out into the garden again to find Billie Dore on the point of stepping into a blue automobile. "Oh, there you are, George. I wondered where you had got to. Say, I made quite a hit with dadda. I've given him my address, and he's promised to send me a whole lot of roses. By the way, shake hands with Mr. Forsyth. This is George Bevan, Freddie, who wrote the music of our show." The solemn youth at the wheel extended a hand. "Topping show. Topping music. Topping all round." "Well, good-bye, George. See you soon, I suppose?" "Oh, yes. Give my love to everybody." "All right. Let her rip, Freddie. Good-bye." "Good-bye." The blue car gathered speed and vanished down the drive. George returned to the man in corduroys, who had bent himself double in pursuit of a slug. "Just a minute," said George hurriedly. He pulled out the first of the notes. "Give this to Lady Maud the first chance you get. It's important. Here's a sovereign for your trouble." He hastened away. He noticed that gratification had turned the other nearly purple in the face, and was anxious to leave him. He was a modest young man, and effusive thanks always embarrassed him. There now remained the disposal of the duplicate note. It was hardly worth while, perhaps, taking such a precaution, but George knew that victories are won by those who take no chances. He had wandered perhaps a hundred yards from the rose-garden when he encountered a small boy in the many-buttoned uniform of a page. The boy had appeared from behind a big cedar, where, as a matter of fact, he had been smoking a stolen cigarette. "Do you want to earn half a crown?" asked George. The market value of messengers had slumped. The stripling held his hand out. "Give this note to Lady Maud." "Right ho!"