Waiting alone in the great, oak-panelled library, with the antediluvian smell of new-cut grass wafting in from outside, the softly-sobbing Abraham thought once more of Baron Gordon, the one person left who could help her. He was now, according to persistent rumours, in the clutches of Constance Lincoln and his gang of cutthroats.
   Abruptly, came a sudden commotion, heavy footsteps in the hall, and she somehow knew that her heart had been right all along. He was here! “Come to me, you whose lips have unquenchable central heating!” he said quietly.
   At long last the truth — the whole truth — slowly came home to her, and as it dawned on her that her days of loneliness were over, she woke up. Incredibly enough, it had all been a dream.