ing you on the telephone, sir," announced one of the club
attendants at his elbow, a few minutes later.

"Eh? Who is it? Tell 'em I can't be bothered. No, don't. I'm coming."

Laboriously he hoisted himself out of his chair, regretfully he knocked
the glowing tobacco out of his pipe, heavy-footed he betook him to the
telephone.

"Hullo!"

"Oh!" said a woman's voice. "Is that you?"

"Yes. Who do you want?"

"Mr. Rivington--Cecil Mordaunt Rivington." The syllables came with great
distinctness. They seemed to have an anxious ring.

"Yes, I'm here," said the owner of the name. "Who are you?"

"I'm Ernestine. Can you hear me?"

"First-rate! What can I do for you?"

There was a pause, then:

"I had your letter," said the voice, "and I'm tremendously grateful to
you. I was afraid you might be vexed."

"Not a bit of it," said Rivington genially. "Anything to oblige."

"Thanks so much! It was great cheek, I know, but I've had such a horrid
fright. I couldn't think of any other way out, and you were the only
possible person that occurred to me. You were very kind to me once, a
long time ago. It's awfully decent of you not to mind."

"Please don't!" said Rivington. "That sort of thing always upsets me.
Look here, can't we meet somewhere and talk things over? It would
simplify matters enormously."

"Yes, it would. That is what I want to arrange. Could you manage some
time this afternoon? Please say you can!"

"Of course I can," said Rivington promptly. "What place?"

"I don't know. It must be somewhere right away where no one will know
us."

"How would the city do? That's nice and private."

A faint laugh came to his ear. "Yes; but where?"

Rivington briefly considered.

"St. Paul's Cathedral, under the dome, three o'clock. Will that do?"

"Yes, I'll be there. You won't fail?"

"Not if I live," said Rivington. "Anything else?"

"No; only a million thanks! I'll explain everything when we meet."

"All right. Good-bye!"

As he hung up the receiver, a heavy frown drove the kindliness out of
his face.

"What have they been doing to the child?" he said. "It's a pretty
desperate step for a girl to take. At least it might be, it would be, if
I were any one else."

Suddenly the smile came back and drew afresh the kindly, humorous lines
about his eyes.

"She seems to remember me rather well," he murmured. "She certainly was
a jolly little kid."

III

THE LADY IN DISTRESS

The afternoon sunl