Margaret showed him the telegram.
"What does this mean, Mr.Bellingham ?" she asked, smiling, but scrutinising his face closely.
"My dear Countess," cried the old gentleman, delighted beyond measure at the result of his policy, and corruscating with smiles and twinkles, "my dear Countess, allow me to congratulate you." "But who is the 'personal friend' mentioned?
Is it the Duke?
He is in the far West at this moment." "No," answered Mr.Bellingham, "it is not the Duke.

I am inclined to think it is a manifestation of some great cosmic force, working silently for your welfare.

The lovely spirits," continued the old gentleman, looking up from under his brows, and gesticulating as though he would call down the mystic presence he invoked--"the lovely spirits that guard you would be loth to allow anything so fair to suffer annoyance from the rude world.

You are well taken care of, Countess, believe me." Margaret smiled at Uncle Horace's way of getting out of the difficulty, for she suspected him of knowing more than he would acknowledge.

But all she could extract from him was that he knew Lord Fitzdoggin slightly, and that he believed the telegram to be perfectly genuine.