Paris, or give lectures in Berlin to prove that most of Wagner's
music was written by Gambetta; and there's always the interior of
Morocco to travel in. But, to be really effective, the Unrest-
cure ought to be tried in the home. How you would do it I haven't
the faintest idea."

It was at this point in the conversation that Clovis became
galvanized into alert attention. After all, his two days' visit
to an elderly relative at Slowborough did not promise much
excitement. Before the train had stopped he had decorated his
sinister shirt-cuff with the inscription, "J. P. Huddle, The
Warren, Tilfield, near Slowborough."

. . . . . . . . .

Two mornings later Mr. Huddle broke in on his sister's privacy as
she sat reading Country Life in the morning room. It was her day
and hour and place for reading Country Life, and the intrusion was
absolutely irregular; but he bore in his hand a telegram, and in
that household telegrams were recognized as happening by the hand
of God. This particular telegram partook of the nature of a
thunderbolt. "Bishop examining confirmation class in
neighbourhood unable stay rectory on account measles invokes your
hospitality sending secretary arrange."

"I scarcely know the Bishop; I've only spoken to him once,"
exclaimed J. P. Huddle, with the exculpating air of one who
realizes too late the indiscretion of speaking to strange Bishops.
Miss Huddle was the first to rally; she disliked thunderbolts as
fervently as her brother did, but the womanly instinct in her told