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Kathleen

<h2> V </h2> Perhaps the best way to pursue the next episodes in the quest is in the words of Johnny Blair, the Rhodes Scholar, who jotted down some notes in a journal he kept: We got to Wolverhampton 12:25, Ingersoll time. Had a jolly trip on the train, all the Scorps laying bets as to who would be first to meet Kathleen. I lay low, but did some planning. Didn't want to let these English blighters get ahead of me, especially after all the ragging Indiana Joe got in the story. Train stopped at Birmingham at noon. My tobacco pouch had run empty, and I hopped out to buy some Murray's at the newsstand. Saw the prettiest flapper of my life on the platform—the real English type; tweed suit, dark hair, gray eyes, and cheeks like almond blossoms. She had on a blue tam-o' shanter. Loveliest figure I ever saw, perfect ankle, but the usual heavy brogues on her feet. Why do English girls always wear woollen stockings? Was so taken with her I almost missed the train. She got into a third-class compartment farther up the train. The others were all bickering in the smoking carriage, so they didn't see her. I scored over the rest of the crowd when we got to Wolvers. They had all brought heavy portmanteaus, containing all their vacation baggage. My idea was, go light when chasing the Grail. Had only my rucksack, left rest of my stuff at coll., to be forwarded later. While the other chaps were getting their stuff out of the goods van I spotted Miss Flapper getting off the train. She got into a hansom. Just by dumb luck I was standing near. I heard her say to cabby: “318, Bancroft Road!” Lord, was I tickled? I kept mum. Most of the fellows took cabs, on account of their luggage, but Goblin and I hoofed it. Wolverhampton seems a dingy place for Kathleen to live! Fine old church, though, and lovely market place. We kept our eyes open for Bancroft Road, but saw no sign. When we got to the Blue Boar, lunch was all ready for us in the coffee room. Landlord tickled to death at our arrival. Wonderful cheddar cheese, and archdeacon ale. We made quite a ceremony of it—all drank Kathleen's health, and on the stroke of two we got up from the table. All the others beat it off immediately in different directions—looking for Bancroft Road, I expect. I had an idea that more finesse would be needed. I started off with the others, then pretended I had left my pipe, and came back to the Boar. I was going to look up the town directory, to find Kathleen's name—knowing the address, that would be easy. But there was Goblin doing the same thing! We both laughed and looked it up together. The name at 318, Bancroft Road was Kent, Philip Kent, F.S.A., Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, I suppose: the book put him down as an “antiquarian.” Kathleen's father, evidently. Goblin disappeared in that noiseless way of his, and I lit a pipe and pondered. The fellows had been full of wild suggestions as to what they would do when they got to 318, Bancroft Road. One was going to be a book agent and get into the house that way. Another said he would be the grocer's man and make friends with the cook. Someone else suggested dressing up as a plumber or gas-man, and going there to fix some imaginary leak. Knowing that the Kents were not fools, I imagined it wouldn't be long before they'd get wise to the fact that that bunch of dreadnoughts was picketing the house. Probably they'd put the police on them. Also, there's nobody harder to disguise than an English 'varsity man. He gives himself away at every turn. If “Fred” was around he'd be sure to smell a rat. One of those chaps would be likely to fake himself up as a plumber, and get in the house on some pretext or other—still wearing his wrist-watch! I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to stay away from Bancroft Road for a while and try to pull wires from a distance: The Blue Boar Inn—a very nice old house, by the way—looks out over the old Wolverhampton market place. In one corner of the square I had noticed a little post office. You can send a telegram from any post office in England, and I thought that would be my best entering wedge. The word “antiquarian” in the directory had given me a notion. On a blank I composed the following message, after some revisions: <h4> MISS KATHLEEN KENT, </h4> 318, Bancroft Road, <h4> WOLVERHAMPTON. </h4> My friend John Blair of Trinity now in Wolverhampton for historical study staying at Blue Boar nice chap American may he call on you if so send him a line sorry can't write hurt hand playing soccer love to all. <h4> JOE. </h4> This was taking a long chance, but was the best move I could think of. I asked the lady behind the counter to mark the telegram as though it came from Oxford. She said she could not