orney, in case anything should
crop up."

He called for writing materials, and scribbled and signed the document,
which I put into my letter case.

"And what about letters?"

"Don't want any. Unless"--said he, after a little pause, frowning in the
plenitude of his content--"if you and Barbara can make things right
again with Doria--then one of you might drop me a line. I'll send you a
schedule of dates."

"Still harping on my daughter?" said I.

"You may think it devilish funny," he replied; "but for me there's only
one woman in the world."

"Let us have a final drink," said I.

We drank, chatted a while, and went to bed.

When I awoke the next morning the _Vesta_ was already four hours on her
way to Madagascar.

CHAPTER XX

I have one failing. Even I, Hilary Freeth, of Northlands in the County
of Berkshire, Esquire, Gent, have one failing, and I freely confess it.
I cannot keep a key. Were I as other men are--which, thank Heaven, I am
not--I might wear a pound or so of hideous ironmongery chained to my
person. This I decline to do, with the result that, as I say, I cannot
keep a key. Of all the household stowaway places under my control (and
Barbara limits their number) only one is locked; and that drawer
containing I know not what treasures or rubbish is likely to continue so
forever and ever--for the key is lost. Such important documents as I
desire to place in security I send to bankers or solicitors, who are
trained from childhood in the expert use of safes and strong-boxes. My
other papers the world can read if it choose to waste its time; at any
rate, I am not going to lock them up and have the worry of a key preying
on my mind. I should only lose it as I lost the other one. Now, by a
freak of fortune, the key of Jaffery's flat remained in the suit-case
wherein I had flung it at Havre, until it was fished out by Franklin on
my arrival at Northlands.

"For goodness' sake, my dear," said I to Barbara, "take charge of this
thing."

But she refused. She had too many already to look after. I must accept
the responsibility as a moral discipline. So I tied a luggage label to
the elusive object, inscribed thereon the legend, "Key of Jaffery's
flat," and hung it on a nail which I drove into the wall of my library.

"Besides," said Barbara, satirically watching the operation, "I am not
going to have anything to do with this crack-brained adventure."

"To hear you speak," said I, for she had alrea