

“Madhouse,” replied Webb laconically.

“How did you manage that?”

“I didn’t. Father did, God bless ’im. Soon as he had calmed down, he saw the folly of it. Always been fond of me has the old man. Told him that yaller-haired uncle of Alice’s had rigged it. So Pa gets boiling mad and says that Snapper must have gone along with the plot. So a little money here and a hand greased there, and the Snapper was carted off where she couldn’t do any harm. Fortunately Pa don’t ask me how Uncle Gervase could have managed it because I’m blessed if I know. But I tell you this, Harry, no one fools a Webb and gets away with it. Some way, someday, I’ll fix that Frenchie pair.”

The Duke saw the silent cadaverous figure of Bessant standing a little way away, listening intently to every word, and decided to put an end to the conversation. He slapped Webb hard across his handsome, pompous face.

“Gad’s ’oonds!” gasped his lordship, falling back a pace. “How dare you, Harry!” And with that, he planted a flush hit right on the end of his friend’s pointed nose. Mr. Russell retaliated by kicking Lord Webb in the shins. Webb seized a handful of Mr. Russell’s hair and pulled hard. Mr. Russell scratched Webb’s face.

The Duke drifted off happily into the grounds, leaving them to it.

In a rose arbor, the Duchess of Haversham was walking sedately on the arm of the Bishop of Devizes. With her free hand she was gesticulating to emphasize each boring point of her monologue.