do so, but I happened to have a five-bob piece in my pocket and that persuaded her. I convinced her that it was a harmless joke. I didn't see that there was anything further to be done immediately. If the telegram brought no word I should have to think up something else. In the meantime, if I was to pose as an antiquarian investigator I had better get up some dope on the history of Wolverhampton. I poked about until I found a bookshop, where I bought a little pamphlet about the town, and studied a map. Bancroft Road was out toward the northern suburbs. A little talk with the bookseller brought me the information that Mr. Kent was one of his best customers, a pleasant and simple-minded gentleman of sixty whose only hobby was the history of the region. He had written a book called “Memorials of Old Staffordshire,” but unfortunately I couldn't get a copy. The bookseller said it was out of print. Then I went to have a look at St. Philip's Church, a fine old Norman pile with some lovely brasses and crusaders' tombs. Here I had a piece of luck—fell in with the vicar. One of the jolly old port-wine and knicker-bocker sort: an old Oxford man, as it happened. I pumped him a little about the history of the church, and in his delight at finding an American who cared for such matters he talked freely. “Why,” he kept on saying, with a kind of pathetic enthusiasm, “I thought all you Americans were interested in was Standard Oil and tinned beef.” Finally he invited me over to the vicarage for tea. As I sat by his fire and ate toasted muffins I couldn't help chuckling to think how different this was from the other Scorpions' plan of attack. They were probably all biting their nails up and down Bancroft Road trying to carry the fort by direct assault. It's amazing how things turn out: just as I was wondering how to give the conversation a twist in the right direction, the vicar said: “If you're really interested in the history of this region you should certainly have a talk with old Mr. Kent. He's our leading antiquarian, and knows more about the Stour Valley than any one else. He says there was a skirmish fought here in 1645 that all the books have overlooked. The Battle of Wolverhampton, he calls it. He wrote a little pamphlet about it once.” I assured the good parson that my eagerness to know more about the Battle of Wolverhampton was unbounded. I nearly spilled my tea in my excitement. “Is that Mr. Kent of 318, Bancroft Road?” I asked. “Yes,” answered the vicar. “How did you know?” “They told me about him at the bookshop.” I explained that I was in Wolverhampton for a day or so only, and finally the excellent man came across with the suggestion I was panting for. “Well,” he said, “as it happens, I have one or two calls to make in that direction this evening. If you care to have me do so, I'll speak to Mr. Kent about you, and he can make an appointment. You said you were stopping at the Blue Boar?” I thanked him with such warmth that his eyes twinkled. “My dear fellow,” he said, “your enthusiasm does you great credit. I wish you all success in your thesis.” I got back to the Boar feeling that I had done a very good afternoon's work indeed. <hr /> <h2> VI </h2> The Scorpions (continues Blair's diary) were all very merry at dinner that night—particularly at my expense. I was the only one who had not been out to Bancroft Road to look over the ground. Apparently they had had a very cheery time. “Well, Falstaff, what luck?” I asked Carter. “Splendid!” he replied. “The local butcher has given me a job and I'm going to call there for a meat order tomorrow morning.” “What!” shouted someone. “On Sunday? Not likely!” I knew mighty well that Carter would not concoct anything as crude as that, and wondered what deviltry he had devised. “I noticed that two telegrams were delivered at the house this afternoon,” said Forbes, in a quiet, non-committal kind of way. “Perhaps Joe is on his way here,” said I. “If so, Good-Night!” As I spoke, I wondered rather anxiously what the other telegram could be. “Well, we saw her, anyway!” said Whitney, “and she's marvellous! She wears a blue tam-o' shanter and has an ankle like a fairy tale. We saw her walk down the street.” “That's nothing,” I retorted, “I saw her hours ago. She was on the train with us from Birmingham this morning.” This started a furious wrangle. They said I hadn't played fair, as the contest didn't begin until two o'clock. My point was that I had not transgressed the rules as I had done nothing to profit by my accident in seeing her first. “I couldn't help seeing her, could I?” I asked. “You could have, too, if you hadn't been all frowsting over Tit-Bits in the train. And after all, I didn't know it was Kathleen. I only suspected it.” I changed the conversation by asking where the Goblin was. No one had