miles, the last hundred
yards of which he had covered at a rapid gallop, under the erroneous
impression that an express whose smoke he had seen in the distance was
the train he had come to catch. Arrived on the platform, he had had a
trying wait, followed by a slow journey to Waterloo. The cab which he
had taken at Waterloo had kept him in a lively state of apprehension all
the way to the Savoy, owing to an apparent desire to climb over
motor-omnibuses when it could not get round them. At the Savoy he found
that Billie had already left, which had involved another voyage through
the London traffic under the auspices of a driver who appeared to be
either blind or desirous of committing suicide. He had three flights of
stairs to negotiate. And, finally, arriving at the office, he had found
his daughter in the circumstances already described.

"Why, father!" said Billie. "I didn't expect you."

As an explanation of her behaviour this might, no doubt, have been
considered sufficient, but as an excuse for it Mr. Bennett thought it
inadequate and would have said so, had he had enough breath. This
physical limitation caused him to remain speechless and to do the best
he could in the way of stern fatherly reproof by puffing like a seal
after a long dive in search of fish.

Having done this, he became aware that Sam Marlowe was moving towards
him with outstretched hand. It took a lot to disconcert Sam, and he was
the calmest person present. He gave evidence of this in a neat speech.
He did not in so many words congratulate Mr. Bennett on the piece of
luck which had befallen him, but he tried to make him understand by his
manner that he was distinctly to be envied as the prospective
father-in-law of such a one as himself.

"I am delighted to see you, Mr. Bennett," said Sam. "You could not have
come at a more fortunate moment. You see for yourself how things are.
There is no need for a long explanation. You came to find a daughter,
Mr. Bennett, and you have found a son!"

And he would like to see the man, thought Sam, who could have put it
more cleverly and pleasantly and tactfully than that.

"What are you talking about?" said Mr. Bennett, recovering breath. "I
haven't got a son."

"I will be a son to you! I will be the prop of your declining years...."

"What the devil do you mean, my declining years?" demanded Mr. Bennett
with asperity.

"He means when they do decline, father dear," said Billie.

"Of course, of cour