By pertinacious use of the telephone, Jean had discovered Hubert at ‘The Coffee House’ and learned his news. She passed Dinny and Adrian as they were coming in.

“Whither away?”

“Shan’t be long,” said Jean, and walked round the corner.

Her knowledge of London was small, and she hailed the first cab. Arriving in Eaton Square before a mansion of large and dreary appearance, she dismissed the cab and rang the bell.

“Lord Saxenden in Town?”

“Yes, my lady, but he’s not in.”

“When will he be in?”

“His lordship will be in to dinner, but —”

“Then I’ll wait.”

“Excuse me — my lady —”

“Not my lady,” said Jean, handing him a card; “but he’ll see me, all the same.”

The man struggled a moment, received a look straight between the eyes, and said:

“Will you come in here, my — Miss?”

Jean went. The little room was barren except for gilt-edged chairs of the Empire period, a chandelier, and two marble-topped console tables.

“Please give him my card the moment he comes in.”

The man seemed to rally.

“His Lordship will be pressed for time, Miss.”

“Not more than I am, don’t worry about that.” And on a gilt-edged chair she sat down. The man withdrew. With her eyes now on the darkening Square, now on a marble and gilt clock, she sat slim, trim, vigorous, interlacing the long fingers of browned hands from which she had removed her gloves. The man came in again and drew the curtains.

“You wouldn’t,” he said, “like to leave a message, Miss, or write a note?”

“Thank you, no.”

He stood a moment, looking at her as if debating whether she was armed.

“Miss Tasburgh?” he said.

“Tasborough,” answered Jean. “Lord Saxenden knows me,” and raised her eyes.

“Quite so, Miss,” said the man, hastily, and again withdrew.

The clock’s hands crept on to seven before she heard voices in the hall. A moment later the door was opened and Lord Saxenden came in with her card in his hand, and a face on which his past, present, and future seemed to agree.

“Pleasure!” he said: “A pleasure.”

Jean raised her eyes, and the thought went through her: ‘Purring stockfish.’ She extended her hand.

“It’s terribly nice of you to see me.”

“Not at all.”

“I wanted to tell you of my engagement to Hubert Cherrell — you remember his sister at the Monts’. Have you heard of this absurd request for his extradition? It’s too silly for words — the shooting was in pure self-defence — he’s got a most terrible scar he could show you at any time.”

Lord Saxenden murmured something inaudible. His eyes had become somewhat frosted.

“So you see, I wanted to ask you to put a stop to it. I know you have the power.”

“Power? Not a bit — none at all.”

Jean smiled.

“Of course you have the power. Everybody knows that. This means such a lot to me.”

“But you weren’t engaged, were you, the other night?”

“No.”

“Very sudden!”

“Aren’t all engagements sudden?” She could not perhaps realise the impact of her news on a man over fifty who had entered the room with at all events vague hopes of having made an impression on Youth; but she did realise that she was not all that he had thought her, and that he was not all that she had thought him. A wary and polite look had come over his face.

‘More hard-boiled than I imagined,’ was her reflection. And changing her tone, she said coldly: “After all, Captain Cherrell is a D.S.O. and one of you. Englishmen don’t let each other down, do they? Especially when they’ve been to the same school.”

This remarkably astute utterance, at that disillusioned moment, impressed him who had been ‘Snubby Bantham.’

“Oh!” he said: “Was he there, too?”

“Yes. And you know what a time he had on that expedition. Dinny read you some of his diary.”

The colour deepened in his face, and he said with sudden exasperation: “You young ladies seem to think I’ve nothing to do but meddle in things that don’t concern me. Extradition is a legal job.”

Jean looked up through her lashes, and the unhappy peer moved as if to duck his head.

“What can I do?” he said, gruffly. “They wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Try,” said Jean. “Some men are always listened to.”

Lord Saxenden’s eyes bulged slightly.

“You say he’s got a scar. Where?”

Jean pushed up the sleeve on her left arm.

“From here to here. He shot as the man came on again.”

“H’m!”

Looking intently at the arm, he repeated that profound remark, and there was silence, till Jean said suddenly: “Would YOU like to be extradited, Lord Saxenden?”

He made an impatient movement.

“But this is an official matter, young lady.”

Jean looked at him again.

“Is it really true that no influence is ever brought to bear on anybody about anything?”

He laughed.

“Come and lunch with me at the Piedmont Grill the day after tomorrow — no, the day after that, and I’ll let you know if I’ve been able to do anything.”

Jean knew well when to stop; never in parish meetings did she talk on. She held out her hand: “Thank you ever so. One-thirty?”

Lord Saxenden gave her an astonished nod. This young woman had a directness which appealed to one whose life was passed among public matters conspicuous for the lack of it.

“Good-bye!” she said.

“Good-bye,............