the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius

Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.’ That is all.”


“Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes, stretching his long,

thin legs towards the fire.


“There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of

the same week. Ah, here it is: ‘There will soon be a call for protection

in the marriage  market, for the present free-trade principle appears to tell

heavily against our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses

of Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across the

Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the last week to the list

of the prizes which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St.

Simon, who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little

god’s arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage with

Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss

Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at the

Westbury House festivities, is an only child, and it is currently reported that

her dowry will run to considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for

the future. As it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been

compelled to sell his pictures within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon

has no property of his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious

that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an alliance which will

enable her to make the easy and common transition from a Republican lady to a

British peeress.’”


“Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning.


“Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning Post

to say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would be at

St. George’s, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate friends