But Mannering knew what had happened, and he could scarcely believe that luck was breaking his way so much. Fauntley kept the key of the strong-room in that bureau. Of course, in many ways it was safe; few people would look for it there, unless they knew it could be found.

Mannering knew; and he was telling himself that the bureau-drawer could be prised open in a few seconds.

He glanced again at the guard, a short, stocky fellow who would be difficult to get past; difficult, but not impossible by any means. . . .

“What are you going to do after that?” asked Lorna.

Mannering, leaning against the marble mantelpiece of the lounge, surveyed his companion silently for several seconds. Lord and Lady Fauntley, abruptly conscious of the duties of parenthood, had disappeared on some mysterious errand, and Mannering had been with their daughter for several minutes. Neither had spoken until that question.

Mannering shrugged his shoulders at last.

“Do I satisfy?” Lorna asked suddenly.

“Y’know, you shouldn’t have said that,” said Mannering. “You’re not made for peddling the obvious.”

“Isn’t this isolation of the young with the eligible just as obvious?” demanded Lorna, her eyes smouldering. “Or do you still preserve your innocence in a world of matchmaking parents?”

“Sometimes it’s folly to be wise,” said Mannering, and took a deep breath. “I like your mother.”

“Poor Dad!”

“Rich, I thought the better word. In more ways than one.”

A tinge of colour flooded the girl’s cheeks. In the soft light of the lounge she had a loveliness that a harsher light might have mocked.

“And are you considering your verdict?” she asked with an effort. “While mother’s saying, “I wonder if” and Dad’s grunting, “Not a chance, m’dear; the little fool’s got no sense.”

“It’s a regular performance, then?”