The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Bishop's Purse, by Cleveland Moffett and Oliver Herford (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73472 ***

"Then, in a flash of inspiration, unseen by the others, she did
the one thing that could save her." Page 14

CLEVELAND MOFFETT

AND

OLIVER HERFORD

ILLUSTRATED

TORONTO
THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED
PUBLISHERS

Printed in the United States of America

TO OUR FRIENDS IN
LAKEWOOD, NEW JERSEY
WHERE THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. Hester Storm Gives Her Name as Jenny Regan
II. Showing the Importance of a Golf Bag
III. Presenting Hiram Baxter
IV. A Shock for Betty
V. The Rev. Horatio Merle
VI. Hester of the Scarlet Cloak
VII. The New Secretary
VIII. A Face in the Glass
IX. A Flash of Memory
X. Horatio Discovers a Peppermint Tree
XI. Laughter in the Dark
XII. The Gray Lady
XIII. First Aid to the Injured
XIV. The Parable of the Cocoanut Pie
XV. The Four Pottles
XVI. The Desert Island
XVII. The Servant in the House
XVIII. Martin Luther
XIX. The Missing Page
XX. The Reverend Horatio Turns Detective
XXI. The Quarrel
XXII. A Problem in Virtuous Strategy
XXIII. A Scrap of Paper
XXIV. Delivering the Goods
XXV. The Locked Door
XXVI. Under the Rose
XXVII. Lionel and Kate
XXVIII. The Threat
XXIX. Enter Grimes
XXX. The Penitent
XXXI. Lionel to the Rescue
XXXII. The Storm
XXXIII. "Her Promise True"
XXXIV. The Five-Bar Gate

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"Then, in a flash of inspiration, unseen by theothers, she did the one thing that could saveher." ... Frontispiece

"It seemed to Hester that she had seen this mansomewhere before."

"'Betty!' he cried. 'Are you ill?'"

"'No! You mustn't see him. Let me speak to you—alone.'"

THE BISHOP'S PURSE

CHAPTER I

HESTER STORM GIVES HER NAME AS JENNY REGAN

A near-sighted German music teacher crossedhis legs at an inopportune moment, and thistrivial action led directly to the startling incidentsof the following narrative, with their momentouseffects upon several lives.

This singular occurrence took place on a railway trainin England, a boat train with passengers from Paris,three of these, a strangely assorted trio, being broughttogether by fate within the respectable cushioned wallsof a first-class carriage. On one side sat an Englishbishop, in formal black garments, talking with evidentinterest and a certain deference to a very pretty andsmartly dressed American girl, whose fresh views andcharming lack of reverence seemed to delight the ratherheavy-minded but well-meaning prelate.

Small wonder that the ecclesiastical gaze was held inrapt attention, for Miss Betty Thompson (of New Yorkand recently of Paris) was not only fair to look uponwith her teasing blue eyes, her long curling lashes, herauburn hair shot through with golden lights and heradorable mouth upturned at the corners, but she addedto these the fatal gift of unexpectedness. So the bishoplooked and listened and marveled, while the tired linesfaded from his face and he reflected that, after all, theride from Dover to London was very short, amazinglyshort.

The other one of this trio, whose meeting here wasto have such far-reaching consequences, was a quietlyattired young woman, traveling alone, her black hairand warm ivory coloring seeming to indicate a Latinorigin. She, too, was a girl of striking beauty, but therewas something of sadness and yearning in the depthsof her lustrous dark eyes. As if weary with the journey,she dozed from time to time or seemed to doze, herthick lashes lifting occasionally for a languid glance ather companions and then drooping again, while a faint,half-wistful smile played about her full red lips.

"An interesting face," whispered the bishop to hisyoung friend. "A singularly interesting face. Wouldn'tyou say so, Miss Thompson?"

Betty studied the sleeping girl a moment and noddedthoughtfully. "A sort of wild beauty. I've been lookingat her and wondering if—" She paused in perplexity.

"You think she is a fellow countrywoman?" suggestedthe bishop.

"I'm not sure, but—I think she's unhappy and—" asthe stranger stirred uneasily, "did you ever see anythingso deliciously green as these hedges?"

The dark-eyed girl was far away in her reveries,living over again fragments of her life that seemed toflash by in lurid memory pictures, just as this rushingEnglish landscape flashed before her half-closed eyes.

Now ... the great halls of Monte Carlo, hushedgroups around green-covered tables, worshiping groups,one would say, with tense, eager faces—and the clink ofgold. Stupid people! Bound to lose their moneyanyway, so—what did it matter?

Now ... the blue of the moon-kissed Mediterraneanand a sighing orchestra playing on the marbleterrace. And that most ridiculously careless SouthAmerican general with his gold cigarette case! Fancyhaving real rubies and emeralds set in a cigarette case!What did the man expect?

Now ... the pigeons at Mentone, circling infrightened sweep over the lazy gardens while a Russiancountess suns herself by the beds of chrysanthemums.What a fool to carry all that jewelry in a handbag!

Now ... Paris, a nice enough town and they couldhave it. All very fine driving in the bois and sippingtea at the Continental, but American secret service menwere nosing about and—it's a pity if a girl can't speaka friendly word to an old lady from Grand Rapids,Michigan, without getting called down for it. Time tomove on, Hester Storm, especially as you have eighthundred dollars in good coin tucked away and the jewelry.So one ticket, please, to Manhattan Island, for agirl who is going home and—wants to look her sisterRosalie in the eyes and—is just a little sorry for certainthings and—anyhow, she's going to keep straight, yes,straight for the rest of her natural life.

At this moment, by some perversity of chance, aphrase in the droning talk opposite caught Hester's earand brought her to alert attention.

"Five thousand pounds, my dear: not a penny less,"the bishop declared impressively.

The Storm girl tingled with sudden interest, yetmanaged to keep her eyes closed. Then, gradually andcautiously, she lifted her heavy lashes and peeped throughthem. The bishop was fussing with a handbag, searchingfor something, taking something out, a purse of brownleather, a fat purse with a heavy elastic band around it.And, in his bland, pompous way he was telling MissThompson about his recent and most successful visit toAmerica in the interest of the Progressive Mothers'Society. The Americans had been so kind to him, sogenerous; their contributions, together with those ofAmericans in Paris, amounted to this splendid sum that he wasnow carrying back to London.

Five thousand pounds! And he explained the extraordinarycombination of circ*mstances that had preventedhim, at the last moment, just as he was leaving Paris,from depositing this money with his bankers.