noticed before that he hadn't turned up. This was a bit disconcerting. I secretly thought him the most dangerous competitor. He has a quiet, impish twinkle in his eye, and an unobtrusive way of getting what he wants. However, the others scoffed at my fears. Although they all talked a great deal about the amusing time they had had, I could not gather that they had really accomplished much. Forbes claimed to have seen Fred, and said he looked like a rotter. We drank Kathleen's health a couple of times, and then the other three sat down to dummy bridge. I slipped away to the Public Library, partly to get some more of my antiquarian information about Wolverhampton, and partly because I knew my absence would disquiet them. I found the Library after some difficulty. In the large reading-room I hunted up some books of reference, but to my disappointment Mr. Kent's volume was out. Looking round for a place to sit, the first person I saw was the Goblin, bent very busily over a book and making notes on a pad of paper. I leaned over him. “Hello, Goblin,” I whispered. “Getting ready for a First?” He started, and tried to cover his volume with a newspaper, but I had seen it. It was a cook book. “That's a queer kind of fiction you're mulling over,” I remarked. “I'm looking up a recipe for stuffed eggs,” said the Goblin, without a quiver. “Our Common Room steward does them so poorly.” “Well, don't let me interrupt you,” I said. I sat down in a corner of the room with a volume of the Britannica. When I next looked up the Goblin was gone. As usual, I wasted my time with the encyclopedia. I got interested in the articles on Wages, Warts, Weather, Wordsworth, and Worms. By the time I got to Wolverhampton it was closing time. I did just seize the information that the town was founded in 996 by Wulfruna, widow of the Earl of Northampton. Then I had to leave. I got back to the Boar about ten-thirty. The coffee-room was empty. The landlord said that Whitney and Forbes were out, but that Mr. Carter had gone upstairs. Falstaff and I were rooming together, and when I went up I found him reading in bed. “Hello, Wulfruna!” he said, as I came in. Evidently he, too, had been reading up some history. Just as I got into bed he fell asleep and his book dropped to the floor with a thump. I crept quietly across the room and picked it up. It was “Memorials of Old Staffordshire,” by Philip Kent, F.S.A., the very copy that I had looked for at the Library. I skimmed over it and then put it carefully back by Falstaff's bedside. Was he on the antiquarian trail, too? I began to realize that these rivals of mine would take some beating. The next morning (Sunday) I found a note waiting for me on the breakfast table. Three indignant Scorpions were weighing it, studying the handwriting, and examining the stationery like three broken-hearted detectives. “It's not Kathleen's hand, but I'll swear it's the same notepaper,” Forbes was saying. Under a venomous gaze from all three I took the letter out of the room before opening it. Forbes was right: it was the well-known Bancroft Road notepaper. It ran thus: <h4> 318, BANCROFT ROAD, </h4> <h4> WOLVERHAMPTON </h4> Saturday Evening. <h4> DEAR MR. BLAIR, </h4> Mr. Dunton, the vicar of S. Philip's, has just told me of your visit to him. I am so glad to know that you take an antiquarian interest in this region. Curiously enough, only this afternoon we had two wires from our cousin Joe in Oxford, one of which mentioned your being here. That gives us additional reason for looking forward to making your acquaintance. Mrs. Kent wants you to come to lunch with us to-morrow, at one o'clock. Unfortunately I myself am laid up with rheumatism, but some of the family will be delighted to take you to see the quite surprising relics in this vicinity. Joe has probably told you all about Fred, who is really quite one of the family. The poor fellow needs exercise dreadfully; you must take him with you if you go tramping. Charlie and Oliver, my boys, are away at school. Don't attempt to reply to this, but just turn up at one o'clock. Sincerely yours, <h4> PHILIP KENT. </h4> This gave me several reasons for thought, and disregarding the appeals from the coffee-room to come in and tell them all about it, I walked into the courtyard of the Inn to consider. First, what was the other wire from Joe? Heavens, was he on his way from Oxford to Wolverhampton? If my fake telegram were discovered too soon I should be in a very embarrassing position. Second, Joe was a cousin, was he! One of those annoying second cousins, probably, who are close enough to the family to be a familiar figure, and yet far enough away in blood to marry the daughter! And then there was this sinister person, Fred, who was “really quite one of the family.” Another cousin, perhaps? What was the