"Well," she said, "what's the latest news from Spain?"

"It seems to me that the war must be almost over," he replied. "Now that Santiago's fallen, and Cervera's fleet's destroyed, Spain has no alternative but to yield."

"Ah," she murmured, "then we'll be free once more."

"Has your exile been so irksome to you?" he asked.

"Oh," she returned, "I didn't mean it that way, really. Believe me, I'm not ungrateful. Blanford's just sweet, and your father's an old dear."

"Yes," he retorted, laughing. "I notice you're doing your best to usurp Mrs. Mackintosh's place in his affections."

"That's not from pique, it's from charity," she replied. "I've been trying to rescue her from Jonah."

"I'm afraid my governor must be an awful bore," he said.

"Oh, but he's so sweet and simple with it all," she objected. "I'm really growing to be awfully fond of him."

"I think he's growing to be awfully fond of you," said his son.

Miss Arminster laughed merrily.

"Don't you fancy me as a step-mamma?" she queried. "But, joking apart, I'm afraid even Blanford would pall on me after a while. It isn't my first visit here, you see. I was on a tour through these counties three years ago."

"That's how you came to know about my father, I suppose."

"Yes," she said. "I had him pointed out to me, and you look a good deal alike. Besides, the name's not common."

"I'm glad you liked Blanford well enough to come back to it."

"Oh," she returned, looking up at him with a roguish smile, "this section of the country has other associations for me."

"I was waiting for that," he retorted. "In which of the neighbouring towns were you married?"

"The one nearest here," she replied. "I think we can just see the spire of the church over the trees. But how did you know?"

"I inferred it as a matter of course," he said banteringly, "but I'm only joking."

"But I'm not," she returned.

"Do you really mean that you were married over there?" he asked, pointing to the distant church.

"Yes," she replied. "The third of June, 1895."

"I say, you know," he said, "I think you might have married me once in a way, as I had asked you."

"Mr. Banborough," she replied stiffly, drawing herself up, "you forget yourself."

"I beg your pardon," he returned humbly. "Only as American divorce laws are so lax, I thought—"

"The divorce laws of my country are a disgrace, and nothing would ever induce me to avail myself of them. Besides, marriage, to me, is a very serious and solemn matter, and I can't permit you to speak about it flippantly, even by way of a joke."

Cecil picked up a handful of pebbles and began throwing them meditatively at the fragment of an adjacent arch. The more he saw of Miss Arminster, the greater mystery she became. By her own admission, she had been married at least half a dozen times, which, were he to accept as real the high moral standard which she always assumed, must imply a frightful mortality among her husbands. But then she neither seemed flippant nor shallow, and her serious attitude towards the sacrament of marriage appeared wholly incompatible with a matrimonial experience which might have caused a Mormon to shudder. Anyway, she wasn't going to marry him, and he turned to the discussion of more fruitful subjects.

"How's Spotts getting on with his studies in architecture?" he asked.

"I should think he'd learned a good deal," she replied. "Your father hasn't left a stone of his own cathedral unexplained, and I imagine he'll put him through his paces over this abbey."

"Poor Spotts! I'm afraid he's had a hard row to hoe," said Cecil; "but, anyway, it'll keep him out of mischief."

"You must be very careful what you say about him to me," she replied. "I won't hear one word against him, for we're very old friends."

"So I should infer," he retorted, "from what I've just seen. I never was allowed to put my arm—"

"How dare you!" she cried, rising, really angry this time. "I—" Then turning to the Bishop, who arrived very opportunely, she exclaimed:

"Won't you rescue me, please? Your son's becoming awfully impertinent!"

"Then," said his Lordship gallantly, "my son must be taught better manners. If he cannot show himself worthy of such a charming companion, we'll punish him by leaving him entirely alone."

Certainly his father was coming on, thought Cecil. But if Miss Arminster tried to take advantage of his dotage to forge another link in her matrimonial chain, he, Banborough, would have a word to say on the subject.

"I wish to tell you, my dear," began his Lordship as they walked away, leaving Cecil disconsolate, "of a very nice invitation I've received for the rest of the week. Lord Downton is to call for me in his yacht at Dullhampton to-morrow, and has asked me to join his party and to bring some lady with me to make the number even."

"Oh, how jolly that'll be—for Miss Matilda!" said the artful Violet.

"Humph!—ye-es," replied the Bishop. "I hardly think my sister could leave the palace just at this time."

"Perhaps," suggested his guest, "yachting doesn't agree with her. Has she ever tried it before?"

"She has," replied the Bishop, with a certain asperity.

"Ah, poor thing!" said Miss Arminster. "It must have taken away from your pleasure to feel that she was suffering such great discomfort on your account."

"Lord Downton didn't specify my sister. He only said 'some lady'; and so I thought if you—"

"Oh, that's just sweet of you!" exclaimed his companion. "I'm sure I should adore yachting. It's something I've always wanted to do."

"Then we'll consider it settled," said the Bishop.

"But Miss Matilda?"

"Ah, yes," admitted his Lordship. "That's just the trouble. You see my dilemma."

"Of course!" Violet responded promptly, understanding that he wished to be helped out. "If your sister knew you were going, she'd feel it her duty to accompany you, and the trip would be spoilt for you by her sufferings. So, out of your affection for her, you think it would be better if we were just quietly to slip off to-morrow and send her a wire from Dullhampton."

The Bishop was delighted. Miss Matilda never accepted him at his own valuation.

"So, just on your account," continued his companion demurely, "I won't say a word, though I hate any form of concealment."

"H'm—naturally," said the Bishop.

"But since it's for your dear sister's sake—"

"We'll take the eleven-fifty train to-morrow," replied his Lordship.

And here his remarks were cut short from the fact that in suddenly rounding a corner he had planted his foot on the recumbent form of Marchmont.

"Hullo!" said that gentleman, sitting up, and adding, as he rubbed his eyes to get them wider open, "permit me to inform you that this part of the ground is strictly preserved."