Five thousand pounds! It was evidently wiser,unquestionably safer, to remove so large a sum from hiscareless handbag to the shelter of his ecclesiastical coat,the inside pocket—there! And straightway the transferwas effected with a benignant smile, while the strangersized up the situation very much as a professional golfplayer would study a difficult shot.

Not that Hester had any personal interest in this fatbrown leather pocketbook or any designs upon it. No,no! She was done with that sort of thing, quite donewith it, but from the detached standpoint of a formerexpert she could not help reflecting that here was anopportunity, a most unusual opportunity, if one could justsee the right way of handling it.

Then she thought of the very large sum involved. Fivethousand pounds! Twenty-five thousand dollars! Howsmall it made her poor little eight hundred seem!Twenty-five thousand dollars! A fortune—all one couldever need! And there it was for the taking. Therein the loosely hung black coat of an absent-mindedbishop! Dear, dear, if this wonderful chancehad only come sooner—before she made her goodresolutions!

However, she had made them and would hold to them.She had given her promise to Rosalie, her promise true,and come what might she was going to keep straight.The bishop's purse was perfectly safe so far as she wasconcerned. Besides, with only three of them in thecarriage, she couldn't get the purse if she wanted to. Theremust be other passengers, two or three others, so thatthe coppers would have some one besides her to putthe blame on when the big squeal came. There must beat least two other passengers.

As Hester reached this purely academic conclusion thetrain drew up at a small station and the guard ushered ina near-sighted German music teacher, followed by afriend, who proved to be a trombone player, a very irascibleperson, and these two straightway fell into a heateddiscussion of the poisonous and non-poisonous qualitiesof mushrooms.

The dark-eyed dreamer smiled at the coincidence oftheir arrival, but remained unshaken in her resolve toleave the bishop's purse alone and all other purseslikewise. Too well she remembered that little affair at theÉlysêe Palace Hotel. Ugh! When Grimes fixed his coldgray eyes on her! Grimes from Scotland Yard, whohappened to be in Paris on a case. Stupid man, whocouldn't understand how easily a girl might mistakeanother woman's cloak for her own! What if it was ofcostly Russian sable? What did that prove? It was mostannoying, and, having wriggled out of thismisadventure, Hester did not propose ever again to risk anotherone.

Besides, it would take more than these two chatteringmusicians to help her. There must be a mob to shoveand jostle. His nobs in the knee breeches must bestanding up and somebody must push him against her or triphim up, so that in the scuffle she could sneak the leather.And now, suddenly, as Hester was fortifying herselfin this prudent and virtuous decision, there came one ofthose trifling happenings that change the course of livesand empires—the near-sighted German music teachercrossed his legs. Whereupon the Bishop of Bunchester,who was just starting for the door, as the train drewinto Chatham Junction, stumbled over the extendedmember and was thrown with some violence into Hester'scorner, more precisely into Hester's lap, losing his glassesin transit, and was only rescued from this embarrassingposition and brought again to a dignified perpendicularafter much confusion with assistance and profuse apologiesfrom the two Germans, which apologies the bishopgallantly passed on to the young woman upon whom hehad so abruptly descended.

At Chatham Junction there was a stop of ten minutes,during which time the bishop and Miss Thompson walkedbriskly up and down the platform, but Hester kept herplace by the window, looking out with the same oddlittle smile and wistful glance that had so interested Bettyand her venerable friend. When these two returned totheir seats the German musicians were gone and as thetrain resumed its journey to London, the fateful threewere once more alone in the carriage.

The bishop and his young friend were now in gayspirits, laughing over something which Betty, apparently,had been describing with delicious drollery. In theself-absorption of their camaraderie, in their utter indifferenceto Hester's presence, they seemed to her brooding mind,to exclude her as completely from their social atmosphereas if she were a servant. And for some strangereason, the psychic meaning of which she was to understandlater, the girl found herself hurt and irritated bythis attitude of unconscious superiority.

The Storm girl stirred uneasily. Her wistful smilehardened into a bitter twist of the lips and throughhalf-shut, envious eyes she studied this other American girl,this fortunate being whose every gesture, every tone ofvoice and every exquisite detail of costume bore witnessto the background of culture and wealth that had alwaysbeen hers. Why should this piece of pink-and-whiteprettiness be given all the good gifts, money, socialposition, friends, while she, Hester Storm, had none of theseand never would have? It was all unfair! This wholescheme of life was a—it was a crooked game, where thecards were stacked against some people all their lives.What would this spoiled darling over there, with herclothes and her swell ways—what would she have done ifshe'd been born in a rotten tenement and—had a sicksister that she loved—a sister she'd die for—like Rosalie?Would she have done any better? Would she?

In the midst of her self-justification, Hester's attentionwas arrested by a sudden eager interest shown by MissThompson in the bishop's talk, which now concerned aman named Hiram Baxter, Betty's guardian, who had, itappeared, crossed on the steamer with the bishop theweek before.

"Such a picturesque character, Miss Thompson; sogenerous and—er—self-reliant and—er——"

"Careful now," warned Betty playfully. "You knowMr. Baxter is very dear to me. Father and he werepartners and—he's been like a father to me."

"I know, my child. I only said he was a picturesquecharacter."

"But you were thinking of his slips in grammar andhis funny little ways of talking—I just love them."

There was a thrill of almost passionate loyalty inBetty's voice. The bishop, glancing at her eager, flushedface, thought that he had never seen anything lovelierthan this ardent championship of Hiram Baxter's foibles.

"I assure you, my dear," he said, hastening to correcther suspicion that he was making fun of Hiram, "I honorMr. Baxter for the rare qualities of mind and heart thathave made him the great man that he is, for the splendidtraits that have lifted him to fortune and successfrom—shall I say so humble a beginning?"

Betty's beautiful eyes kindled with a glow of fondness."Did he tell you about that? Isn't it splendid theway he fought his way to the top?" Then she added,with a teasing glance, "You see, Guardy has managed hislife on the American plan."

"Which abounds in surprises, Miss Thompson, as youmay discover."

Betty turned quickly. "What do you mean by that?Did Guardy tell you something?"

The bishop smiled mysteriously. "Mr. Baxter toldme a number of things. We walked the deck for hours.We smoked together in the evenings, and—really, I neverenjoyed a voyage more."

"Yes, but what did he tell you? Please?" She leanedforward eagerly. "Does it—does it concern me?"

"In a way, but—it's more the general idea. A mostextraordinary, a most amusing idea. 'Mr. Baxter,' I saidto him when he told me, 'upon my soul, I never met aman like you.'"

