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“When is it to take place?” some one asked.

“Oh, very soon–very soon indeed; actual date not yet fixed. St. George’s, Hanover Square, of course; and afterwards at Lady Florence Cardwell’s charming mansion in Park Lane. It’ll be a thrilling performance altogether.” The Poor Relation beamed impartially upon his well-wishers. He seemed to be hugely enjoying himself.

“And whither will the happy pair betake themselves after the reception?” questioned Archie.

“That, my dear fellow, is not yet quite decided.”

“I expect you’ll go for a motor tour,” said Bray.

But Rivington at once shook his head.

“Nothing of that sort. Couldn’t afford it. No, we shall do something cheaper and more original than that. I’ve got an old caravan somewhere; that might do. Rather a bright idea, eh, Archie?”

“Depends on the bride,” said Archie, looking decidedly dubious.

“Eh? Think so? We shall have to talk it over.” The Poor Relation subsided into a chair, and stretched himself with a sigh. “There are such a lot of little things to be considered when you begin to get married,” he murmured, as he pulled out his pipe.

“Some one wanting you on the telephone, sir,” announced one of the club attendants at his elbow, a few minutes later.

“Eh? Who is it? Tell ’em I can’t be bothered. No, don’t. I’m coming.”

Laboriously he hoisted himself out of his chair, regretfully he knocked the glowing tobacco out of his pipe, heavy-footed he betook him to the telephone.

“Hullo!”

“Oh!” said a woman’s voice. “Is that you?”

“Yes. Who do you want?”

“Mr. Rivington–Cecil Mordaunt Rivington.” The syllables came with great distinctness. They seemed to have an anxious ring.

“Yes, I’m here,” said the owner of the name. “Who are you?”

“I’m Ernestine. Can you hear me?”

“First-rate! What can I do for you?”

There was a pause, then:

“I had your letter,” said the voice, “and I’m tremendously grateful to you. I was afraid you might be vexed.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Rivington genially. “Anything to oblige.”

“Thanks so much! It was great cheek, I know, but I’ve had such a horrid fright. I couldn’t think of any other way out, and you were the only possible person that occurred to me. You were very kind to me once, a long time ago. It’s awfully decent of you not to mind.”

“Please don’t!” said Rivington. “That sort of thing always upsets me. Look here, can’t we meet somewhere and talk things over? It would simplify matters enormously.”

“Yes, it would. That is what I want to arrange. Could you manage some time this afternoon? Please say you can!”

“Of course I can,” said Rivington promptly. “What place?”

“I don’t know. It must be somewhere right away where no one will know us.”

“How would the city do? That’s nice and private.”

A faint laugh came to his ear. “Yes; but where?”

Rivington briefly considered.

“St. Paul’s Cathedral, under the dome, three o’clock. Will that do?”

“Yes, I’ll be there. You won’t fail?”

“Not if I live,” said Rivington. “Anything else?”

“No; only a million thanks! I’ll explain everything when we meet.”

“All right. Good-bye!”

As he hung up the receiver, a heavy frown drove the kindliness out of his face.

“What have they been doing to the child?” he said. “It’s a pretty desperate step for a girl to take. At least it might be, it would be, if I were any one else.”

Suddenly the smile came back and drew afresh the kindly, humorous lines about his eyes.

“She seems to remember me rather well,” he murmured. “She certainly was a jolly little kid.”

III

THE LADY IN DISTRESS

The afternoon sunlight streamed golden through the cathedral as Cecil Rivington passed into its immense silence. He moved with quiet and leisurely tread; it was not his way to hurry. The great clock was just booming the hour.

There were not many people about. A few stray footsteps wandered through the stillness, a few vague whispers floated to and fro. But the peace of the place lay like a spell, a dream atmosphere in which every sound was hushed.