"Who are you, sir?" demanded the Bishop.

"Come," said the stranger cheerfully, "we'll make a bargain. I'll tell you who you are, if you'll tell me who I am."

"I do not see how that is possible—" began his Lordship.

"Well, I'll begin," said Marchmont. "You're the Bishop of Blanford and I'm your son's greatest benefactor."

"Really, you surprise me. May I enquire how you've benefited him?"

"I made the fame of his book, 'The Purple Kangaroo.' I've been sending you my editorials on the subject for some weeks past."

"Are you the person who wrote those scandalous leaders which have been forwarded to me from America?" demanded the Bishop.

"I thought you'd remember them," said the journalist. "They're eye-openers, aren't they?"

His Lordship drew himself up and put on his most repressive manner, but Marchmont babbled on serenely.

"The last time I saw Cecil he said to me: 'Whenever you come to England, Marchmont, you just drop round to the palace, and we'll make things hum.' So, having a chance for a little vacation, I jumped on board a steamer, crossed to Southampton, and biked up-country, doing these ruins on the way. I meant to have presented myself at the palace this afternoon in due form and a swallow-tailed coat, but I'm just as much pleased to see you as if I'd been regularly introduced."

"You're one of the most consummate liars I ever knew," remarked Cecil, who, hearing voices, had strolled over to see what it was all about.

"Put it more mildly, my dear fellow," replied the American. "Call me a journalist, and spare your father's feelings."

"Well, now you're here, what do you intend to do?" demanded Banborough.

"Do?" said Marchmont. "Why, I'm going to put up for a week at your 'Pink Pig,' or your 'Azure Griffin,' or whatever kind of nondescript-coloured animal your local hostelry boasts, and study your charming cathedral. But, in the first place, I think we'd better have some lunch. I'm as hungry as a bear."

"I fear we've scarcely provided for an extra guest," returned Cecil frigidly. The journalist was the very last person he wanted to see at Blanford, and he did not take any pains to disguise the fact.

Marchmont, however, was not to be snubbed, and remarking cheerfully that there was always enough for one more, calmly proceeded in the direction of the hampers. Once there, he constituted himself chef and butler forthwith, and moreover proved so efficient in both capacities that, irritated as his friend was at his self-assurance, he could not but express his appreciation.

Marchmont, having started the rest of the people on their lunch and made all feel at their ease, turned on his journalistic tap for the benefit of the Bishop, and plied the old gentleman with such a judicious mixture of flattery and amusing anecdote that, by the time the repast was over, his Lordship was solemnly assuring his son, much to that young gentleman's disgust, that he was indeed fortunate in possessing such a delightful friend, and that he might invite Mr. Marchmont to the palace if he liked.

"Quite so," said Cecil. "I suppose you remember his article in the Daily Leader, in which he alluded to you as a 'consecrated fossil'?"

"H'm!" said the Bishop. "Really, the accommodation at the inn is very good, and perhaps, with so many guests, it would be asking too much of your aunt."

"What does all this mean?" asked Spotts of Banborough when a convenient opportunity offered.

The Bishop's son shrugged his shoulders, replying:

"It means mischief."

CHAPTER III.

"I know that style," said the American. "Nice rambling ark, two stories high, and no two rooms on the same level. Architect built right out into the country till he got tired, and then turned round and came back. Obliged to have a valet to show you to your room whether you're sober or not."

"I didn't know," said Cecil drily, "that you possessed an extensive acquaintance in ecclesiastical circles in this country."

"Oh, yes," said Marchmont, "I served as valet for six months to a bishop while I was gathering materials for my articles on 'English Sees Seen from the Inside.'"

"Was it a financial success?" queried Banborough.

"No," admitted the reporter regretfully, "it sold the paper splendidly, but was stopped at the second article at the request of the American ambassador."

"Did you favour us with a visit?"

"I hadn't that honour."

"If you had done so you would probably have slept in the rooms we give to our American guests in the new part of the house."

"How old is that?" queried the journalist.

"About eight hundred years," replied Cecil, "and the walls are four feet thick."

"I know," said the reporter, "It's appalling. That sort of thing always upsets me. It seems so out of keeping with the Daily Leader."

"Look here, Marchmont, why have you come to Blanford?" demanded Banborough, abruptly changing the conversation.

"To have the joy of your society," returned the journalist.

"If that were really the case I'd be delighted to see you," said the Englishman. "But you're on the track of these unfortunate people who are my guests; and if you make things disagreeable for them I shan't have the slightest compunction in forbidding you the house."

The American, apparently ignoring the other's frankness, remarked:

"So you admit they're conspirators?"

"I admit nothing of the kind. They're perfectly innocent of the charge you bring against them, and you've been making an awful ass of yourself, if you only knew it."

"Ah, thank you. But if this is the case why didn't you mention the fact to me in Montreal?"

"I had my reasons."

"And why are all these people received as honoured guests in your father's palace?"

"That, if you'll permit me to say so, Marchmont, is a matter that doesn't concern you."

"Everything concerns me. Not that I expect you to see that point of view. But to put it another way. Considering all I've done to increase the sale of your book, won't you do me a good turn and tell me what you know about this affair?"

"I wish the confounded book had never sold a copy!" burst out Banborough. "And I'll not say one word to the detriment of my friends!"

"Then it is to be war?" queried the journalist, rolling a cigarette.

"Not so far as I'm concerned," replied his host. "Why don't you let bygones be bygones? A truce between the United States and Spain may be declared any day, and then—"

"Then my great scoop will be lost for ever. What would the public care about conspirators if there were no war?"

"Exactly what I say," said Cecil. "So let's drop the whole matter."

"Not much!" cried the journalist. "It's my last chance. And if you won't help me—why, I must help myself."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Turn 'em out of Blanford."

"Impossible!"

"But your father?"

"How dare you mention my father's name in this connection? I won't have him dragged into publicity to sell your dirty rag of a newspaper!" Cecil exploded, thoroughly beside himself at the thought of such a dreadful possibility.