"But what was it? Please tell me."

"And Baxter said to me"—the prelate's ample bodyshook with suppressed merriment—"'Bish,' he said—youknow he always calls me 'Bish'—I wish I couldremember the speech he made, it was so—so deliciouslyAmerican. 'Bish,' he said, with that slow drawl of his,'I'll bet ye four dollars and a quarter'—now what wasthe rest of it?"

"Never mind the rest of it," interrupted Betty. "Tellme what Guardy's idea is. I must know."

The bishop hesitated while Betty pouted her pretty lipsand played petulantly with the strap of her golf bag thatstood near. "I suppose he's going to scold me for beingextravagant. Is that it?"

The bishop was about to reply when he started insudden alarm, and, clapping his hand to his coat pocket,exclaimed: "Bless my soul! My purse!"

"Your purse? Why—what?"

The prelate made no answer, but rising quickly, hesearched through his garments with grave concern, then,looking at Betty in dismay, he said slowly: "It's gone.I put it in this pocket—you saw me put it there, mydear, and—it's gone."

For some moments neither spoke. Then, by a commonimpulse, they turned and looked at the strangerwhose innocent dark eyes met them with friendlyinterest and concern.

"I beg your pardon," said the bishop awkwardly. "Youhaven't by any chance seen a—a purse of mine?"

"A purse," repeated Hester sweetly.

"I may have dropped it," he explained, searching thecarriage floor in perplexity. Then he squinted upwardat the luggage racks as if expecting to find the pursethere.

"You couldn't have dropped it," said Betty. "I sawyou put it in your pocket; your inside pocket. It's mostextraordinary."

"It's an extremely serious matter," fumed the bishop,and glancing out of the window he saw that they wererunning into a station.

"I'm sorry," Hester said in a low, sympathetic voice."Hadn't you better call the guard?"

At this moment Betty sprang up with a cry ofunderstanding. "I have it! Those two Germans! Don't youremember, Bishop, when they jostled against you? Youremember?" she turned to Hester.

"Yes, I remember," nodded the dark-eyed girl.

"I wonder—" reflected the prelate.

"There's no doubt of it," pursued Betty. "That'show pickpockets work—two or three together."

As the train stopped the guard was summoned, andfor some minutes there was greater excitement in thelittle station of Farmingdale than had been known therefor years. The Bishop of Bunchester robbed of fivethousand pounds! Robbed in a railway carriage inbroad daylight! The news spread like wildfire, andpresently the station master, the guard and the one officeron duty, were in low-voiced conclave at the carriagedoor, while wondering groups gathered on the platform.Five thousand pounds!

A careful search of the carriage having revealed nothing,it was decided that the three travelers must alightwith their luggage so that the robbery could befurther investigated while the train proceeded to London.

"I'll have to ask you to come this way, young lady,"said the officer presently, to Hester. "Don't get excited.I'm not saying you took it, but you were in the carriageand—we've got to be on the safe side. How about her,your lordship?" He looked at Betty.

The bishop drew himself up to his full official dignity."This is Miss Thompson, my friend, who is travelingwith me."

"Oh! Beg pardon, miss. We have to know thesethings." He touched his hat apologetically to Betty.Then turning to the Storm girl: "Now then, it will onlytake a few minutes"; but his whispered instructions tothe station master's wife were that the search must bethorough. The station master's wife nodded grimly andbeckoned the girl to follow her into a private room,which Hester did with such an air of simple innocence,showing neither fear nor bravado, that she made a mostfavorable impression.

"I'm sure she had nothing to do with it," declaredBetty. And the bishop agreed that it must have beenthe Germans.

"We have telegraphed the Chatham police to arrestthem, your lordship," said the officer.

A little later the station master's wife reappeared, withmollified visage, and reported that she had searchedHester with the greatest care and had found no signof the purse nor anything that was in the least suspicious.Furthermore, the girl's frank, honest manner hadconvinced her that she was innocent.

"Of course she is!" cried Betty, taking the stranger'stwo hands in hers with quick sympathy. "I knew youdidn't take it."

Hester's eyes filled with tears at this proof ofconfidence. She hesitated a moment as if scarcely able tospeak, and then: "Thank you, thank you," she murmured.

It was now decided that the Bishop of Bunchestermust return at once to Chatham for the purpose ofidentifying the suspected Germans. There was a traingoing back shortly.

"You will pardon me, my dear Miss Thompson, fornot escorting you to London, as I promised Mr. Baxter,but you see the seriousness, the urgency——"

"Don't think of me. I'll get to London all right.Thank you for your kindness, and I do hope you'll findthe purse." Betty gave the bishop her slim gloved hand,and as he looked into her lovely face, so genuinelysympathetic, he could not help reflecting that in his wholeepiscopal experience he had never met a more charming, amore fascinating young woman than Betty Thompson.Thus it came about that Betty, on a later train, madethe last half hour of her journey to London withoutthe bishop's companionship; but not alone, for sheinsisted that Hester go with her and sit beside her. To thisthe station authorities consented, after carefully recordingthe girl's name (she gave it as Jenny Regan of NewYork City) and other essential facts concerning her.The purse was certainly not on the girl's person nor inher luggage, and, all things considered, there was nojustification for holding an American citizen againstwhom there appeared to be not a shadow of evidence.

So once more it happened that these two young women,so sharply contrasted in character and in physicalbeauty, sat together in a first-class railway carriage, quiteby themselves this time. There was something aboutHester Storm (alias Jenny Regan) that interested Bettystrangely, something different. She felt that here wasa girl worth studying, and she wished to make amends, ifpossible, for that humiliating search.

They talked of various things. Betty tactful, sympathetic,vaguely puzzled. Hester equally tactful, equallysympathetic and keenly on her guard, for the truth isthat the Storm girl's good resolutions had not been proofa*gainst an untoward combination of circ*mstances; andwhen the Bishop of Bunchester was rudely tumbledagainst her, she had yielded to temptation, and with oneswift, skillful movement had withdrawn the purse fromthe episcopal pocket; in other words, Hester Storm hadstolen the five thousand pounds!

CHAPTER II

SHOWING THE IMPORTANCE OF A GOLF BAG

It must now be revealed (since this is a straightforwardtale) that the stolen five thousand poundswas all this time snugly reposing in a most unlikelyhiding place which Hester, with quick resourcefulness,had hit upon when she saw the guard approaching. Atthat moment the purse was hidden in her dress, but sheknew she could not keep it there; a search wouldcertainly be made, and—where could she hide it? Whatcould she do with it?

