"How about my yacht?" asked the other.

"A long sea voyage for his health?"

"Ah," said Simms, "that's better, but voyages come to an end."

"How about my villa at Naples? Properly looked after there he will be
safe enough."

"Of course," said Simms, "that will mean he will always have to be
there--always."

"Of course, always. D'you think now I have got him in safety I will let
him out?"

Simms sighed. The business was drifting into very dangerous waters. He
knew for a matter of fact and also by intuition that Jones was Jones and
that Rochester was dead and his unfortunate position was like this:

1. If Jones escaped from Hoover's unsoothed and furious he might find
his way to the American Consul or, _horror!_ to some newspaper office.
Then the band would begin to play.

2. If Jones were transferred on board the Duke's yacht and sequestrated,
the matter at once became _criminal_, and the prospect of long years of
mental distress and dread lest the agile Jones should break free stood
before him like a nightmare.

3. It was impossible to make the Duke believe that Jones was Jones and
that Rochester was dead.

The only thing to be done was to release Jones, soothe him, bribe him
and implore of him to get back to America as quick as possible.

This being clear before the mind of Simms, he at once proceeded to act.

"It is not so much the question of your letting him out," he said, "as
of his escaping. And now I must say this. My professional reputation is
at stake and I must ask you to come with me to Curzon Street and put the
whole matter before the family. I wish to have a full consultation."

The Duke demurred for a moment. Then he agreed and the two men left the
club.

At Curzon Street they found the Dowager Countess and Venetia Birdbrook
about to retire for the night. Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had
already retired, and, though invited to the conference, refused to leave
her room.

Then, in the drawing-room with closed doors, Simms, relying on the
intelligence of the women as a support, began, for the second time, his
tale.

He convinced the women, and by one o'clock in the morning, still
standing by his guns after the fashion of the defenders of Bundlecund,
the Duke had to confess that he had no more ammunition. Surrendered in
fact.

"But what is to be done?" asked the distracted mother of the defunct.
"What will this terrible man do if we release him?"

"Do," shouted the Duke. "Do--why the