The journalist nodded his head gravely. Banborough's fierce defence of the Bishop he attributed to far other grounds than those on which it was really based. It justified him to the tramp's suspicions that his Lordship was actually connected with the plot.

"Well," he said, with a fair pretence of backing down, "there's no need of getting so hot about it. Of course I don't want to make myself disagreeable."

"Neither do I," replied his host. "Only we may as well understand each other. You're quite welcome to come to the palace as long as you remember to be a gentleman before you are a journalist. But if you forget it, I'll be forced to treat you as you deserve," and turning on his heel, he left Marchmont chewing the ends of his sandy moustache with a grim avidity that boded ill for the peace of the Bishop and his household.

The American told himself that he must work carefully. Banborough would watch him and probably put the others on their guard. And moreover, he would not hesitate to dismiss him from the palace, which, apart from the unpleasantness of the operation, would be well-nigh fatal to the success of the scheme the journalist was maturing. Decidedly the highest caution was essential, but he must work quickly, for there was no time to be lost. Marchmont therefore proceeded to pump the first member of the company he came across. This happened to be Spotts, who was in rather a bad humour, the result of a morning spent with the Bishop in the cobwebby heights of a neighbouring church-tower.

"You're the very person I wanted to see," cried the reporter.

"I'm afraid I've hardly time to be interviewed just now," replied the actor shortly.

"Oh, this isn't professional. I'm off duty sometimes. I'm only human."

"Oh, are you? I supposed newspaper men were neither the one nor the other."

"Well, I wanted to talk to you for your own good."

"Is it as bad as all that?"

"Of course I know who you really are," pursued the journalist, ignoring the interruption. "And I may say confidentially that you and Miss Arminster are not the people of this party I'm after."

"Ah, that's very thoughtful of you."

"So, if I could help you two to slip off quietly—"

"Why include Miss Arminster?" queried Spotts with well-affected surprise.

"Why? My dear fellow, you don't suppose I'm quite blind. Any one who follows that lady about with his eyes as you do is naturally— Well—you understand—"

"I'm afraid your professional acumen is at fault this time," said the actor, and added: "I hope I may never come any nearer being married than I am now."

"Oh, I say," returned Marchmont; "don't you aspire to be her—sixteenth, is it?"

"You're alluding to Miss Arminster's husbands?" asked Spotts drily.

"Oh, I'd a little bet up with a friend," said Marchmont, "that she'd been married at least a baker's dozen times. Ought I to hedge?"

"I think you're well inside the number," replied the actor.

"Gad! she must be pretty well acquainted with the divorce courts!" exclaimed the reporter.

"I'm quite sure she's never been divorced in her life," returned Spotts. "So long. I'm after a drink." And he left him, thus terminating the conversation.

"Ah," said the journalist to himself, "I bet you're the next in line, just the same."

Baffled in his first attempt, Marchmont sought other means of information, for there is always a weak spot in every defence, and a man of far less keen perception than the reporter would have had little difficulty in finding the most favourable point of attack. So it is not surprising that after a little cogitation he went in search of Miss Matilda, whom he had met the day before when he had returned with the party from the abbey. He found that lady on the lawn knitting socks for the heathen, and deserted for the nonce by the faithful Smith.

"Dear Miss Banborough," began the journalist, sitting down beside her, "what a reproach it is to idle men like myself to see such industry!"

"It's very kind of you, I'm sure, to notice my humble labours," replied the old lady, expanding at once under the first word of flattery. "My brother tells me you're connected with a great newspaper. How ennobling that must be! It gives you such a wide scope for doing good."

Marchmont, who had hardly adopted journalism for this purpose, and was conscious of having done his fair share of mischief in the world, made a desperate effort to look the part assigned to him, and murmuring something about the inspiration, to toilers like himself, of such self-sacrificing lives as hers, abruptly turned the conversation by alluding to the pleasure which she must have felt at her nephew's return.

"Of course we're very glad to have him back," acceded Miss Matilda. "But then we see little or nothing of him."

"Naturally," said the journalist, "his days must be given up to his friends. How you must be looking forward to the time when you can have him quite to yourself!"

The gleam that came into the old lady's eye at this remark told him that he had not been mistaken in fancying her hostile to the strangers, and he hastened to continue such a fruitful theme, saying:

"I suppose that, as they've been here a month now, you'll be losing them soon."

"I can't say," she snapped. "They seem to be staying for an indefinite period."

"Really?" he replied. "I shouldn't have fancied that your nephew would have found them very congenial. Indeed, if you'll pardon my frankness, I was rather surprised to meet them here."

Miss Matilda at once gave him her undivided attention.

"You knew them in America?" she asked.

"Of course I knew about them. I was hardly acquainted personally."

It was his tone rather than his words that lent an unfavourable colour to the remark, but the implication was not lost on the Bishop's sister. Here at last was a man who could give her the information she was most anxious to obtain.

"I should have supposed," she ventured, "that you'd have known such very intimate friends of Cecil's as these appear to be."

"Oh, no," he returned. "New York's a big place. I dare say you know much more about them than I do."

"I know nothing!" she burst out. "Strange as it may appear to you, my nephew has never told me one word concerning his guests, though I'm expected to receive them under my—his father's roof and introduce them to my friends."

"I see," replied Marchmont cautiously. "Cecil should have trusted to your excellent discrimination and judgment, unless—" and here he paused.

The position required consideration. It was easy enough to tell her about these people. Merely to say that they were an itinerant company of actors and actresses would be sufficient to ensure them a speedy congé from Blanford. But was it wise to do this? Did he want them to go? A hasty action is often like a boomerang. It returns on the toes of the person who thoughtlessly launches it in flight. No, on the whole they had better remain, he told himself. The palace would form an excellent background for the sensational exposure he hoped to make. If he could only get the Bishop into a corner, he would be quite satisfied.

"Well, what?" she demanded sharply, impatient at his unfinished sentence.