The guard turned the handle of the carriage door andthere came for Hester a moment of sickening despair asshe realized her desperate peril; then, in a flash ofinspiration, unseen by the others, she did the one thingthat could save her: she dropped the bishop's purse intothe open mouth of Betty Thompson's golf bag.

Now the bottom of a golf bag is about the last spoton earth where anyone would expect to find a missingpurse; yet, as devotees of this sport will agree, a moreadmirable place of concealment could scarcely beimagined. Far down in a jumble of heavy clubs the purselies unseen by the keenest eye and beyond reach of thelongest arm. To search the bottom of a golf bag wouldinvolve taking out all the clubs and turning the bagupside down, but who would do that? Who would goexploring for stolen treasure in so battered and soinnocently open a receptacle?

All of which, in the first emergency, favored Hester,but now, with the danger past, made it difficult for herto carry out her plan. How was she to get the purse?There it was, almost within reach of her fingers, yettantalizingly out of reach. It was maddening to thinkthat, with so great a prize so nearly won; she might stilllose everything simply because a stupid, flimsy barrierof canvas and leather stood in her way.

The Storm girl concentrated all her faculties on thisnew problem, and thrilled with the exhilaration of abrilliant coup almost accomplished. There was no morequestion of scruples or regrets. She had made the breakand must see the thing through. A rather neat piece ofwork so far, but the hardest part remained. The crisiswould come when the train reached London. Good oldCharing Cross Station!

As she studied the situation, searching desperately forsome master move, Hester talked to Betty, letting theconversation drift as the latter pleased and keepingsweetly to her attitude of virtue injured but resigned;also showing the most touching, almost tearful, gratitude(not all assumed) for Betty's kindness. Glibly shespun a hard-luck story of loneliness and friendlessnessand the disappointing result of her efforts to be anursery governess. Betty was deeply interested, very sorry,and finally offered her protegé five pounds, which Hesterat first refused, but finally, rather shamefacedly, accepted,thinking it more in character to do so. She wouldcertainly send back that five pounds and fifty with it, onceshe had gotten safely away with the five thousand.

Yes, but that was the point. How was she going todo it? How could she get the purse? If she could onlythink of something. She must think of something.There was not a moment to lose. Even now they wereroaring into London city, and—suddenly the inspirationcame—it was a chance, the only chance, and Hestertook it.

Rising from their seats they gathered up their belongings.The dark-eyed girl slipped over her shoulders abrilliant red cloak, the red being of so striking a shadethat Betty remembered it afterward. Then very simplyand naturally Hester turned to her benefactress. "Letme help you with your things. I have only this littlebundle. There!" and without more ado she took thegolf bag.

"Thanks!" smiled Betty. "You must come to see mewhile you are in England. I'll give you my card. Well,here we are!"

With grinding wheels the train drew up in CharingCross station, and amid a great slamming of doors thepassengers swarmed out and made their way brisklydown the long platform. Betty went first, explaining toher friend that, in all probability, no one would meether, owing to their change of train, yet searching in thecrowd for some familiar face. Hester searched faces,too, for she knew that word of the robbery must havebeen telegraphed ahead to London, and as they passedthrough narrow gates in the iron barrier that separatedthe tracks from the station proper her heart was poundingfuriously, although her face showed only a sweet andtrusting smile. No one stopped them here, and with asigh of relief Hester followed on, trying to quiet therattle of the golf clubs and gradually lagging behind hereager friend.

Now, just before them, rose the circle of a widenewsstand, beyond which were two exits, one on either sideof the station. Betty was moving toward the left-handexit and here, in a second, Hester saw her opportunity.Sheltered by the newsstand, she had only to steer quicklytoward the right-hand exit and then, before Betty couldeven suspect that she was missing, make her getawayinto the myriad streets of London. It was too easy andthe girl was already gloating over the trick as finallyturned when her heart froze within her, for there at thecorner of the newsstand were the cold gray eyes sheknew so well fixed pitilessly on her. Grimes ofScotland Yard!

It was a critical moment for Hester. Had she weakenedby the quiver of an eyelash, had she started everso slightly, the detective would have taken her thereand then, for he remembered her well and the suspiciouscirc*mstances of that sable cloak episode. But she,schooled in self-control, swept on serenely without a signof recognition. Grimes turned and followed her.

"Caught with the goods," muttered the girl, and faintwith fear but unfaltering, she swung back to the leftin Betty's wake, for here now was her only hope ofsafety. Grimes was close behind.

As they reached the street, Betty nodded for a taxicaband gave her things to a chauffeur, who came forwardeagerly. Then, seating herself on the cushions, sheturned pleasantly to Hester.

"It was good of you to carry that heavy bag. I'lltake it in here—that's right. Remember I'm at theSavoy for a day or two with Mr. Hiram Baxter. Andhere is our address in Surrey. There." And, smilingmost cordially, she gave Hester her card.

"Hiram Baxter! The American millionaire!" reflectedGrimes, puzzled, but still confident.

"You'll come to see me, won't you?" called the fairyoung woman as the taxicab rolled away.

"Yes," answered Hester, her dark eyes glowing on theravished golf bag. "I'll come."

Then, with quiet self-possession, she turned and hereyes met Grimes.

"Ah, little one!" he chuckled, roughly familiar.

"How dare you speak to me!" she protested with suchan air of well-bred anger that he drew back, hesitating.

"Excuse me, but—haven't I seen you before?" hestammered.

Hester swept him with a scornful glance. "I thoughtan American lady was safe from insult in the streets ofLondon," she said, and before he had recovered fromhis astonishment she had entered a waiting hansom andwas gone.

CHAPTER III

PRESENTING HIRAM BAXTER

Hiram Baxter, whose hidden purposes wereresponsible for Betty's sudden and momentousjourney to London, was, in this year of thefirst flying machine, one of the few really interestingself-made men to be found in New York City, where suchsturdy and picturesque types are rapidly disappearing.At fifty-five Baxter was a big, grizzled fellow, with apair of straight shoulders, a friendly smile and a wayof using the English language that was absolutely anddelightfully his own.

"This grammar business ain't much of a trick," hewould declare, with his slow characteristic drawl. "Icould swing it any time I wanted to, but where's thesense o' wearin' high collars and patent leather boots ifyer neck and yer feet ain't comf'table in 'em? SupposeI say to you, 'I like them peaches'? You say thosepeaches. I say, no, them peaches. You say it's wrong.I say it don't make a hang o' difference, it don't hurt youan' it don't hurt me an' it don't hurt the peaches."

