hamilton beamish strolled out into the hall. something attempted, something done, had earned a cigarette. he was just lighting one, when there was a grinding of wheels on the gravel, and through the open door he saw madame eulalie alighting from a red two-seater car. he skipped joyously to meet her.

"so you managed to come after all!"

madame eulalie shook his hand with that brisk amiability which was one of her main charms.

"yes. but i've got to turn right round and go back again. i've three appointments this afternoon. i suppose you're staying on for the wedding?"

"i had intended to. i promised george i would be his best man."

"that's a pity. i could have driven you back."

"oh, i can easily cancel the thing," said hamilton beamish quickly. "in fact, i will, directly george returns. he can get dozens of best men—dozens."

"returns? where has he gone?"

"to the station."

"what a nuisance. i came especially to see him. still, it doesn't matter. i had better see miss waddington for a moment, i suppose."

"she is out."

madame eulalie raised her eyebrows.

"doesn't anybody stay in the house in these parts when there's going to be a wedding?"

"there has been a slight accident," explained hamilton beamish. "the clergyman sprained his ankle, and mrs. waddington and molly had gone to flushing to pick up an understudy. and george has gone to the station...."

"yes, why has george gone to the station?"

hamilton beamish hesitated. then, revolted by the thought that he should be hiding anything from this girl, he spoke.

"can you keep a secret?"

"i don't know. i've never tried."

"well, this is something quite between ourselves. poor george is in trouble."

"any worse trouble than most bridegrooms?"

"i wish you would not speak like that," said hamilton beamish, pained. "you seem to mock at love."

"oh, i've nothing against love."

"thank you, thank you!"

"don't mention it."

"love is the only thing worth while in the world. in peace, love tunes the shepherd's reed, in war he mounts the warrior's steed...."

"yes, doesn't he. you were going to tell me what george is in trouble about."

hamilton beamish lowered his voice.

"well, the fact is, on the eve of his wedding an old acquaintance of his has suddenly appeared."

"female?"

"female."

"i begin to see."

"george wrote her letters. she still has them."

"worse and worse."

"and if she makes trouble it will stop the wedding. mrs. waddington is only waiting for an excuse to forbid it. already, she has stated in so many words that she is suspicious of george's morals."

"how absurd! george is like the driven snow."

"exactly. a thoroughly fine-minded man. why, i remember him once leaving the table at a bachelor dinner because some one told an improper story."

"how splendid of him! what was the story?"

"i don't remember. still, mrs. waddington has this opinion of him, so there it is."

"all this sounds very interesting. what are you going to do about it?"

"well, george has gone to the station to try to intercept this miss stubbs and reason with her."

"miss stubbs?"

"that is her name. by the way, she comes from your home town, east gilead. perhaps you know her?"

"i seem to recollect the name. so george has gone to reason with her?"

"yes. but, of course, she will insist on coming here."

"that's bad."

hamilton beamish smiled.

"not quite so bad as you think," he said. "you see, i have been giving the matter some little thought, and i may say i have the situation well in hand. i have arranged everything."

"you have?"

"everything."

"you must be terribly clever."

"oh, well!" said hamilton beamish modestly.

"but, of course, i knew you were, the moment i read your booklets. have you a cigarette?"

"i beg your pardon."

madame eulalie selected a cigarette from his case and lit it. hamilton beamish, taking the match from her fingers, blew it out and placed it reverently in his left top waistcoat-pocket.

"go on," said madame eulalie.

"ah, yes," said hamilton beamish, coming out of his thoughts. "we were speaking about george. it appears that george, before he left east gilead, had what he calls an understanding, but which seems to me to have differed in no respect from a definite engagement, with a girl named may stubbs. unpleasant name!"

"horrible. just the sort of name i would want to change."

"he then came into money, left for new york, and forgot all about her."

"but she didn't forget all about him?"

"apparently not. i picture her as a poor, dowdy little thing—you know what these village girls are—without any likelihood of getting another husband. so she has clung to her one chance. i suppose she thinks that by coming here at this time she will force george to marry her."