"Unless," he continued, hedging carefully—"unless your nephew felt that it was quite sufficient to have explained things to his father. Doubtless the Bishop knows all about his son's friends."

"The Bishop knows a great deal too much for a man in his position," snapped his sister.

"Quite so," thought the journalist, "and doesn't confide it to you." Aloud he remarked:

"Of course there's nothing particular to be said against them, except that they're hardly in Cecil's set."

"I didn't need you to tell me that. But what about the ladies?"

"Ah, yes, the ladies. Well, really, you've put me in an awkward position, Miss Banborough. One can't be uncomplimentary to the fair sex, you know."

"Humph! Well, Josephus sees more of both of them than is good for him. But of course Mrs. Mackintosh has neither the youth nor the good looks to cause me any anxiety."

"Mrs. Mackintosh is eminently respectable," said Marchmont, who always spoke the truth when it did not conflict with business.

"But Miss Arminster?"

The journalist did not answer.

"Well," she cried, "why don't you speak?"

"Madam," he replied, "you place me in a most embarrassing situation. My duty to you and the natural gallantry of my nature draw me in different directions."

"I insist."

"I put myself in your hands. In saying what I do I'm laying myself open to serious misconstruction."

"You may rely upon my silence."

"Any indiscretion on your part would be most unfortunate."

"I shall not forget the confidence you've reposed in me."

"I shall hold you to that," he said. "If I tell you what I have in mind, will you promise not to use the information without my permission?"

"That I cannot say."

"Then I say nothing."

"But you've already implied—"

"But implications, my dear Miss Banborough, are not evidence."

"You leave me no other course but to accede to your request," she said.

"Ah, then you promise?"

"I promise."

"The word of a woman in your position and of your high moral standard I know is sacred."

She nodded.

"Well, then," he continued, "please answer me this question. Where was your brother the first week in May?"

"In Scotland."

"Why did he go?"

"For absolute rest. He was worried and run down."

"You heard from him frequently?"

"No, not once during the whole time. Sir Joseph Westmoreland, the great London nerve specialist, who advised the change, even prohibited correspondence."

"You're sure he was in Scotland?"

"Really, Mr. Marchmont, why do you ask?"

"Because I saw the Bishop of Blanford in the United States in the first week of May on his way to Montreal, Canada."

"Impossible!"

"I'm certain of it."

"I cannot credit what you tell me!"

"What I tell you is quite true. You say he was absent for a month. Might he not have gone to the States and returned in that time?"

His sister nodded. Then, as a sudden thought occurred to her, she flushed red with anger, exclaiming:

"And this girl, this Miss Arminster! Was she in Montreal also?"

"She was," replied Marchmont. "I saw her."

"The hussy!" cried Miss Matilda, rising. "She shan't remain in my house another hour!"

"Hold on!" he exclaimed. "You forget your promise!"

"But after what you've said!"

"I haven't said anything. Miss Arminster's being in Montreal might have been merely a coincidence."

"But do you know something about her?"

"I've investigated her career," he replied, "and have found nothing objectionable in it, beyond the fact that she's rather fond of getting married."

"Getting married! But surely she calls herself Miss Arminster?"

"Ah, yes; but that's very common on the—I mean, not unusual in such cases."

"She has been married, then, more than once?"

"I know of a dozen different occasions on which she has had the service performed."

"Infamous!"

"Oh, no. There's no evidence of her ever having been through the divorce court. Indeed, she may never have been married to more than one man at the same time."

"But how to account—"

"For the mortality in husbands? Well, fortunately, we're not required to do that."

"I will not have my dear brother stricken down in his prime!" gasped Miss Matilda.

"Oh, I don't suppose she's necessarily fatal. Still, as mistress of Blanford—"

The Bishop's sister arose in her wrath. For the first time in her existence she wanted to swear, but contented herself by remarking:

"That young woman leaves the palace to-day!"

"You forget your promise to me," he said.

"But is it possible, in the face of what you've told me, that you can hold me to it?"

"Quite possible. In fact I mean to do so, and as soon as your righteous indignation cools down a bit you'll realise that we've nothing whatsoever to go on. What I've said could only be substantiated by evidence requiring some time to obtain. If you accused her now, she'd merely deny my statement, and her word's as good as mine, and probably better, in his Lordship's estimation."

"But is there no proof near at hand?"

"Yes. She was married several years ago at a little church close by the ruined abbey where I first met your party, and the fact is recorded in the register."

"Then surely—"

"There's no crime in being married once," he objected.

"But what can we do?" she asked.

"Keep quiet for a little while longer. Miss Arminster's certain to make some slip, and then—"

"It seems very difficult to wait."

"Believe me," he replied, "it's the only way, and I shall rely on your promise."

Saying which, he left her, partly because he had obtained all the information he wished, and partly because he was certain that he espied the well-known figure of the tramp hovering behind the bushes on the opposite side of the lawn.

A few moments later he had his hand on that individual's collar, and was demanding sternly what he meant by coming to Blanford against his orders.

"'Cause I've somethin' of importance to tell yer," retorted that worthy.

"Well, out with it, quick!" said the journalist. "It's got to be pretty important to excuse your disobedience."

"It is. The boss is going to bolt."

"Who? The Bishop?"

"That's it! Him and the lady."

"What lady?"

"The young 'un, I guess."

"What's all this stuff about?" demanded Marchmont.

"It ain't stuff, as you'll soon see," replied the tramp in an aggrieved tone. "There was a yacht come into Dullhampton last night, a nasty-lookin' boat and a quick steamer. The second mate and me, we got to know each other up to the inn—he's a furriner, he is—a Don, more'n likely. But he let on, havin' had some drink, as how he'd been sent there with the yacht to wait for the Bishop o' Blanford and a lady as was comin' down next day, and the Bishop was to give the sailin' orders."

"Humph! What more?"

"This mornin' I seed 'em lookin' over a lot of flags on the deck of the yacht, and one of 'em was Spanish."