matter with the devil, anyway? If he needed exercise why didn't he go and get it? Certainly I didn't want to spend an afternoon antiquarianizing with him. How was I to get him out of the way, so that I could get a tete-a-tete with K.? I could see that if this game was to be played through successfully it must be played with some daring. Toujours de l'audace! I thought, and let breakfast go hang. Moreover, my sudden disappearance would help to demoralize my rivals. I stuck my head into the breakfast-room where Priapus was just dishing out the bacon and eggs. In that instant it struck me again that the Goblin was not there. I cried “Ye Gods!” in a loud voice, and slammed the door behind me. As I ran out of the front door I laughed at the picture of their disconcerted faces. My idea was to lure Fred away from Bancroft Road at all hazards. This could only be done by another telegram. And as it was Sunday, the railway station was the only place to send one from. It was a beautiful, clear morning, and I hurried through the streets with exultation, but also with a good deal of nervousness as to the outcome of this shameless hoaxing. At any rate, I thought, I may as well live up to my privileges as an irresponsible American. The Great Kathleen Excursion was beginning to take on in my mind the character of an international joust or tourney. At the station (or at the depot as one would say at home), I sent the following message: <h4> FREDERICK KENT, </h4> 318, Bancroft Road, <h4> WOLVERHAMPTON. </h4> Unavoidably detained Oxford hurt leg playing soccer wish you could join me at once urgent. <h4> JOE. </h4> I got back to the Boar in time for a cold breakfast. None of the others was there. I ate with my antiquarian notes on Wolverhampton propped against the coffee pot. I was determined that Mr. Kent should find me as intelligent as possible. There was nothing to be done before lunch time. I read Mr. Kent's letter over several times, and I must confess that the mention of that other wire from Joe worried me a good deal. Just how far the telegram I had just sent might conflict with the facts as known to the Kents, I could not surmise. I could only trust to luck and pray for the best. I learned from the chambermaid that the Goblin had come in very late the night before, and had gone out at six A.M. That bothered me almost more than anything else. Finally, after hanging round the empty coffee-room for a while, I got nervous, and determined to go to morning service at St. Philip's. There would be plenty of time to get out to Bancroft Road afterward, and perhaps Kathleen would be at church and I could get a distant view of her. I walked round to the church. Service had begun, but I went in and sat down at the back. During a hymn I took a good look round. To my horror I saw in a pew a few feet in front of me a young person whose robust outline seemed familiar. I looked again. It was Falstaff Carter in the get-up of a curate. Trembling with indignation, I crept out of the church. I hardly dared speculate on what low device he had planned for winning his way into the sanctum. At any rate, I thought, I am fixed for lunch: once I get there, I guess I can gain ground as fast as any pseudo-curate. I ran over my antiquarian data another time. It was half-past twelve, and I was just brushing my hair for the third time, preparatory to starting for Bancroft Road, when the chambermaid came to the bedroom door. “This note was just left for you, sir.” I tore it open. <h4> BANCROFT ROAD, </h4> Sunday Morning. <h4> MY DEAR MR. BLAIR, </h4> I am afraid you will think it very strange, but, owing to a sudden domestic disarrangement, will you come to supper, this evening, instead of to luncheon? I am exceedingly embarrassed to have to make this change, but (to be quite frank) one of our maids has been taken ill, and our luncheon to-day will have to be a haphazard affair. We are also rather distressed by strange news from our cousin at Oxford. But we shall be very happy to see you at supper time, seven o'clock. Cordially yours, <h4> PHILIP KENT. </h4> It came over me that this was pretty dirty work we were putting up on the poor gentleman, and I suddenly felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. I don't know whether any of the others came back to the Boar for lunch, or not. I put on my cap and went for a long walk in the country, out toward Tettenhall Wood. I didn't come back until tea time. <hr /> <h2> VII </h2> As Johnny Blair approached number 318, Bancroft Road, a little before seven o'clock that bland March evening, he bore within his hardy breast certain delicacies, remorses, doubts, and revulsions. But all these were transcended by his overmastering determination to see this superb and long-worshipped maiden near at hand. Bancroft Road proved to be