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And thus it was that, next morning, New York and the continent as well learned that Lord Henry Monckton, ninth Baron of Dimbledon, had arrived in America on a pleasure trip. The story read more like the scenario of a romantic novel than a page from life. For years the eighth Baron of Dimbledon had lived in seclusion, practically forgotten. In India he had a bachelor brother, a son and a grandson.
Thorndon leaned forward in his chair and drew down his eyebrow tightly against the rim of his monocle. "Yes, sir. I take it that you are Lord Henry Monckton, ninth Baron of Dimbledon." Master and man exchanged a rapid glance. "Tibbets," said the master coldly, "you registered." "Yes, sir." "What did you register?" "Oh," interposed the reporter, "it was the name Dimbledon caught my eye, sir.
"My name is Henry Thomas Webb-Monckton." "Ninth Baron of Dimbledon," added Forbes, "and as crazy as a loon!" Meanwhile the whirligig had gone about violently after this fashion. Forbes, wondering mightily, procured his automatics and gave one to his impatient friend. "What's the row, Crawffy?" "Be as silent as you can," said Crawford. "Follow me. We may be too late." "Anywhere you say."
"Play your game above board; it pays." Into what a labyrinth of lies he was wayfaring! That same night, on the other side of the Atlantic, the ninth Baron of Dimbledon sailed for America to rehabilitate his fortunes. He did and he didn't. Thomas was a busy man up to and long after the hour of sailing.
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