"So you came all the way up here to tell me this cock-and-bull story!"

"Not till I'd squared the crew."

"Squared the crew?"

"I let on to 'em as how they'd been shipped under false orders to carry two Spanish spies out of the country, an' how we was on to the fact, and if they'd stay by us they'd not be held responsible; and I promised 'em ten shillin's apiece and give 'em all the drink they wanted, and they're ours to a man."

"And that's where you've wasted good money and good liquor. I tell you what you say is impossible. If the Bishop had had any idea of a move like that, I'd have got wind of it. Besides, his old cat of a sister would never let him leave Blanford again without her."

"Hist!" said the tramp, pointing across the lawn. "Look there, what did I say? My eyesight ain't what it was, from breakin' stones up to Sing Sing, and I can't see no faces at this distance, but there's somethin' sneakin' along there, in bishop's togs."

Marchmont followed the direction he indicated, and saw two figures stealing round the corner of the palace, carrying hand-bags and showing every sign of watchfulness and suspicion. Having ascertained that the lawn was clear, they slipped rapidly across it, and, putting themselves in the protecting shade of a clump of bushes, turned into the high-road and disappeared. It had needed no second glance to identify them as his Lordship and Miss Arminster.

"By Jove!" gasped the journalist. "It is true, then! This will be a scoop of scoops! Come, we've got to run for it. We must take the same train, and they mustn't see us."

Some one else had witnessed the departure, in spite of all the precautions of the fugitives, and that person was Miss Matilda, who, from the vantage of an upper window, caught a glimpse of them just as they disappeared through the gate. Unwilling at first to believe her senses, she rushed to her brother's room and then to Miss Arminster's. Alas! in each apartment the traces of hasty packing and missing hand-luggage gave damning evidence of the fact. She rushed downstairs, bursting with her dreadful intelligence. In the hall she met Cecil, delightedly waving a telegram in his hand.

"Hurrah! Aunt Matilda!" he shouted. "Such news! 'The Purple Kangaroo' has reached its twentieth edition, and a truce is declared between the United States and Spain! Where are the others? I must tell them that the war is over."

"Bother your war!" exclaimed his aunt. "Do you know that your father and that shameless minx, Miss Arminster, have just eloped?"

CHAPTER IV.

All the way from Blanford to Dullhampton the Bishop was in the best of spirits, much on the principle of a naughty boy who, having played truant, means to enjoy his holiday to the full, well knowing that he will be caned when it is over. Indeed his Lordship became positively skittish, and Miss Arminster was obliged to squelch him a little, as that young lady, for excellent reasons of her own, had no more intention of becoming the mistress of Blanford than she had of wedding the author of "The Purple Kangaroo." On the other hand, she realised that it was one of the old gentleman's very rare treats, and she wanted him to have as good a time as possible; besides which, she had always longed to take a cruise on a steam-yacht, and now her ambition was about to be gratified.

The shock of disappointment was therefore all the greater when, on their arrival at Dullhampton, they were met by the captain, who informed them that Lord Downton had had a bad fall the day before and seriously sprained his ankle, so that the party had been given up. He had sent the yacht on, however, with the request that the Bishop would consider it at his disposal for the remainder of the week.

"Now that's exceedingly awkward," said his Lordship. "I fear we can hardly go yachting without a chaperon."

"Most certainly not," agreed Miss Arminster. "But let's take a little sail this afternoon, and return to Blanford in time for dinner."

"That's very well thought of," said the Bishop, "and to-morrow we can bring down some more of our party. It seems a pity we shouldn't use the yacht, now we're here. Does that arrangement meet with your approval, captain?"

"Well, your Lordship," replied the captain, "to be honest with you, I hadn't expected as how you'd be able to get away to-day, so I'd arranged to see my sister, who lives here, this afternoon, and the first mate's gone up to town to order some stores. But if you are only to be out for a few hours, as you say, my second mate's quite capable of taking the boat for you. I wouldn't like to trust him on a long cruise, for he's only joined a few weeks, and I know nothing about his character. He is a first-class navigator, however, and for an afternoon in the Solent he'll do you very well."

"I'm sure we would not want to interfere with your plans, captain," said his Lordship, "so if Miss Arminster agrees—"

"Oh my, yes," acquiesced Violet. "I don't care who takes the yacht out, so long as we go."

"Right you are," said the captain. "Steam's up, and I've ordered lunch on board, as I thought you'd want that anyway. I'll tell Funk, the second mate, to run out into the Solent, and then you can give your own orders. What time will you be back?"

"Oh, not later than six," replied the Bishop, as they stepped on board Lord Downton's beautiful craft, the "Homing Pigeon."

She was a large boat and thoroughly seaworthy. Indeed her owner had made a voyage in her to the Mediterranean, but she was built for speed also, and decidedly rakish in cut.

They were at once introduced to the second mate, and Miss Arminster thought she had seldom seen a more unprepossessing individual. He was surly and shifty-eyed, and she confided to the Bishop, when they were alone, that she was glad they were not going far from land under that man's charge, for he looked like a pirate.

After glancing round the deck, which seemed charmingly arranged, they at once descended to the cabin for lunch, for their little journey had made them hungry. Here the captain left them with a few courteous words of excuse. A moment later, as he was leaving the ship, he met two strangers coming on board, laden with hand-baggage. They were, though unknown to him, the journalist and the tramp. On asking them sharply what their business was, Marchmont replied very glibly that he was his Lordship's valet, and that he had hired this man to bring down the luggage from the station.

"I don't think your master'll need his traps, as he's only going out for the afternoon," said the captain. "But you'd better take them down to the cabin, and see the porter gets off before they start. I don't allow strangers aboard."

The valet touched his hat respectfully, and went up the gangway, followed by the obsequious porter. A moment later they reached the deck, and no sooner had the captain disappeared round a corner than both men approached the second mate, with whom they had a hurried and earnest conversation, followed by an interchange of something which that officer transferred to his trousers-pocket and jingled appreciatively.