a docile suburban thoroughfare, lined with comfortable villas and double houses, each standing a little back from the street with a small garden in front. A primrose-coloured afterglow lingered in the sky, and the gas lights along the pavement still burned pale and white. Just as the Rhodes Scholar passed number 302 he saw a feminine figure run down the steps of a house fifty yards farther on, cross the pavement, and drop a letter into the red pillar box standing there. Even at that distance, he distinguished a lively slimness in the girlish outline that could belong to no other than the Incomparable Kathleen. He hastened his step, casting hesitance to the wind. But she had already run back into the house. It would have added to the problems Mr. Blair was pondering could he have read the letter which had just dropped into the post-box. Perhaps it will somewhat advance the course of the narrative to give the reader a glimpse of it. <h4> 318, BANCROFT ROAD, </h4> Sunday Afternoon. <h4> DEAR JOE: </h4> Goodness knows what has happened to this usually placid house. Never again will I complain to you that there is no excitement in Wolverhampton. I got home from Birmingham yesterday noon and since then everything has been perfectly absurd. I can only believe you have gone balmy. First comes your wire about Mr. Blair and your having hurt your arm playing soccer. What you can have been doing at soccer I can't conceive. I supposed it was a mistake for hockey, or else some kind of a twit. Well, I couldn't see what I could do to help a historical student but I showed Dad the wire and the old dear said he would write Mr. Blair a line. I had just settled down to help Mother with some sewing when along comes your second wire, addressed to her. Mother and I threw up our hands and screamed! Certainly we thought you were off your crumpet. Why on earth should you send us another cook when you know Ethel has been here for so long? I read the wire forward and backward but it could mean nothing else. It said: Have found very good cook out of place am sending her to you earnestly recommend give her a trial reliable woman but eccentric name Eliza Thick will call Sunday morning. Well, we all had a good laugh over this, and wondered what kind of a joke you were up to. Then, after supper, to our amazement, came a third wire—not from you, this one, but to Dad, and who do you suppose from? The Bishop of Oxford if you please! Dad was so flustered (you know how telegrams excite him: they offend all his antiquarian instincts!)—well, the Bishop said—Am sending my favourite curate to call on you magnificent young fellow excellent family very worthy chap will be in Wolverhampton a day or two anxious to have him meet your family. Well, this rather flabbergasted us, but Dad took it rather as a matter of course, after the first surprise. He used to know the Bishop well—in fact, he dedicated his book to him. “Quite all right, my dear,” Dad kept saying. “I dare say the young man has some antiquarian problems to talk over. Too bad I'm so crippled with rheumatism.” After supper along came Mr. Dunton, and began to talk about a charming young American who had been calling on him, and who did it prove to be but your friend Mr. Blair, who had been quite put out of our minds by the later telegrams. So Dad sat down right away and wrote a note to Mr. Blair at the Blue Boar asking him for luncheon to-day, and sent it up by the gardener's boy. But this morning, when I had just decided not to go to church (you'll see why in a minute) comes your perfectly mad message to Fred, about hurting your leg at soccer and all the rest of it. This convinced us that you are quite crazy. How could we send Fred all that way alone! And when did you take up soccer anyway? But we know what a mad creature you are anyway, so we simply suspected some deep-laid twit. Now I come to the queerest thing of all! Ethel went out last night, for her usual Saturday evening off, and hasn't returned! In all the years she's been with us, Mother says, it's the first time such a thing ever happened. And before breakfast this morning, turns up this Eliza Thick person of yours, with a note from Ethel to say that she was sick but that her friend Eliza would see us through for a day or so. Well, you surely have a queer eye for picking out domestics! Of all the figures of fun I ever imagined, she is the strangest. I don't think she's quite right in her head. I'll tell you all about her when I see you. Really, I roar with laughter every time I look at her! I haven't got time to say more. With this Eliza person in the kitchen goodness knows what may happen. We had to send a note to Mr. Blair not to come for luncheon, the house was so upset. We heard a fearful uproar in the lower regions this afternoon and found Eliza engaged