“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. His heir is dead, yes, and his name and title available to me. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “don’t!” “Why not?” she asked, smiling. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. Oh, I grew fond of you as the years went by.
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