The ropes were now cast off, and they got under way, while Marchmont stole very quietly to the door of the hatchway which led down to the saloon where the Bishop and the actress were unsuspectingly lunching, and softly turned the key.

"Mayn't I cut you a slice of this cold ham, my dear?" asked the Bishop in his most fatherly tones.

"Not while the pigeon-pie lasts," said his fair companion. "But you may give me a glass of champagne, if you will. I see some going to waste in an ice-cooler over there in the corner."

"I was hoping the steward would come," ventured his Lordship.

"Well, I hope he won't. Being tête-à-tête is much more fun, don't you think? Give the bottle to me, and I'll show you how to open it and not spill a drop. In some respects your education's been neglected."

"I'm afraid it has," admitted the Bishop, assisting her with his pen-knife.

His Lordship felt recklessly jovial. To lunch alone with a young lady who opened champagne with a dexterity that bespoke considerable practice must be very wicked, he felt certain, and he was shocked to realise that he didn't care if it was. His years of repression were beginning to find their outlet in a natural reaction.

"Here, have a glass of champagne, and don't think about your shortcomings," she said.

"That's very nice," he replied, just tasting it.

"Nonsense!" she cried. "No heel-taps. I'm no end thirsty."

"So am I," replied his Lordship, draining his glass contentedly, and watching her fill it up again.

"What are you so pensive about?" she demanded. "There's another bottle."

He had been thinking that his sister always confined him to two glasses, but he didn't say so, and under her skilful lead he was soon describing to her a Cowes regatta he had once seen, in which she professed to be amazingly interested.

"I tell you what it is," she remarked a little later on. "If I had a gorgeous palace like yours I'd have no end of a good time."

"Ah," said the Bishop, who was helping her to unfasten the second bottle of champagne, "I never thought of it in that light."

"No," returned his fair companion, "I suppose not. But you're losing lots of fun in life, and it does seem a shame, when you would so enjoy it."

"It does," said the Bishop, sampling the fresh bottle. "But then, you see, there's my sister, Miss Matilda—"

"Rats!"

"Excuse me, I didn't catch your meaning."

"Never mind my meaning. We're talking about your sister. She's a most estimable woman, my dear Bish— Oh, pshaw! I can't always call you by your title."

"Call me Josephus," he said.

"No, I couldn't call you that, either. It's too dreadful. I'll call you Joe."

The Bishop beamed with joy.

"And I," he faltered, "may I call you Violet?"

"No," she said, "I don't think it's proper in a man of your position."

"But if you call me—Joe—"

"Well!" she cried, laughing, "we'll make a compromise. Suppose you call me 'the Leopard'?"

"To be sure," he said. "Mrs. Mackintosh spoke of you as that—er—quadruped. But what does it mean?"

"You want to know a great deal too much for a man of your age. It's an animal that is more than once mentioned in Scripture, and that ought to be sufficient for your purposes. So we'll have it understood that his Lordship's Leopard is quite at his Lordship's service, if his Lordship doesn't mind."

"Mind!" he cried ecstatically, eyeing the other side of the table. But Miss Violet intended to have the board between them.

"Take another glass of champagne, and keep quiet," she said sternly. "We're talking about your estimable but impossible sister. My dear Joe, you'll never have any sport till you've got rid of her."

"But how shall I get rid of her?" he asked despondently. Even champagne was not proof against the depression induced by such an appalling thought.

"Oh, send her to a course of mud-baths or a water-cure!"

"I might try it—if—if you'd help me—if you'd take her place at the palace. I mean—"

"Josephus!" she called, in such an exact imitation of his sister's tone that it made him sit right up. "Josephus! don't say another word! I know what you mean—and you're an old dear—and I'm not going to let you make a fool of yourself. You're aged enough to be my father, and if your son had had his way you would have been my father-in-law. I want to have a good time, and I want you to have a good time; but that isn't the proper manner in which to set about it. No, you send the old lady packing, for the good of her health, and Mrs. Mackintosh and I'll help you and Cecil entertain, and we'll have a dance, and a marquee, and lots of punch. I dare say you've never been to a dance in your life," she rattled on, not giving him a chance to blunder out excuses.

"I'm not such an old fogey as you think me," he began. "But I want to say—er—Miss—Leopard—"

"Oh, no, you don't," she interrupted. "You want to forget what you've said, and so do I. We must talk about something else. What were you saying about a dance?"

"No, no, not a dance," he replied, resigning himself to his fate. "But once," lowering his voice, "not long ago either, when I was in town, I—I'm sure you won't believe it— I went to a theatre." This last triumphantly.

"Oh, you sad dog!" she cried. "You didn't!"

He nodded his head affirmatively.

"And what was the piece?"

"'The Sign of the Cross.'"

"What, that gruesome show, where every one's slaughtered or chewed up by lions! You ought to have gone to the Empire."

"It wasn't far from Leicester Square," he said deprecatingly.

"Not near enough to be very wicked," she retorted. "But, say, I'll tell you something if you'll promise never, never to reveal it."

"The word of a bishop—" he began.

"Oh, nonsense! You're not a bishop at present, you're just Joe. Well, here it is: I'm an actress!"

"You—are—an—actress!"

"Fact! I'm quite harmless. If you keep six feet from me there's not the slightest danger of contamination."

Then, seeing his look of astonished bewilderment, she burst into a peal of ringing laughter, crying:

"Why, to look at you, one would think I'd told you that I was a Gorgon!"

"No, no," he said, stammering. "I—I'm delighted. I always really wanted to meet an actress—but—er—I hardly know what to say—"

"Don't say anything. Just be your dear unsophisticated self, or you'll be a bore. Cecil didn't dare tell you who I was, for fear you'd be shocked. Come on, let's go up on deck. It's close down here."

"It is," admitted his Lordship, whose temperature had risen with his consumption of champagne, and added:

"We should be well out by this time, for we seem to have been going at great speed."

