“Let us see what she says on her card,” and Gwen read the following words: “‘Mrs Pottinger hopes that Lord Somerville will accept and use the small pocket battery which accompanies this card. One of the most renowned New York surgeons has invented this wonderful brain restorer, and Mrs P. trusts Lord Somerville will give the discovery a fair trial, and that he will patronise the inventor and the invention.’”
“My first and only call will be on Mrs David Pottinger!” exclaimed Lionel, sitting up in his bed. “We shall see her yet presiding at the Palace of Happiness, and leading by the hand the American Seer.”
“Is my lord worse, Miss?” gravely inquired the valet, as he leaned towards Gwen.
“No, Temple, your master has never been in better spirits, nor has he ever been so clear in his mind. But it is—what can I call it?—a joke between us, and no one besides ourselves can understand it.”
“My good Temple,” echoed Lionel, with a joyous ring in his voice, “it is a conundrum which we are trying to guess. We have already made out the first part of the riddle, but the second will be more difficult, for it will consist in making you see the joke, Temple.”
“Oh! my lord, I always was a bad hand at guessing.”
“Ev’n News! Probable date of th’ Coronation!” The hurried footsteps passed in front of Selby House.
“What does that mean, Gwen? Is not the Coronation over by this time?”
“My poor boy, of course you do not know the news! Many things have happened since that night when you shot yourself. The war is over—thank goodness that is a thing of the past! But the royal tragedy-comedy was never acted. You shall read for yourself.” And Gwen went to fetch a bundle of newspapers and illustrated journals that lay on a console.
“’Ooligan murderer sentenced!” Again the hurried steps passed in the street.