A Damsel in Distress

George's heart raced. Your lover is ever optimistic, and he could

conceive of no errand that could have brought this man to his

cottage unless he was charged with the delivery of a note from

Maud. He spared a moment from his happiness to congratulate himself

on having picked such an admirable go-between. Here evidently, was

one of those trusty old retainers you read about, faithful,

willing, discreet, ready to do anything for "the little missy"

(bless her heart!). Probably he had danced Maud on his knee in her

infancy, and with a dog-like affection had watched her at her

childish sports. George beamed at the honest fellow, and felt in

his pocket to make sure that a suitable tip lay safely therein.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," replied the man.

A purist might have said he spoke gruffly and without geniality.

But that is the beauty of these old retainers. They make a point of

deliberately trying to deceive strangers as to the goldenness of

their hearts by adopting a forbidding manner. And "Good morning!"

Not "Good morning, sir!" Sturdy independence, you observe, as befits

a free man. George closed the door carefully. He glanced into the

kitchen. Mrs. Platt was not there. All was well.

"You have brought a note from Lady Maud?"

The honest fellow's rather dour expression seemed to grow a shade

bleaker.

"If you are alluding to Lady Maud Marsh, my daughter," he replied

frostily, "I have not!"

For the past few days George had been no stranger to shocks, and

had indeed come almost to regard them as part of the normal

everyday life; but this latest one had a stumbling effect.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

"So you ought to," replied the earl.

George swallowed once or twice to relieve a curious dryness of the

mouth.

"Are you Lord Marshmoreton?"

"I am."

"Good Lord!"

"You seem surprised."

"It's nothing!" muttered George. "At least, you--I mean to say . . .

It's only that there's a curious resemblance between you and one

of your gardeners at the castle. I--I daresay you have noticed it

yourself."

"My hobby is gardening."

Light broke upon George. "Then was it really you--?"

"It was!"

George sat down. "This opens up a new line of thought!" he said.

Lord Marshmoreton remained standing. He shook his head sternly.

"It won't do, Mr. . . . I have never heard your name."

"Bevan," replied George, rather relieved at being able to remember

it in the midst of his mental turmoil.

"It won't do, Mr. Bevan. It must stop. I allude to this absurd

entanglement between yourself and my daughter. It must stop at

once."