"Isn't it glorious!" she cried. "I wonder what they're doing at Blanford. I guess your telegram was an eye-opener."

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the Bishop, fishing a form out of his pocket. "I forgot to send it."

"What, do you mean to say they don't know what's become of us?"

"I never said a word."

"My hat!" she cried. "Won't you get a wigging to-night?"

Then, seeing his evident discomfiture, she added:

"Never mind, I'll take it with you; and if she turns nasty we'll put a flea in her ear about those mud-baths. Come, let's have our fun, anyway." And she put her hand on the cabin door.

"Why, it's stuck!" she exclaimed. "I can't open it."

The Bishop grasped the handle.

"It isn't stuck!" he cried, shaking it. "It's locked!"

While events had been progressing in the cabin, others of no less importance were taking place on deck. Once they were well off the land, Funk lost no time in calling a meeting of the crew of the yacht, who formed a circle around him.

"Now, my hearties," he said, introducing Marchmont, "this gentleman's got a word to say to you which it's worth your while to hear." And he put him in the centre of the ring.

"Mates," began the journalist, fitting his speech to the audience he was addressing, "I'm a plain man of few words, and I've come to you about a plain matter. Mr. Funk will tell you I'm speaking the truth; and you know this gentleman," indicating the tramp.

The crowd growled gutturally. They appreciated the tramp's generous offers of liquor, but not his society.

"Well," continued Marchmont, ignoring the unfavourable tone, "I suppose you'd all like to see the Yankees lick the Dons."

"Ay, ay, you're right there," muttered a burly tar.

"Good for you! We're all of the same family, and blood's thicker than water. Of course you want the boys in blue to win; and that being the case, I rely on you to help me, like true British tars, the nation's bulwarks—!"

"Hear, hear!" growled the crowd appreciatively.

"Now do you know whom you've aboard to-day?" demanded the American.

"The Bishop o' Blanford, and a laidy," came the tones of a voice whose owner evidently hailed from London.

"No, you haven't," cried the journalist excitedly. "No, you haven't! You've got two low-down Spanish spies!"

"What d'ye say, mate?" demanded the first speaker among the crew.

"I'm telling you the truth," vociferated Marchmont, lying boldly; for he feared that the Bishop's conspiracies would go for nothing if they suspected he was really a churchman.

"I'm telling you the truth," he repeated. "And these two gentlemen," referring to the mate and the tramp, "will back me up. That man's no more the Bishop of Blanford than you are! And the lady—well, she's on the stage when she isn't in the pay of the Spanish Government. I've tracked them from the States to Canada, where I saw them both a month ago, and then to England. I don't say how they got hold of this yacht, but I ask you, where's the captain and the first mate?"

A growl of suspicion rewarded his efforts.

"They took pretty good care to get out of the way, and leave Mr. Funk and you to bear the brunt of any breach of neutrality that these conspirators might let you in for."

The sailors began to whisper to one another, and were evidently uneasy.

"Then look at the captain's parting words!" cried the journalist. "'Go out into the Solent,' says he, 'and the Bishop will give you your sailing orders,' Sailing orders, indeed! What would a parson know about sailing a vessel of this sort?"

One of the men nudged another at this, and he of the gruff voice gave it as his opinion that "there was summat in it."

"I'll tell you what the sailing orders will be," shouted Marchmont. "They'll take you round the Needles, and alongside of a Spanish cruiser. And when you get ashore, you'll all be clapped into prison for helping the Dons."

"Let's take 'em back now," came a chorus of voices.

"And let 'em go scot-free?" demanded Marchmont.

"Well, what would you do?" asked the spokesman.

"I?" said the journalist. "I'd hand 'em over to the first American ship we sight, and send 'em to New York. That takes the burden off your shoulders. My man has promised you ten shillings apiece. Put 'em on board a Yankee ship, and I'll make it a pound." And he brought up a handful of gold from his pocket, and jingled it in their faces.

It has been said that money talks, and it undoubtedly did so in this case. Marchmont's specious arguments sounded plausible enough, and the mate, who was a thoroughly bad lot and had plenty of the journalist's money in his pocket, backed him up in every particular. So the crew, after a little discussion, accepted the proposition to a man, and the fact that the Bishop chose this unfortunate time to make an attack on the cabin door probably helped to decide them.

"You see," cried the journalist, as it rattled on its hinges, "they're trying to break out now, and are probably armed to the teeth."

"We're with you, mates. The Yankees shall have 'em!" shouted the crowd.

"Good!" he replied. "I'll see if I can induce them to surrender quietly." And going to the cabin door, he unlocked it and entered, closing it behind him.

"Who has dared to lock us in in this unwarrantable manner?" spluttered the Bishop, as the door opened. Then, seeing who it was, he fell back a step, exclaiming:

"Why, Mr. Marchmont, how did you come on board?"

"Never mind about that," said the journalist shortly. "I'm here, and I locked you in; and when I tell you that I'm thoroughly on to the whole show, you'll understand that this high-and-mighty business doesn't go down. Got any champagne left? I'm as dry as a bone."

The Bishop was rapidly turning purple with suppressed indignation, but Miss Arminster scornfully indicated the location of the wine-cooler.

"Ah, thanks," said the intruder, tossing off a glass. "That's better." And he threw himself comfortably down on a divan, saying, as he did so:

"If you two have any weapons, you might as well put them on the table. Resistance is quite useless. I've plenty of men awaiting my signal on deck."

Violet, who in the light of this last remark suddenly understood the position, burst into peals of laughter.

"You'll find it's no laughing matter," cried the journalist angrily.

"I insist upon your instantly explaining your outrageous conduct," said the Bishop.

"I can do that in a very few words," replied Marchmont. "As an American representative, and authorised agent of the Daily Leader, the people's bulwark of defence, I arrest you both as Spanish spies."

"He must be mad!" ejaculated his Lordship.