Baxter invariably dressed in simple black garments,including a wide-brimmed soft black hat, that gave himin repose, with his ruddy, rugged visage, somewhat thelook of an English bishop, as had been more than onceremarked by his episcopal friend of Bunchester.

"It ain't because I like it that I wear black," Hiramsometimes explained, "and it ain't because I'm sad. Thefact is black's the only safe color fer me if I want ahappy home. Why, if I ever let myself go on coloredvests an' striped pants, an' fancy neckties, my wife'dstart fer a divorce the next mornin'. Yes, sir."

When Hiram laughed his blue eyes twinkled at youunder shaggy black brows and his strong teeth gleamedat you beneath his white mustache; then, perhaps, heresembled a bluff German statesman. But as soonas he spoke you knew he was American throughand through, and, somehow, you thought none the lessof him for his quaint lapses in speech. Not all the rulesof prosody and syntax could alter the fact that HiramBaxter was a figure of compelling power, a stronglyoriginal and lovable man, who inspired immediateconfidence in his wonderful resourcefulness.

It was during his recent voyage on the Lusitania, inthe course of a brisk walk on the upper deck, thatBaxter took the Bishop of Bunchester into his confidenceregarding certain serious personal matters. Hiram'sfriendship with the bishop was of long standing, for theAmerican some twenty-eight years before, at the outsetof his varied career, had married an English lady, adistant connection of the prelate's, and it had long beenthe Baxters' custom to divide their year between acomfortable home in Washington Square, New York, anda country place in Surrey, about two hours out ofLondon, where Mrs. Baxter entertained numerous relativesand friends with lavish hospitality.

"I tell ye, Bish," Hiram broke out abruptly, "it ain'tby a man's successes that ye can size up his character.No, sir. It's by the mistakes he makes an' the way hefaces 'em and gets out of 'em. Why, I know a doctorup in New Hampshire—homeliest feller I ever seen—hegot rich makin' cough medicine out o' shingles."

"Bless my soul! Shingles!" the bishop exclaimed.

"Yes, sir; shingles. Good pine shingles. A wholelumber yard full of 'em. He got 'em in foreclosureproceedings—hadn't the first notion what to do with themshingles until he happened to think of cough medicine.That turned the trick. Ever heard of 'Peck's PeerlessPectoral'? It was his invention—stewed it out o' themshingles, every bottle of it; and say, Bish, it's great stuff.Which is what I call makin' the best of yer mistakes, forit ain't every country doctor could see his way to snatchin'victory out of a lot o' discredited pine shingles."

This bit of homely philosophy was received by thedistinguished churchman with amused approval.

"Very true, my dear Baxter, but I don't see how thisapplies to you."

"I'll show ye," chortled Hiram. "Ever hear o' thefeller that used to wear detachable cuffs and then wentbroke because he bought a shirt that had cuffs sewed on?No? It's a fact. Ye see he had to get a swell suit tomatch the shirt, and a swell fur overcoat to match thesuit, and a swell automobile to match the fur overcoat,and the first thing he knew he was such a swell he blewup an' busted."

"What an extraordinary fancy!" exclaimed the bishop,laughing immoderately.

"Fancy nothing. It's a fact," declared Baxter. "AndI want to tell you I've been a little that way myself.I've been tryin' to live up to the standards o' my wifean' my wife's relations. That's where I've made mymistake. Yes, sir. I'm only a rough feller, Bish,but—well, I married Eleanor and—you know what she is.Swell English family and—grand ideas, and—youunderstand. D'ye think I'm stuck on havin' a country placein England? Asbury Park 'd suit me a lot better, butEleanor wanted it. She said it was the proper thingand—so I took Ipping House, with its ancestraltowers and its dungeons and a lot o' blamed foolishness.Excuse me, Bish, but that's what it is. And as ferrelatives—" he paused with a grim tightening of the lips.

"My dear Baxter," put in the prelate, "you surely donot regret the old-fashioned English hospitality that youand your excellent wife have been practicing?"

"Well," drawled Hiram, "if old-fashioned Englishhospitality consists in bein' worked in every conceivableway by a lot of impecunious third cousins that never dida day's work in their lives, then I say it's timeold-fashioned English hospitality got inoculated with somenew-fashioned American common sense. Why, with LionelFitz Brown, my wife's third cousin, and Kate Clendennin,the Countess Kate, and the two Merles and variousothers, my house is about as much like a home as aNarragansett hotel. Now take Merle."

"Horatio Merle?" interjected the bishop. "You don'tmean——"

"Yes, I do," continued Baxter, "the Rev. HoratioMerle, my wife's second cousin once removed. As gooda man as ever thumped a Bible—you know what I mean,Bish," Hiram added quickly, mistaking for a sign ofdisapproval the cough which the reverend auditor hadsubstituted for a chuckle. "Yes, sir, for a downright,pure-hearted Christian you might go through the British Isleswith a fine-tooth comb and not find another like HoratioMerle; but what good does that do him? He's lost fivepreachin' jobs in three years, and for the last six monthsthe only flocks that have had the benefit of his pulpitoratory have been the birds and butterflies at BainbridgeManor. I tell you, Bish, he missed his vocation. Heought to have been one of them nature sharps."

"I believe you are right," assented the bishop. "HoratioMerle would have made his mark as a naturalist. Inever knew a man in whom the love of nature was morebeautifully developed. He is a sort of modernSt. Francis."

"Modern St. Francis," snorted Hiram. "I don't knowwho he was, but if he could beat Horatio Merle——"

he broke off with a broad grin. "Say, Bish, did ye hearhow Horatio lost his last preachin' job?"

"Why, no. How was that?"

"Seems he was goin' to church one Sunday mornin',and passin' by the canal he saw some boys tryin' todrown a kitten. They'd just hitched a stone around itsneck when Merle caught sight of 'em.

"'You young rascals,' he called out, but he was toolate, and the next minute the poor little thing splashedinto the water. Well, sir, that was too much forHoratio. He knew the church folks were waitin' for him,but he couldn't help it. He just waded into that canal,black clothes and all, and fished out the kitten. Then hewent ahead with his religious duties while the waterdripped down under his robes and the congregationmade up their minds that he was plumb crazy."

"Poor Merle!" reflected the bishop. "And whatbecame of the kitten?"

"Why, he's got him yet. A big black cat now. MartinLuther's his name, and wherever Merle goes there'sMartin Luther taggin' after him like Mary's little lamb.Understand, Bish, I like Merle; I like to have him'round. As far as that goes I like the rest of 'em,but——" Here his face clouded.

