thinking of?" said the millionaire. And his anguish cleared from his
face.

"For once in a way our dear Lupin's fondness for warning people will
have given him a painful jar," said the Duke.

"Come on! let me get at the telephone," cried the millionaire.

"But the telephone's no good," said Sonia quickly.

"No good! Why?" roared the millionaire, dashing heavily across the
room to it.

"Look at the time," said Sonia; "the telephone doesn't work as late
as this. It's Sunday."

The millionaire stopped dead.

"It's true. It's appalling," he groaned.

"But that doesn't matter. You can always telegraph," said Germaine.

"But you can't. It's impossible," said Sonia. "You can't get a
message through. It's Sunday; and the telegraph offices shut at
twelve o'clock."

"Oh, what a Government!" groaned the millionaire. And he sank down
gently on a chair beside the telephone, and mopped the beads of
anguish from his brow. They looked at him, and they looked at one
another, cudgelling their brains for yet another way of