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“Yes, sir! a big one.”

“What’s that for? What will he do with it? What will we do with it?”

“Show him up, Benson,” said Paul, promptly; “trunk and all.”

Paul’s eyes twinkled as he vanished through the doorway.

“Never heard of such a thing,” mused the Doctor, “bringing a trunk to a musicale. Must be some mistake! Benson! I say, Benson! Show him next door.”

“Not yet I hope,” and amid shouts of laughter in rushed two fellows,—Paul bringing Henri Semple—“Harry”—of all their musical friends the one most welcome and opportune.

The Doctor was delighted, and gave him a good squeeze—no time for much else.

“Benson! put Mr. Semple’s trunk in his own room, you know the one I mean; and now, Harry, if you don’t get inside that trunk quickly as possible the state of the country will not be safe, an invasion is threatened at any minute. Put on your regimentals at once, and help us out.”

Semple, who understood the Doctor’s lingo from many years back, took in the situation at a glance. He had hardly time to laugh about the Doctor’s being “the same old chappie as ever,” when he was literally thrust towards the stairway, to follow the trunk, and put on his evening clothes.