in ejecting some kind of gas-man who said he had come to see the meter (on Sunday, if you please!) Everything seems quite topsy turvy. And Mr. Blair is coming to supper in a few minutes, and that favourite curate of the Bishop's, too. I think I shall have to stay down in the kitchen to see that Eliza Thick gets through with it all right. I can forgive you almost anything except her! Never, never say again that nothing happens in Bancroft Road! Yours, <h4> KATHLEEN. </h4> <hr /> <h2> VIII </h2> A ruddy-cheeked housemaid in the correct evening uniform admitted Blair, and in the drawing-room he found Mr. Kent sitting by a shining fire. Points of light twinkled in the polished balls of the brass andirons. As soon as he entered, Blair felt the comely atmosphere of a charming and well-ordered home. Books lined the walls; a French window opened on to the lawn at the far end of the room; a large bowl of blue hyacinths, growing in a bed of pebbles, stood on the reading table. Mr. Kent was small, gray-haired, with a clear pink complexion and a guileless blue eye. “Mr. Blair,” he said, laying down his paper, “I am very glad to meet you. A friend of Joe's is always welcome here, and particularly when he's an antiquarian. I know you'll excuse our seeming rudeness in putting you off at luncheon.” Blair bowed, and made some polite reply. “As a matter of fact,” said Mr. Kent, “my wife was embarrassed this morning by strange happenings in the domestic department. Our cook, usually very faithful, did not turn up, and sent a substitute who has caused her—well, mingled annoyance and amusement. I have not seen the woman myself: my rheumatism has kept me pretty close to the fire this damp weather; but by all accounts the creature is very extraordinary. Well, well, you are not interested in that, of course. It is very pleasant to meet a fellow antiquarian. How did you happen to visit Wolverhampton? We have a number of quite unusual relics in these parts, but they are not so well known as they should be.” “To tell the truth, sir,” said Blair, “it was your book, which I came across in the college library. I was particularly interested in your account of St. Philip's Church, and I made up my mind that I ought to see it. You see, we in America have so little antiquity of our own that these relics of old England are peculiarly fascinating to us.” “Quite so, quite so!” said Mr. Kent, rubbing his hands with pleasure. “Magnificent! Well, well, it is certainly a delight to hear you say so. After supper we will dismiss the ladies and have a good crack. There are some really startling things to be learned about Wolverhampton in Anglo-Saxon times. You know the town lay along the frontier that was much harried by the Danes, and Edward the Elder won a conspicuous victory over the invaders at Tettenhall, which is a village very near here.” “Yes,” said Blair, “I walked out there this afternoon.” “Did you, indeed! Well, that was a proof of your perspicacity. You may recall that in my book I referred to the battle at Tettenhall—” “That was in 910, was it not?” queried Blair, adroitly. “Precisely. It is mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.” “Edward the Elder died in 924, didn't he?” asked the ruthless American. “About that time, I think. I don't remember exactly. Upon my word, Mr. Blair, you have taken up history with true American efficiency! I do wish that our young men had the same zeal. I am happy to say, however, that I am expecting a young cleric this evening, a protege of the Bishop of Oxford, who is, I believe, also interested in these matters.” Blair's heart sank, but he had no time to ponder, for at this moment Mrs. Kent and Kathleen came in. “My dear, this is Mr. Blair, Joe's friend from Oxford. We are great cronies already. My wife, Mr. Blair, and my daughter Kathleen.” The young Oxonian suffered one of the most severe heart contusions known in the history of the human race. It was a positive vertigo of admiration. This was indeed the creature he had seen on the railway platform: a dazzling blend of girl and woman. The grotesque appellation “flapper” fled from his mind. Her thick, dark hair was drawn smoothly across her head and piled at the back in a heavenly coil. Her clear gray eyes, under rich brown brows, were cool, laughing, and self-possessed. She was that most adorable of creatures, the tweenie, between girl and woman, with the magic of both and the weaknesses of neither. Blair could not have said how she was dressed. He saw only the arch face, the intoxicating clearness of her skin, the steady, friendly gaze. “How do you do,” he said, and remembering English reticence, hesitated to put out his hand; then cursed himself for not having done so. Kathleen smiled, and murmured, “How do you do.” “I'm very glad to see you,” said Mrs. Kent. “Do