The soldier smiled reassuringly.
"Don't worry, little girl," he said. "Years ago I was told by an old gipsy that I should die in my bed of old age and excessive consumption of invalid port … As a matter of fact, the cause of my visit was rather humorous. They abducted me in the middle of the night, with an ex-soldier of my old battalion, who was, I regret to state, sleeping off the effects of much indifferent liquor in my rooms."
"What are you talking about?" she demanded.
"They thought he was your American millionaire cove, and the wretched Mullings was too drunk to deny it. In fact, I don't think they ever asked his opinion at all." Hugh grinned reminiscently. "A pathetic spectacle."
"Oh! but splendid," cried the girl a little breathlessly. "And where was the American?"
"Next door—safe with a very dear old friend of mine, Peter Darrell. You must meet Peter some day—you'll like him." He looked at her thoughtfully. "No," he added, "on second thoughts, I'm not at all sure that I shall let you meet Peter. You might like him too much; and he's a dirty dog."
"Don't be ridiculous," she cried with a faint blush. "Tell me, where is the American now?"
"Many miles out of London," answered Hugh. "I think we'll leave it at that. The less you know, Miss Benton, at the moment—the better."
"Have you found out anything?" she demanded eagerly. Hugh shook his head.
"Not a thing. Except that your neighbours are