"but you are going to be too clever to let anything like that happen?"

"precisely."

"aren't you wonderful!"

"it is extremely kind of you to say so," said hamilton beamish, pulling down his waistcoat.

"what have you arranged?"

"well, the whole difficulty is that at present george is in the position of having broken the engagement. so, when this may stubbs arrives, i am going to get her to throw him over of her own free-will."

"and how do you propose to do that?"

"quite simply. you see, we may take it for granted that she is a prude. i have, therefore, constructed a little drama, by means of which george will appear an abandoned libertine."

"george!"

"she will be shocked and revolted and will at once break off all relations with him."

"i see. did you think all this out by yourself?"

"entirely by myself."

"you're too clever for one man. you ought to incorporate."

it seemed to hamilton beamish that the moment had arrived to speak out frankly and without subterfuge, to reveal in the neatest phrases at his disposal the love which had been swelling in his heart like some yeasty ferment ever since he had first taken a speck of dust out of this girl's eye on the door-step of number sixteen, east seventy-ninth street. and he was about to begin doing so, when she looked past him and uttered a pleased laugh.

"why, georgie finch!"

hamilton beamish turned, justly exasperated. every time he endeavoured to speak his love, it seemed that something had to happen to prevent him. yesterday it had been the loathsome charley on the telephone, and now it was george finch. george was standing in the doorway, flushed as if he had been walking quickly. he was staring at the girl in a manner which hamilton beamish resented. to express his resentment he coughed sharply.

george paid no attention. he continued to stare.

"and how is georgie? you have interrupted a most interesting story, george."

"may!" george finch placed a finger inside his collar, as if trying to loosen it. "may! i—i've just been down to the station to meet you."

"i came by car."

"may?" exclaimed hamilton beamish, a horrid light breaking upon him.

madame eulalie turned to him brightly.

"yes, i'm the dowdy little thing."

"but you're not a dowdy little thing," said hamilton beamish, finding thought difficult but concentrating on the one uncontrovertible fact.

"i was when george knew me."

"and your name is madame eulalie."

"my professional name. didn't we agree that anyone who had a name like may stubbs would want to change it as quickly as possible?"

"you are really may stubbs?"

"i am."

hamilton beamish bit his lip. he regarded his friend coldly.

"i congratulate you, george. you are engaged to two of the prettiest girls i have ever seen."

"how very charming of you, jimmy!" said madame eulalie.

george finch's face worked convulsively.

"but, may, honestly.... have a heart!... you don't really look on me as engaged to you?"

"why not?"

"but ... but ... i thought you had forgotten all about me."

"what, after all those beautiful letters you wrote!"

"boy and girl affair," babbled george.

"was it, indeed!"

"but, may!..."

hamilton beamish had been listening to these exchanges with a rapidly rising temperature. his heart was pounding feverishly in his bosom. there is no one who becomes so primitive, when gripped by love, as the man who all his life has dwelt in the cool empyrean of the intellect. for twenty years and more, hamilton beamish had supposed that he was above the crude passions of the ordinary man, and when love had got him it got him good. and now, standing there and listening to these two, he was conscious of a jealousy so keen that he could no longer keep silent. hamilton beamish, the thinker, had ceased to be: and there stood in his place hamilton beamish, the descendant of ancestors who had conducted their love affairs with stout clubs and who, on seeing a rival, wasted no time in calm reflection but jumped on him like a ton of bricks and did their best to bite his head off. if you had given him a bearskin and taken away his spectacles, hamilton beamish at this moment would have been prehistoric man.

"hey!" said hamilton beamish.

"but, may, you know you don't love me...."

"hey!" said hamilton beamish again in a nasty, snarling voice. and silence fell.

the cave-man adjusted his spectacles, and glared at his erstwhile friend with venomous dislike. his fingers twitched, as if searching for a club.

