In apartment A de luxe, a man with flushed face and rumpled hair was
stamping nervously up and down. It required a second glance to recognise
in him that usually well-groomed and self-possessed individual known as
Lord Vernon. Two others were watching his movements with scarcely
concealed anxiety--Collins leaning against the window with folded arms,
Blake seated at a table with an open despatch-box before him.
"Hang it all, fellows," he was saying, "don't you see what a pickle it
puts me in? I was a fool to fall in with the idea--I was actually silly
enough to think it would be fun!"
"Of course," put in Collins, in his smoothest tone, "nobody could
foresee the presence of this American Diana."
Vernon shot him a quick glance.
"Be mighty careful what you say, my friend," he warned him, "or I'll
chuck the whole thing."
"Oh, you can't do that!" protested Blake. "You've got to carry it
through! You can't back out now!"
"Can't I?" said Vernon, with a grim little laugh. "Don't be too certain!
Suppose she finds it out? Pretty figure I'll cut, won't I?"
"But how _can_ she find it out? In four or five days, you can tell her
the whole story--you'll figure as a sort of hero of romance--"
"Yes--penny-dreadful romance--backstairs romance. The more I think of
it, the less I like it.
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