tell us what that crazy Joe has been up to. Did Mr. Kent tell you we've had three telegrams from her?” Blair felt the room twirl under his feet. How one little pronoun can destroy a man! In his agony he saw Mrs. Kent and Kathleen sit down on the big couch, and painfully found his way to a chair. “I—I beg your pardon?” he stammered. “I didn't just catch—” “The mad girl has sent us three telegrams,” said Mrs. Kent, “in which there was only one sensible thing, the reference to yourself. Her other remarks, about cooks and soccer and injured limbs, were quite over our heads.” With a dull sense of pain Blair felt Kathleen's bright eyes on him. “Yes, Mr. Blair, is she ragging us? Or have the girls at Maggie Hall taken up soccer?” said a clear voice, every syllable of which seemed so precious and girlish and quaintly English that he could have clapped his hands. He blessed her for the clue. “Maggie Hall!”—in other words, Lady Margaret Hall, one of the women's colleges at Oxford. So “Joe” was (in American parlance) a “co-ed!” “Why—er—I believe they have been playing a little,” he said desperately. “I think he—er—something was said about having his—hum—her—arm—hurt in a rough game.” “Her leg, too,” said Mr. Kent. “In my time, young girls didn't send telegrams about their legs. In fact, they didn't send telegrams at all.” “Well, we are quite nonplussed,” said Mrs. Kent. “Kathleen says Joe must have had a rush of humour to the head. She wired for us to send Fred down to her. Of course she has sent wires to Fred before, as a joke; but she must have known we couldn't send him so far alone. I suppose Joe has told you all about Fred? He's quite one of the family.” “Yes,” said the distracted Oxonian. “He must be a fine fellow. I'm very anxious to meet him.” There was a ring at the front door bell, and in a kind of stupor Blair realized that something—he hardly knew what—was about to happen. “The Reverend Mr. Carter,” announced the maid. Blair had a keen desire to scream, but he kept his eyes firmly on the rug until he had mastered himself. In the general movement that followed he had presence of mind enough to seize a chair next to Kathleen. He saw Falstaff's burly figure enter, habited as the conventional “black beetle” of the church, and in the sharpened state of his wits noticed that the unpractised curate had put on his clerical collar the wrong way round. He rejoiced in Carter's look of dismay on finding his fellow-Scorpion already on the battlefield. “Mr. Carter,” said Mr. Kent, “this is Mr. Blair, of Trinity.” The two shook hands gravely. Blair determined to make use of his hard-won information to set Carter astray. “I know Mr. Carter by reputation,” he said. “I have heard Joe speak of him in terms of great admiration.” The curate looked worried, but tried to play safe. “Oh, yes, Joe!” he said. “Splendid chap.” Blair made haste to get back to the chair he coveted. He had no idea what mad schemes might lurk beneath Carter's episcopalian frock, and was determined to gain any headway he could. “It seems funny your coming to Wolverhampton,” said Kathleen. “So few 'varsity men ever get here. But it's certainly a blessing for Dad. He'll talk antiquities with you as long as you like.” “Are you interested in the subject?” asked Blair. “I'm afraid not,” she laughed. “It's too bad Dad is so laid up with his lumbago. He'd love to walk you out to Tettenhall and Boscobel, to see his burial mounds.” “How very interesting!” said Blair. “A kind of private family cemetery?” “Oh, dear no,” declared Kathleen in amazement. “Antiquities, you know, where the Danes buried themselves.” “Of course, of course. How I wish I could see them! Are you fond of walking?” “Yes, when it isn't too muddy. It's been too wet lately to go out with Fred. He loves a good long walk, but he's getting old and his rheumatism bothers him.” “I dare say he may have inherited that from your father?” “It's very common among Scotties,” said Kathleen. “Oh, is your family Scotch?” said Blair, feverishly trying to be polite. “Our family?” queried Kathleen with a smile. “Heavens, no! I thought you were talking about Fred. You must see him, he's somewhere around.” “I should love to meet him,” said Blair. Kathleen went to the door and whistled. There was a scampering on the stairs, and a grizzled Skye terrier trotted into the room. Blair and Carter looked at each other sheepishly. Mr. Kent had been referring to his watch several times, and Blair began to suspect that something was wrong. But just then supper was announced. As they passed into the dining-room, the American thought he noticed signs of agitation on the maid's face. He wondered secretly what the rest of the Scorpions were up to. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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