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“Oh, I see. Seems to me we’re going to have a lively lunch. Am I to carry the old lady?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, by Jove! How’s my biceps? Just feel, will you?”

Deane felt and gravely pronounced the muscle to be equal to its task. Laing was much gratified, and awaited the unknown future with philosophic patience.

Sir Roger had predicted “a jolly lunch,” but, in its early stages, the entertainment hardly earned this description. Something was wrong somewhere; Dora started by refusing, very pointedly, to sit near Charlie Ellerton; and yet, when she found herself between Ashforth and Laing, she was absent, silent, and melancholy. Charlie, on the other hand, painfully practised a labored attentiveness to Mary Travers which contrasted ill with his usual spontaneous and gay courtesy. Miss Bussey wore an air of puzzled gravity, and Laing kept looking at her with a calculating eye. He seemed to be seeking the best grip. Lady Deane and the General, engrossed in a tete-a-tete discussion, did little to promote the hilarity of the table, and it was left to Deane to maintain the flow of conversation as he best could. Apparently he found the task a heavy one, for, before long, he took a newspaper out of his pocket, and, a propos to one of his own remarks, began to read a highly decorated account of the fearful injuries under which the last victim of the last diabolical explosion had been in danger of succumbing. Sir Roger read his gruesome narrative with much emphasis, and as he laid down the paper he observed:

“Well, I hope I’m not more of a coward than most men, but in face of dynamite–ugh!” and he shuddered realistically.

“I should make for the door,” said Laing.

“Yes, but in this case the bomb was at the door!”

“Then,” said Laing, “I should exit by the window.”

“But this poor man.” remarked Mary Travers, “stayed to rescue the woman he loved,” and her eyes rested for an instant in confident affection on Charlie Ellerton.

“We should all do as much, I trust,” said John, glancing at Dora Bellairs.

“I’m sure I hope you won’t have to,” said Dora, rather ungraciously.

“Think what a convincing test of affection it would be,” suggested Deane persuasively. “After that you could never doubt that the man loved you.”

“My good Sir Roger,” observed Miss Bussey, “it would be common humanity.”

“Suppose there were two girls,” said Laing, “and you couldn’t take ’em both!”

Deane hastily interposed.

“Haven’t we had enough of this dreary subject?” he asked, and he frowned slightly at Laing.

“Isn’t it about time for coffee?” the General suggested.

Deane looked at his watch.

“What does the time matter, Deane, if we’re ready?”

“Not a bit. 2.20. That’s all right,” and he rang the bell.

Painter came in with the coffee: the little man looked rather pale and nervous, but succeeded in serving the company without upsetting the cups. He came to Deane last.

“Is everything ready?” whispered that gentleman, and receiving a trembling “Yes, sir,” he added, “in ten minutes.”

“This,” he observed out loud, “has been a pleasant gathering–a pleasant end to our outing.”

“What? You’re going?” asked Miss Bussey.

“Yes: my wife and I cross to England to-morrow.”

“I shall go the next day,” announced the General, “if Dora is ready.”

John threw a glance toward Dora, but she was busy drinking her coffee.

“Well,” said Deane, “I hope we may soon meet again, under equally delightful circumstances, in London. At any rate,” he added with a laugh, “there we shall be safe from—-“

Crash! A loud noise came from the door, as if of some metallic substance thrown against the panels.

“Hullo!” said Laing.

“Oh, somebody tumbled downstairs,” said Deane reassuringly. “Don’t move, Miss Bussey.”

“Oh, but Sir Roger, what is it? What do you think? It didn’t sound at all like what you say.”

The General laughed.

“Come, Miss Bussey, I don’t suppose it’s—-“

As he spoke the form of Painter appeared at the open window. He was breathless, and shrieked hastily:

“Dynamite, dynamite! Save yourselves! It’ll be off in a minute.”