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“Your Grace.”

“What’s dat?” said the Duke, with an unmistakable East-Side accent. Garland was staggered.

“I’ll grace you,” continued the sideburns aggressively. “I saw you was a swell and I’d a dropped you bad only I’m just out of jail myself. Now listen here. I’ll give you two seconds to get scarce. Go on, beat it.”

Garland beat it. Crestfallen and broken-hearted he walked away and set off for Mirabel’s. He would at least make a decent ending to a miserable quest. A half an hour later he rang the bell, his clothes hanging on him like a wet bathing suit.

Mirabel came to the door, cool and fascinating.

“Oh Doddy!” she exclaimed. “Thank you so much. Dukey,” and she held up a small white poodle which she had in her arms, “came back ten minutes after you left. He had just followed the mailman.”

Garland sat down on the step.

“But the Duke of Matterlane?”

“Oh,” said Mirabel, “he comes tomorrow. You must come right over and meet him.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Garland, rising feebly. “Previous engagement.” He paused, smiled faintly and set off across the sultry moonlit pavement.