"Saw 'proaching marriage—newspaper," hiccoughed Dick—"took first steamer."
"What did you come for?" demanded Allingford sternly.
"Come? Congratulate you—see the bride."
"Not on your life!" exclaimed the Consul. "You are beastly drunk and not fit for decent society."
"Fault—railroad company—bad whisky," explained the unregenerate one.
"I'll take your word for it," replied his brother. "You ought to be a judge of whisky. But you won't go to my wedding unless you are sober." And he rang for his valet.
"This is my brother, Parsons," he remarked to that individual when he entered. "You may put him to bed at once. Use my room for the purpose, and engage another for me for to-night."
"Yes, sir," replied his valet, who was too well trained to betray any emotion.
"When you have got him settled," continued the Consul, "lock him in, and let him stay till morning." With which he straightway departed, leaving his stupefied brother to the tender mercies of the shocked and sedate Parsons.
Allingford stood a good deal in awe of his valet, and dreaded to see the reproachful look of outraged dignity which he knew would greet him on his return. So he again sought the club, intending to find Scarsdale and continue their conversation; but that gentleman had departed, and the Consul was forced to console himself with a brandy and soda, and settle down to a quiet hour of reflection.