"My dear Baxter," said the bishop sympathetically,"I understand these little family annoyances, but afterall you're a rich man and——"

"Yes," cut in Hiram, "I'm a rich man, and if I don'tlook out I'll wake up some fine morning and findmyself"—here the fighting spirit flashed in Hiram's honestblue eyes, and with a swing of his powerful shoulders—"no,I won't, either," he added. "I'll beat those WallStreet devils yet; I'll beat 'em at their own game."

Then Baxter, in strict confidence, explained to thebishop the nature of the difficulties in which heinnocently found himself, difficulties that put in jeopardyevery dollar of his fortune and with it the happiness andwelfare of his family.

The prelate followed this narrative with sympatheticinterest and concern, and then listened with growingastonishment while Baxter outlined briefly hisprogramme, which, after all, was based on a very simpleidea, yet was so unusual that the average person wouldhave at once rejected it as impossible.

Thus the bishop at once objected: "But, my goodfriend, this is out of the question, quite out of thequestion."

"Why is it?" persisted Hiram.

"For one thing your wife will never consent."

"Won't she? You wait and see."

"For another thing I feel obliged to say——"

"You feel obliged to say," chuckled Baxter, "that it'sa crazy notion. Bet ye four dollars and a quarter that'swhat ye think. But listen to me, Bish. I've made myfortune doin' crazy things. Once I bought threethousand plug hats at auction in Chicago fer eight hundreddollars, an' I sold 'em at dollar apiece in Denver for apolitical parade. I've bought busted railroads andwatched 'em come up to par. I've bought played-outoil wells an' made 'em spout gold. Why, I even boughtan old church once with a haunted graveyard and gotsquare on the marble in it, with all the land as velvet."

"Dear, dear, dear! A haunted graveyard?" murmuredthe bishop.

"Yes, sir; and I'll put this thing through the same asI did that, because it's a good idea. A big, sound,American idea. Now you just watch me."

CHAPTER IV

A SHOCK FOR BETTY

One immediate consequence of the golf-bag-purse-vanishingepisode narrated above, was a delayof two hours in Betty Thompson's arrival inLondon, which delay meant that Hiram Baxter and hiswife, having waited vainly at Charing Cross station forthe expected traveler, had now returned, quite out ofsorts, especially Mrs. Baxter, to their rooms at the SavoyHotel.

"I think it's very inconsiderate of Betty to be so carelessabout her trains. You wired her, didn't you?" saidthe wife as she stood before a cheval glass preparatoryto removing a new and very large green velvet picturehat, with gold-brown plumes and drooping brim. Beneaththis effective covering her hair was discreetly shadowed,her eyes, if they were calculating, seemed onlypensive, and the pouting of her mouth was transformedto an expression of winsome pleading—so much for thewizardry of a woman's hat.

As she stood before the mirror Mrs. Baxter's half-turnedface wore that sidelong, disquieted look withwhich a woman always regards her newest hat, halfpleasure of possession and half regret for that otherhat, the one in the shop that she did not buy and whosefetching colors and enticing lines have ever since hauntedher. A pleasing panel picture she made in the blackframed oval of the cheval glass, a harmony in green andgolden brown. Boldini might have painted that mirrorpicture of Eleanor Baxter. She was a harmony ofinsincerities, a woman who seemed to have youth andheight and slenderness, but who really had none of these.This, however, was a secret between Mrs. Baxter andher looking-glass.

"I wired her all right," answered Hiram.

"It quite upsets my plans," complained Eleanor. "Ofcourse I was glad to come to town yesterday, dear, tomeet you when you arrived from the steamer, but it'smost annoying to be kept in London now. All therelatives are expecting you, Hiram."

"Are, eh? How many of 'em?"

"Only Cousin Harriet and Cousin Horatio and CousinLionel and the countess. The dear baroness leftyesterday. I'm sorry she couldn't stay to see you."

"Yes, it's a pity the dear baroness couldn't stay to seeme," said Hiram dryly.

"I'm glad we won't miss the bazaar to-morrow afternoon,"Eleanor rattled on; "the Progressive Mothers'bazaar. You know Cousin Horatio delivers the address,and I want you particularly to be there, Hiram."

Baxter nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose so." Thenhis face gradually broke into a smile. "ProgressiveMothers! Say, can ye beat that? I always thoughtold-fashioned mothers were about right, but the Bishsays——"

"Hiram! Please do be more careful of yourlanguage!" Eleanor's voice was petulant.

"Oh, I see! It ain't the thing to call old Bunchester,Bish. All right, dearie. What I started to say was thathis Lordship o' Bunchester tells me we ain't begun tohear the last word yet in the matter o' raisin' children.He got five hundred out o' me—I mean dollars."

By this time Mrs. Baxter had composed herself in acomfortable arm-chair, and, having nothing else to do,was studying her husband critically.

"You look tired, Hiram," she decided.

"I'm tired, all right," he nodded.

"You look worried, too."

The big fellow reflected a moment and then saidslowly: "Well, I admit I'll feel better when I seeIndependent Copper about twenty points higher."

Mrs. Baxter eyed him keenly. "Nothing has happened?Nothing is wrong?" she asked with growingalarm.

For a few moments Hiram sat silent, then closing hislips with decision, he answered kindly: "Eleanor, Iguess ye'll have to know exactly how things are. Sincewe've been married, and that's a good many years, I'vedone my best to make ye happy. I've tried to give yeeverything ye wanted. I never thought the time wouldcome, dearie, when I'd have to ask ye to economize,but——"

He hesitated while she listened with widening, startledeyes.

"Hiram!" she gasped.

He bowed with a slow impressiveness that struck terrorinto her worldly soul. "I'm awful sorry, but the timehas come."

"Economize!" repeated Eleanor in a daze. "It isn'tpossible."

Again Hiram nodded. "Yes, it is. I'm pretty welltied up with the obligations I've undertaken, and—dearie,we've got to economize."

"Oh, if you had only kept out of this copper speculation!"she lamented.

"I couldn't keep out. You knew I couldn't. BryceThompson was my partner, my friend, and—he's dead.I ain't goin' to have any slur on his memory. I'vepaid his debts, dollar fer dollar, and I'm carryin' hiscopper stock. Bryce made a mistake, but he meant well.He did it fer his daughter, Betty, and"—here Baxter'svoice grew tender as he saw Eleanor's distress—"don'tyou worry, little woman, we'll come out o' this copperfight on top."