"listen to me, you," said hamilton beamish, "and get me right! see? that'll be about all from you about this girl loving you, unless you want me to step across and bust you on the beezer. i love her, see? and she's going to marry me, see? and nobody else, see? and anyone who says different had better notify his friends where he wants his body sent, see? love you, indeed? a swell chance! i'm the little guy she's going to marry, see? me!"

and, folding his arms, the thinker paused for a reply.

it did not come immediately. george finch, unused to primitive emotions from this particular quarter, remained completely dumb. it was left for madame eulalie to supply comment.

"jimmy!" she said faintly.

hamilton beamish caught her masterfully about the waist. he kissed her eleven times.

"so that's that!" said hamilton beamish.

"yes, jimmy."

"we'll get married to-morrow."

"yes, jimmy."

"you are my mate!"

"yes, jimmy."

"all right, then," said hamilton beamish.

george came to life like a clockwork toy.

"hamilton, i congratulate you!"

"thanks, thanks."

mr. beamish spoke a little dazedly. he blinked. already the ferment had begun to subside, and beamish the cave-man was fast giving place to beamish of the booklets. he was dimly conscious of having expressed himself a little too warmly and in language which in a calmer moment he would never have selected. then he caught the girl's eyes, fixed on him adoringly, and he had no regrets.

"thanks," he said again.

"may is a splendid girl," said george. "you will be very happy. i speak as one who knows her. how sympathetic you always were in the old days, may."

"was i?"

"you certainly were. don't you remember how i used to bring my troubles to you, and we would sit together on the sofa in front of your parlour fire?"

"we were always afraid some one was listening at the door."

"if they had been, the only thing they'd have found out would have been the lamp."

"hey!" said hamilton beamish abruptly.

"those were happy days," said madame eulalie.

"and do you remember how your little brother used to call me april showers?"

"he did, did he?" said mr. beamish, snorting a little. "why?"

"because i brought may flowers."

"that's quite enough," said hamilton beamish, not without reason. "i should like to remind you, finch, that this lady is engaged to me."

"oh, quite," said george.

"endeavour not to forget it," said hamilton beamish curtly. "and, later on, should you ever come to share a meal at our little home, be sparing of your reminiscences of the dear old days. you get—you take my meaning?"

"oh, quite."

"then we will be getting along. may has to return to new york immediately, and i am going with her. you must look elsewhere for a best man at your wedding. you are very lucky to be having a wedding at all. good-bye, george. come, darling."

the two-seater was moving down the drive, when hamilton beamish clapped a hand to his forehead.

"i had quite forgotten," he exclaimed.

"what have you forgotten, jimmy dear?"

"just something i wanted to say to george, sweetheart. wait here for me."

"george," said hamilton beamish, returning to the hall. "i have just remembered something. ring for ferris and tell him to stay in the room with the wedding-presents and not leave it for a moment. they aren't safe, lying loose like that. you should have had a detective."

"we intended to, but mr. waddington insisted on it so strongly that mrs. waddington said the idea was absurd. i'll go and tell ferris immediately."

"do so," said hamilton beamish.

he passed out on to the lawn: and reaching the rhododendron bushes, whistled softly.

"now what?" said fanny, pushing out an inquiring head.

"oh, there you are."

"yes, here i am. when does the show start?"

"it doesn't," said hamilton beamish. "events have occurred which render our little ruse unnecessary. so you can return to your home and husband as soon as you please."

"oh?" said fanny.

she plucked a rhododendron leaf and crushed it reflectively.

"i don't know as i'm in any hurry," she said. "i kind of like it out here. the air and the sun and the birds and everything. i guess i'll stick around for awhile."

hamilton beamish regarded her with a quiet smile.

"certainly, if you wish it," he said. "i should mention, however, that if you were contemplating another attempt at those jewels, you would do well to abandon the idea. from now on a large butler will be stationed in the room, watching over it, and there might be unpleasantness."

"oh?" said fanny meditatively.

"yes."

"you think of everything, don't you?"

"i thank you for the compliment," said hamilton beamish.