LITMIR.BIZ

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      "Somebody has been talking about me," he said severely.

      III

      "63 has to call, 51 is out of town, and 35 has measles in the house," reported the Duke one morning at breakfast.

      Hank helped himself to a fried egg with the flat of his knife.

      "What about next door!" he asked.

      "Next door won't call," said the Duke sadly. "Next door used to live in Portland Place, where dukes are so thick that you have to fix wire netting to prevent them coming in at the window—no, mark off 66 as a non-starter."

      Hank ate his egg in silence.

      "She's very pretty," he said at length.

      "66?"

      Hank nodded.

      "I saw her yesterday, straight and slim, with a complexion like snow——"

      "Cut it out!" said the Duke brutally.

      "And eyes as blue as a winter sky in Texas."

      "Haw!" murmured his disgusted grace.

      "And a walk——" apostrophized the other dreamily.

      The Duke raised his hands.

      "I surrender, colonel," he pleaded; "you've been patronizing the free library. I recognize the bit about the sky over little old Texas."

      "What happened——?" Hank jerked his head in the direction of No. 66.

      The Duke was serious when he replied.

      "Africans, Siberians, Old Nevada Silver and all the rotten stock that a decent, easy-going white man could be lured into buying," he said quietly; "that was the father. When the smash came he obligingly died."

      Hank pursed his lips thoughtfully.

      "It's fairly tragic," he said, "poor girl."

      The Duke was deep in thought again.

      "I must meet her," he said briskly.

      Hank looked at the ceiling.

      "In a way," he said slowly, "fate has brought you together, and before the day is over, I've no doubt you will have much to discuss in common."

      The Duke looked at him with suspicion.

      "Have you been taking a few private lessons from young Sherlock Nape?" he asked.

      Hank shook his head.

      "There was a certain tabby cat that patronized our back garden," he said mysteriously.

      "True, O seer!"

      "She ate our flowers."

      "She did," said the Duke complacently. "I caught her at it this very morning."

      "And plugged her with an air-gun?"

      "Your air-gun," expostulated the Duke hastily.

      "Your plug," said Hank calmly, "well, that cat——"

      "Don't tell me," said the Duke, rising in his agitation—"don't tell me that this poor unoffending feline, which your gun——"

      "Your shot," murmured Hank.

      "Which your wretched air-gun so ruthlessly destroyed," continued the Duke sternly, "don't tell me it is the faithful dumb friend of 66?"

      "It was," corrected Hank.

      "The devil it was!" said his grace, subsiding into gloom.

      IV

      The situation was a tragic one. Alicia Terrill trembling with indignation, a faint flush on her pretty face, and her forehead wrinkled in an angry frown, kept her voice steady with an effort, and looked down from the step ladder on which she stood, at the urbane young man on the other side of the wall.

      He stood with his hands respectfully clasped behind his back, balancing himself on the edge of his tiny lawn, and regarded her without emotion. The grim evidence of the tragedy was hidden from his view, but he accepted her estimate of his action with disconcerting calmness.

      Hank, discreetly hidden in the conservatory, was an interested eavesdropper.

      The girl had time to notice that the Duke had a pleasant face, burnt and tanned by sun and wind, that he was clean-shaven, with a square, determined jaw and clear grey eyes that were steadfastly fixed on hers. In a way he was good looking, though she was too angry to observe the fact, and the loose flannel suit he wore did not hide the athletic construction of the man beneath.

      "It is monstrous of you!" she said hotly, "you, a stranger here——"

      "I know your cat," he said calmly.

      "And very likely it wasn't poor Tibs at all that ate your wretched flowers."

      "Then poor Tibs isn't hurt," said the Duke with a sigh of relief, "for the cat I shot at was making a hearty meal of my young chrysanthemums and——"

      "How dare you say that!" she demanded wrathfully, "when the poor thing is flying round the house with a—with a wounded tail?"

      The young man grinned.

      "If I've only shot a bit off her tail," he said cheerfully, "I am relieved. I thought she was down and out."

      She was too indignant to make any reply.

      "After all," mused the Duke with admirable philosophy, "a tail isn't one thing or another with a cat—now a horse or a cow needs a tail to keep the flies away, a dog needs a tail to wag when he's happy, but a cat's tail——"

      She stopped him with a majestic gesture. She was still atop of the ladder, and was too pretty to be ridiculous.

      "It is useless arguing with you," she said coldly; "my mother will take steps to secure us freedom from a repetition of this annoyance."

      "Send me a lawyer's letter," he suggested, "that is the thing one does in the suburbs, isn't it?"

      He did not see her when she answered, for she had made a dignified descent from her shaky perch.

      "Our acquaintance with suburban etiquette," said her voice coldly, "is probably more limited than your own."

      "Indeed?" with polite incredulity.

      "Even in Brockley," said the angry voice, "one expects to meet people——"

      She broke off abruptly.

      "Yes," he suggested with an air of interest. "People——?"

      He waited a little for her reply. He heard a smothered exclamation of annoyance and beckoned Hank. That splendid lieutenant produce a step ladder and steadied it as the Duke made a rapid ascent.

      "You were saying?" he said politely.

      She was holding the hem of her dress and examining ruefully the havoc wrought on a flounce by a projecting nail.

      "You were about to say——?"

      She looked up at him with an angry frown.

      "Even in Brockley it is considered an outrageous piece of bad manners to thrust oneself upon people who do not wish to know one!"

      "Keep to the subject, please," he said severely; "we were discussing the cat."

      She favoured him with the faintest shrug.

      "I'm afraid I cannot discuss any matter with you," she said coldly, "you have taken a most unwarrantable liberty." She turned to walk into the house.

      "You forget," he said gently, "I am a duke. I have certain feudal privileges, conferred by a grateful dynasty, one of which, I believe, is to shoot cats."

      "I can only regret," she fired back at him, from the door of the little conservatory that led into

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