"i think you had better get your uncle a little whisky, or something," said lady aspasia to baby, as, upon their ejection into the passage, she guided the poor gentleman's vague footsteps towards her own room. "come in here, arty; there's a good fire."

sir arthur turned his eyes upon her with a vacant look, catching at surprise.

"yes, my room. but, lord, i don't think any of us need mind the convenances to-night!"

she gave a dry laugh. at least, whatever rules were transgressed now—they only regarded him and her: the thought came with sudden and exceeding pleasantness upon her; and that heart of hers, atrophied by long disuse, was stirred. she looked at the helpless, dazed creature, sinking into her armchair, with a softness that, even in his most gallant youth, his image had not evoked. "good fellow" as she was, lady aspasia was yet a woman in the hidden fibre.

young aspasia, shuffling about in her slippers, yet still fleet of foot, broke in upon their silence with the decanter. shivering, partly with fatigue, partly with the chill of the dawn, she stood, vaguely watching the elder lady administer a stiff bumper to sir arthur.

complete as was the turmoil in her own mind, deep as was her distress and anxiety anent rosamond, baby's sense of humour was irresistibly acute: the vision of lady aspasia, incompletely attired under her motor coat, her loose coiled hair (divested of the dignity of her "transformation") presenting a strangely flat appearance, bending with such solicitude over so reduced a runkle, brought a hysterical giggle in her throat.

"pray," said lady aspasia, wheeling round upon her, "don't begin to cry here, my dear! one is as much as i can manage."

"i'm not crying," retorted young aspasia, as indignantly as her chattering teeth would allow. "i'm laughing."

"then that's worse," responded the other, succinctly. "take some whisky, too. go to bed."

sir arthur, gulping down the potent mixture provided for him, extended a forbidding left hand:

"one moment," he ordered; then choked and coughed. but the stimulant was working its effect, his backbone was notably stiffer. the native dignity, not to say pomposity, was returning to his support. he regarded his niece with eyes, severe, if somewhat watery. "how long, aspasia, have you known this—this—disgraceful state of affairs?"

he rolled his suffused gaze from the girl to his distinguished relative, seeking a kindred indignation.

"you mean, how long i have known that aunt rosamond wasn't married at all? oh, lord, what am i saying?—that she's got two husbands—gracious, i can't help being muddled. who could? anyhow, that she's not married to you? i——"

"the premises are by no means established," interrupted sir arthur, with not unsuccessful reaching after his old manner. "but how long, i ask, have you known of the presence in this house—or in this neighbourhood—of the person, impostor or no, who dares to present himself as harry english?"

"well, as a matter of fact," said baby, hugging herself in her dressing-gown, the warmth of the fire, the heat of her reawakening antagonism, getting the better of her chill tremors; "as a matter of fact, you have known him a good deal longer and more intimately than i have."

"lord, child, how you bandy words!" said lady aspasia, disapprovingly; "let her go to bed, arty. surely, you'll have plenty of time by-and-by for all this."

but the lieutenant-governor waived the interruption aside with impatience. miss cuningham did not await further questioning. it would be scarce human to feel no complacency in the power to impart weighty information. and baby was among the most human of her race.

"you went and fished him out yourself," she cried. "your own particular, private secretary."

and still sir arthur was all at sea.

"private secretary," he repeated blankly, hastily running over in his mind all the members of his staff within recent years. nonsense! preposterous! there was not one who bore the faintest resemblance to this black-avised, domineering intruder.

lady aspasia whistled under her breath to mark her displeasure at the inopportune discussion, and mixed herself a companion bumper to sir arthur's.

"the native spring, not quite so native as we all fancied, runkle. muhammed saif-u-din. my goodness," cried the girl, clasping her hands, and struck with a new aspect of the situation, "no wonder i thought him queer! ... no wonder, runkle, he looked at you as if he could murder you! lord, it's just too romantic! to think of his being with you all these days and weeks, and of his being here, alone with us—waiting, waiting all the time."

"muhammed..." ejaculated sir arthur, and sat in his chair as if turned to stone.

then suddenly:

"muhammed!" he cried again, in a high shrill voice, and bounded to his feet. "the damned black scoundrel," foamed the lieutenant-governor, "the wretched nigger. the miserable beggar, whom i took from the gutter and admitted into my household, and treated as a gentleman—a gentleman, begad! by the lord, he shall smart for this! it's a hideous conspiracy! no, no, lady aspasia, you don't know the race as i do. it's trickery, it's a piece of monstrous indian jugglery. i tell you, it's a conspiracy between them all."

"of course," cut in sarcastic baby, trembliog again, this time with anger, "it's all a conspiracy, merely to annoy the runkle. captain english has simply plotted not to have been killed, and poor aunt rosamond lies at death's door out of sheer aggravation—that's part of the conspiracy also."

"and pray," said sir arthur, unheeding anything but the opposition of her tone, and turning furiously again upon the girl, "will you have the kindness to answer me at last? you, you, my niece, how long have you been in the business? a nice set of vipers i've been nourishing! oh, my god!"

he put his hand to his forehead and reeled; then stretched out his arm, gropingly. promptly, lady aspasia popped the glass she had destined for herself into the vague fingers; and, as if mechanically, it was instantly conveyed to his lips.

"i've been in the business no longer than you, yourself, runkle."

young aspasia, between anger, scorn, and her sense of humour, was now perilously near the hysterics dreaded by her namesake.

"now look here," said the latter, catching the small figure by the elbow and turning it towards the door, "you get out of this in double-quick time; i'll manage your uncle."

"master muhammed will find he has made a little mistake—a little mistake," said the great man, spurred once more to his normal vigour of intellect.

he was standing, legs wide apart, on the hearthrug, and glared at his niece as she wheeled round on the threshold for her usual parthian shot.

"it's rather a pity that he does not happen to be muhammed any more; isn't it, runkle?" she cried spitefully; "that he never was muhammed, but always harry english, harry english, harry english, who never was dead at all!"

she closed the door with a slam upon a picture of her uncle's suddenly stricken face, of lady aspasia's swift advance towards him with outstretched hands.

"she'll manage him!" said baby to herself, with a sobbing giggle, as she ran down the dark passage.