These comforting words seemed only to arouse asharper resentment in Mrs. Baxter, who turned on herhusband angrily. "Meantime, our whole household mustbe upset, and—we must economize. I suppose you'regoing to discharge some of the servants?"

Hiram answered with his most winning smile: "Say,ye guessed it the first time. We've got a dozen servantsup at Ipping House, and I believe five could do thework just as well—or better."

"Absurd!"

"Bet ye seven dollars and a quarter five servants coulddo the work if we cut out some o' your relatives."

"You needn't say they're all my relatives. How aboutBetty Thompson? She's more extravagant than any ofthe others."

"Bet ye she'll be the first one to take her coat off andhustle—when she knows."

Eleanor's lips tightened for another indignant outburst,but, by a great effort, she controlled herself andspoke with her most irritating manner of loftydisapproval: "Hiram! I wish you wouldn't use that vulgarAmerican word."

Baxter stroked his chin thoughtfully under his whitemustache. "Think it's vulgar, eh? The English aristocracythink it's vulgar to hustle, but tell me where theEnglish aristocracy would be if it wasn't for the dollarsthat American fellers like me have hustled for?"

At this juncture Eleanor's maid appeared with wordthat Miss Betty Thompson had arrived and had gone toher apartment, which, it appeared, did not please her.She wanted a sitting-room overlooking the Thames,whereas this one opened on a court-yard.

"Tell Miss Thompson I'll see her in a moment," saidMrs. Baxter. Then, when the maid had gone: "There!You see Mistress Betty must have the most expensiverooms in the hotel."

"Well, why not?" retorted Baxter. "She thinks she'sa rich girl and can afford 'em." He sat looking thoughtfullyat his big strong hands while Eleanor rose to go."I hate to tell her, but—I s'pose I must."

"Of course you must tell her. You should have toldher long ago."

"Perhaps. But—remember, Eleanor, not a word abouther father's speculations." He spoke with suddenauthority.

"I don't see why Betty Thompson shouldn't know thetruth about her father. Why should she be spared anymore than the rest of us?"

"Because I say so," answered Baxter, with a glancefrom under his heavy brows that his wife had rarelyseen. "It would make her unhappy and it wouldn't doany good." Then in a low tone and with suddentenderness he added: "Ye know who Betty makes me thinkof, dearie? Of our little sunshine girl that's—that'sgone. She's got the same eyes and—the same prettyways, and—say, I wish ye'd send Betty in here, I wantto talk to her."

Eleanor looked at her husband without replying, andsomething changed in her face—something beyond thewizardry of any picture hat to conceal. Then, quietly,she gathered up her things and left the room. And afew minutes later Betty Thompson appeared, a radiantvision of youth and sweetness that brought joy to oldBaxter's heart.

"Why, Betty!" he exclaimed, stretching out both hishands, and she came to him quickly, her eyes shiningwith fondness.

"Dear Guardy! I'm so glad to see you," she murmured,as he held her in his strong arms and deepenedthe roses of her cheeks with two vigorous andaffectionate smacks.

"Ain't too big fer an old fellow like me to kiss, areye?"

Then he held her off at arm's length and admired herlovely, eager face, and her slender, lithe figure in itsgarb of Paris finery. "Well, well! Yer the real thing,ain't ye?"

Betty's eyes danced with pleasure. "Do you like thisfrock, Guardy?"

With wise nods of wondering approval Hiram studiedPaquin's exquisitely suave creation of amethyst grayvelvet, with its narrow trimming of black fox. Throwncarelessly over the girl's shoulders was a chiffon scarf ofcobweb thinness, marvelously shaded from jonquil yellowto rosy pomegranate. And Betty's burnished brownhair melted glowingly into the purple lining of her whitebrimmed leghorn hat, with its knot of pale mauve pansiesand its tossing topaz plume.

Hiram nodded in approval. "Like the frock and likethe girl inside it. Sit down and tell me about things.How d'ye come to be so late? Miss yer train, or—what?"

"Why, we had an adventure," laughed Betty, "a mostexciting adventure. Everything went well until wereached Chatham Junction. The bishop was perfectlylovely. He talked of all sorts of things, especially golf.I happened to have my golf bag with me and—you know,he's a great golfer."

"I know," said Baxter. "It gets me how many o'these brainy men like to waste time battin' them foolishlittle balls around a field. Guess I'll have to tackle itmyself one o' these days. Well, what was the adventure?"

Betty's face grew serious, and she described, as clearlyas she could, the bishop's misfortune on the train.

"Five thousand pounds!" exclaimed Hiram. "Well,well! Poor old Bish! Ain't that a shame?"

"There was a young woman in the carriage with us,"went on Betty, "such an interesting face—rather foreignlooking, and, when the bishop found that his purse wasgone, he called the guard and the guard called the policeand—they insisted on searching this young woman. Iwas so sorry. I knew she was innocent, and sure enoughshe was."

"How d'ye know she was innocent?"

"I could see it. She had large, dark eyes, so appealingand—she told me a most pathetic story afterward—and—whydo you smile, Guardy?"

"I s'pose ye gave her all the money ye had with ye?"chuckled Baxter.

"I couldn't give her very much. I only had fivepounds," answered the young American, her dignitysomewhat ruffled.

"Hm! And ye gave her that?"

"Why, yes. I'm going to send her more. I take agreat interest in that girl."

"Do, eh? Well, I wouldn't send her any more money.I wouldn't do it, Betty."

There was something in her guardian's tone that madeMiss Thompson look at him in surprise and vagueapprehension.

"Why not?" she asked.

"I guess you an' me'd better have a little talk, Betty,"said Baxter kindly. "Ye remember I wrote ye a coupleo' times about yer expenses in Paris and ye sent meback some pretty sharp opinions, the gist of it bein' thatye wanted to spend yer money accordin' to yer ownideas."

"Why shouldn't I? Father left me the money and I'mspending it in a way that he would approve of."

A sharp note sounded in her voice, but Hiramanswered with unchanging gentleness. "I know, Betty,Bryce Thompson would have approved of your goin' tothe South Pole to pick strawberries, if ye wanted to.He couldn't refuse ye a thing, he never did refuse ye;but I've been left your guardian, Betty, and it's myduty to tell ye that our present state o' finances don'tjustify givin' away five-pound notes to strange womenye meet on railway trains."

"I'd rather give my money to unfortunate girls who'venever had a chance," retorted Betty with increasingspirit, "than—than to gamble it away in Wall Street!"

"Is that a little friendly jab at me?"

Betty tried vainly to control her emotion. "You'vealways been so good to me, Guardy, so considerate thatI hate to say anything unkind, but I read the papersand—I understand more than you think about business."

