Mr. Franklin was concerned, since the latter was in Knoleworth, buying a
famous racing stud. Being in the village, however, this fisher in
troubled waters was not inclined to return without a bag of some sort.

He walked straight into the post office. Doris and her father were there,
the telegraphist being out.

"Good day, everybody," he cried cheerfully. "Grant wants to know, Mr.
Martin, if you and Miss Doris will come and dine with him, us, this
evening at 7.30?"

The postmaster gazed helplessly at this free-and-easy stranger. Doris
laughed, and blushed a little.

"This is Mr. Hart, a friend of Mr. Grant's, dad," she explained. "I'm
afraid we cannot accept the invitation. We are so busy."

"The worst of excuses," said Hart.

"But there is a London correspondent here who hands in a long telegram
at that hour."

"What's his name?"

"Mr. Peters."

"Great Scott! Jimmie Peters here? I'll soon put a stopper on him. He'll
come, too--jumping. See if he doesn't. Is it a bargain? Short telegram
at six. Dinner for five at 7.30. Come, now, Mr. Martin. It's up to you. I
can see 'Yes' in Doris's eye. Over the port--most delectable, I assure