"Well, it has—and who do you think is responsible? Sir Harry Tanneur."
Hank jerked his head inquiringly in the direction of 66.
"Yes," said the Duke seriously, "for some unaccountable reason he has prevailed upon the vicar to change the date. I've just had a note from the vicar to tell me this. Tanneur is paying all the expenses incidental to the change, the printing and the advertisements, and that is not like Sir Harry, from what I know of him."
"To-day is Tuesday," meditated, Hank, "and to-morrow is Wednesday."
"You're a devil of a chap for finding things out," said the Duke with amused irritation. "You'd put Jacko out of business in a week."
In their less serious moments, the tenants of 64 invariably referred to Roderick as "Jacko Napes."
"I can see no connexion between Jacko and the concert," said Hank, "can you?"
The Duke shook his head.
"It is an instinct," he said seriously, "a premonition of some sort of danger—the sort of thing that turns you creepy just before cattle stampede."
"Run away and play," said the unimaginative Hank, "go into the garden and lasso worms—you're losing your nerve."