"Oh, no, he isn't. He actually believes it!" cried Violet between her paroxysms of merriment. But her companion would not be convinced.

"My dear man," he said blandly, "you must be suffering under some grievous delusion. I am, as you should know, having been my guest, the Bishop of Blanford, and it is quite impossible that either I or this lady should have any connection with a political crime. I must insist that you release us at once, and go away quietly, or I shall be forced to use harsher measures."

"You do it very well, very well indeed," commented the journalist. "But you can't fool me, and so you'd better give up trying."

"I say," remarked Miss Arminster to Marchmont, "you're making an awful fool of yourself."

The representative of the Daily Leader shrugged his shoulders.

"Won't you consent to let us go, without threshing the whole thing out?" she asked.

"What do you take me for?"

"Well, as you please," she said resignedly. "Put your questions; we'll answer them."

"Is it best to humour him?" enquired his Lordship in a low voice.

"It's the only way," she replied. "Give him string enough, and see the cat's-cradle he'll weave out of it."

"Now," said the journalist cheerfully to the Bishop, "perhaps you'll deny that you spent a month or six weeks in the United States this spring?"

"A month," acquiesced his Lordship.

"Just so. And during that time you were supposed to be in Scotland taking a rest-cure?"

"I admit that such is the case. But how you obtained your information—"

"I got it from your sister—about the rest-cure, I mean."

"Did you tell her—er—that I was—er—in the United States?"

"Yes," replied the journalist.

His Lordship heaved a deep sigh. The future, he thought, held worse things for him than arrest and deportation.

"How did you know that I was in the United States and Canada?" he demanded.

"I saw you."

"Where?"

"At a little station on the borders of the two countries. You spent the night wrapped up in a blanket, and slept under the bar."

"You never—!" broke in Miss Arminster.

The Bishop nodded mournfully. So far the facts were against him, and his interlocutor's face shone with a gleam of triumph.

"But in that case—" exclaimed Violet.

"Excuse me, I'll tell the story," said Marchmont, and continued the narration.

"You were roused about five in the morning by a man breaking into the room."

"So I was," admitted the Bishop. "How did you know?"

"I was asleep in the room overhead, and gave the alarm."

"That's perfectly correct," acquiesced his Lordship. "I remember the tones of your voice. It's most astounding."

"And the man who broke into the bar," continued Violet, "was your son."

It was now Marchmont's turn to be astonished.

"What!" he cried, while the Bishop ejaculated:

"Impossible!"

"But it was," she insisted. "He went to get the coffee for me."

"Were you in the station, too?" demanded his Lordship.

"No, I was out in a potato-patch."

"You a member of that party of political criminals who jumped off the train!" cried the Bishop. "I heard all about it the next morning, but I can't believe—"

"It's quite true," she assured him.

"But it's too remarkable," he went on. "I'd gone to America on purpose to find my son, of whom I'd heard nothing for a year. And you say he was there, and—er—touched me?"

"Why, didn't you see him in Montreal?" asked Marchmont.

"I sailed next day for England. I was on my way to the steamer when the accident occurred which detained me overnight."

"Why then did you conceal the purpose of your trip?" demanded his tormentor.

"My sister was much opposed to my seeking my son," said his Lordship, colouring furiously. "And—I—in short, I had reasons."

The journalist laughed.

"The story's clever," he said. "But I can tell a more interesting tale." And he proceeded to relate the adventures of Cecil in the person of "the Bishop," to which his Lordship listened with open-mouthed astonishment.

"There!" concluded his captor triumphantly. "Have you anything to say to that?"

"I have," chimed in Miss Arminster, and she gave the true version of the affair from the time Banborough had first engaged them at the Grand Central Station.

"It's a very plausible story," said Marchmont, when she had finished, "and does credit to your invention. But fortunately I'm in a condition to completely disprove it."

"Really?" she asked. "How so?"

"I can produce a witness of the whole transaction."

"Who?"

"Friend Othniel."

"What! here, on board the yacht?"

"Yes," said Marchmont, "on board this yacht. And he can prove that what I say is true."

"What? About the Bishop?" she cried, her voice quivering with suppressed merriment.

"Certainly," replied the journalist. "After his release from the Black Maria he tells substantially your story, but gives the Bishop the part you have carefully assigned to his innocent son."

At this she once more broke into peals of laughter, but at last, recovering her speech, managed to gasp out:

"Bring him here, and see what he says."

"I will," said Marchmont, hurriedly leaving the cabin, for her marvellous self-possession was beginning to arouse unpleasant suspicions even in his mind.

"But what does it all mean?" queried the Bishop helplessly, after the journalist's departure. "How dare he say such things about me! I drive a prison-van, indeed!"

"I'll tell you," she replied, striving to control her voice. "It's the greatest practical joke that ever was. We called your son 'the Bishop,' just as a nickname, you see, and of course the tramp heard us, and, after we dropped him in Montreal, must have blown the whole thing to Marchmont out of spite, and, not knowing any better, he thought your son really was the Bishop."

Here his Lordship became speechless, as the truth dawned upon him; and at that moment Marchmont entered the cabin, with Friend Othniel in tow.

"There!" he said, pointing to the ecclesiastic. "Is that the Bishop of Blanford?"

"Naw," replied the tramp. "He's old enough to be his father, he is. The Bishop I means is a young 'un."

"Like this!" cried Violet, opening the locket which Cecil had given her in Montreal, and handing it to the tramp.

"That's him to a T," said Friend Othniel. "I'd know him among a thousand."

For a moment Marchmont said nothing as he encountered the full force of the cruel disillusion, and then with painstaking precision he turned and kicked the tramp up the entire flight of cabin stairs.

"Now," remarked the Bishop, "perhaps you'll allow us to go free."

"No!" cried the journalist, slamming the door. "I've wasted heaps of cash and no end of time over this wild-goose-chase, but the Daily Leader shall have its scoop yet! If you aren't conspirators, I'll make you so, in spite of yourselves! You shall be Spanish spies!"