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MINERVA came cat-footed up the stairs and knocked at Miss Carrington’s sitting-room door.

Miss Carrington lowered her book, frowning impatiently.

“It’s maddening never to hear you coming, Minerva,” she said. “Luckily my nerves are equable. Now what do you want?”

“Merton sent his boy around with a message from Master Kit—Mr. Carrington. You are not to wait lunch for him; he is lunching out,” said Minerva.

“I wonder where?” murmured Miss Carrington, but she resumed her book as if the wonder were not keen.

“With Mr. Richard Latham, the poet.” Minerva had waited for the question and her eyes snapped with enjoyment at her answer.

“What!” cried Miss Carrington, erect in an instant. “Kit doesn’t know him.”

“It would seem that he must, now,” suggested Minerva. “He’s lunching there. There’s no mistake in the message, because Tommy didn’t merely say ‛Mr. Latham,’ nor ‛the poet,’ but ‛Mr. Richard Latham, the poet.’ That’s too much to get wrong.”

“It’s too much, whatever Merton’s boy said. How in the world did it happen?” Miss Carrington speculated. “I suppose the secretary asked him there for some reason——”