"Do, eh? Such as—what?"

"I know there's a fight going on between two coppercompanies and—and you're in it, aren't you?"

Baxter smiled grimly. "I guess I'm in it, all right."

"And one company or the other may be ruined. Isn'tthat true?"

"Well," drawled her guardian, "I guess one comp'nyor the other's liable to find out that the thing they'vebeen monkeyin' with ain't precisely a Sunday schoolpicnic."

Betty's face was tense now with the earnestness ofher convictions. "You may think me foolish, and perhapsI shouldn't say this, but Guardy, I don't approveof your using father's money like that."

"Don't, eh?" grunted Hiram, then rising from hischair, he walked back and forth with frowns and queerlittle nods of his massive head. Presently his facecleared and, stopping before Betty, he laid an affectionatehand on her shoulder.

"Child, it looks as if I'll have to explain a few thingsto you," he said, "that I didn't mean to talk about. Yousay ye don't approve of speculatin' in Wall Street.Neither do I. I got into this copper campaign because—well,it ain't exactly my fault and—anyhow, there aretimes when a man's got to fight fer his life. It's thatway with me just now. As to usin' yer father'smoney——" He hesitated before the steady challenge ofher waiting eyes. "Bryce Thompson and I were partnersin business for twenty-five years. He was my bestfriend and—ye know I wouldn't breathe a word againsthis memory?"

"I know," said the girl. "Go on."

"Betty, yer father didn't leave any money." He spoketenderly but firmly.

In a dull way she repeated the words. "He—he didn'tleave any—money." Her voice trailed off into sickeningsilence.

"Ye know how generous yer father was and—hemade unfortunate investments and—when his estate wassettled up there wasn't anything left."

"Nothing left!" she murmured, then rousing herselfas a new thought came. "But—all this money thatyou've been sending me?"

"I was glad to do it, Betty."

"It wasn't my money? I had no right to it? Oh!" Shestared at him helplessly as the full realization brokeupon her.

"I'd never have mentioned it, only——"

"You should have told me long ago. I'm so—sorryand ashamed."

"There, now! It's all right!" He took her two slimhands in his and patted them kindly.

"You've sent me thousands of dollars. I can neverpay it back."

"Ye don't have to pay it back."

"But—why did you do it? Why?"

"I'll tell ye why," answered Hiram thoughtfully. "BecauseI loved yer father, that's one reason, and anotheris I—I've always loved you, Betty, ever since ye waslittle."

"Guardy!" she whispered tenderly. "But you must seethat——"

"Wait, Betty! The bookkeepin' of life is a queerthing. Ye don't have to make the deservin' column andthe lovin' column balance. When ye love ye don't givethings because ye owe 'em; ye don't use a scale or ameasurin' cup, ye just give and give, and ye can't giveenough—because ye love."

The girl's eyes filled with tears; she tried to speak,but the words choked in her throat.

"It ain't only because yer a sweet, plucky girl that I'veloved ye," he went on. "It's because ye make me thinkof——" there was a break in his voice. "Ye know,we had a little girl once and—we lost her. Shewas only three years old when she—went away. Thatain't very old, is it? But, say, she had the cinchesaround our hearts all right! I can see her now, inher blue dress, with her little hands full o' flowers.She had eyes like yours, Betty, and a pretty way—likeyours and——" the grim, old fellow stopped andwiped his eyes. "Well, I guess ye understand nowwhy I'd do 'most anything in the world to make youhappy."

"I've been so foolish, so extravagant," she murmuredin distressed self-reproach.

"Not a bit! All I want ye to do is to ease up a fewnotches until——"

"And you've been hard pressed for money. Oh, if Icould only help you! I will help you. I'll work. Yes,I mean it. I can earn money with my singing and—besides,I'm practical. I can use a typewriter—I couldbe your secretary, Guardy. I'm sure I could. Wouldyou let me try? Please let me."

"Holy cats!" exclaimed Baxter. "Is there anything anAmerican girl won't think of? I'm proud of ye, Betty,fer wantin' to do it, but it ain't necessary. You juststay with us like one of the family."

"No, no! There are too many staying with you likeone of the family. I'm going to be your secretary, thatis," her face fell, "unless you have one already?"

"I had one in New York, but I didn't bring her overbecause—the fact is, there was a leak in the officeand—I fired her."

"Then you need some one to help you?" cried Bettyeagerly. "And I do know about business—at least Ican learn and—I can do what I'm told. Please, Guardy."

Betty's whole soul was in the words and, for manya day, Hiram Baxter remembered the loving radiancethat illumined her face as she held out her hands in asweet impulse to help.

"Yer a little thoroughbred, all right," he reflected."And I could trust ye. That's a whole lot more'n I cansay of the last one. Hm!"

He reflected a moment, and then, holding out his handwith a cheery smile: "Betty, yer my kind! Yer BryceThompson's daughter! There! I don't mind tellin' yethis fits in with a plan I had and—yes, ye can try it. Yecan be my secretary. Say, won't that shame the relatives?"

Thus they settled upon an arrangement that was destinedto have important consequences.

This night they spent in town for the pleasure of atheatre, and the next morning Betty passed in a flutterof hurried preparations, for she suddenly realized thatone of her Paquin gowns was not the most suitablegarment for a serious-minded secretary to be wearing whenshe arrived at the scene of her duties. There was noreason why she should give Mrs. Baxter's relatives (whodid not know her, thank heaven) the satisfaction ofrealizing, by any outward sign, how complete was thedownfall of poor Betty Thompson. So she hurried intoher plainest black frock, a very chic creation,nevertheless, and was waiting demurely in the taxicab whenHiram and his wife appeared.

And now, just as they were starting for the station,there came a long distance telephone message forBaxter, something important, the operator said.

"Who d'ye s'pose it was, Eleanor?" beamed Hiram afew moments later, as he hurried back. "Ye'll have toget a move on, friend," he warned the driver, as theyshot away.

"The Baroness Dunwoodie?" guessed Mrs. Baxter.

"The Bishop of Bunchester?" guessed Betty.

"Wrong, both of ye." Then he turned to his wife witha happy smile. "Dearie, it's Bob."

"Bob!" exclaimed the mother.

"Bob Baxter, sure as guns!"

"But Bob is in New York? You left him there?"

"I left him there, but he didn't stay there. He jumpedon the Lusitania the day after I sailed on the Olympicand they nearly beat us in. He came right across fromLiverpool and he's up at Ipping House this minute.Wanted to know if he should come to town and I saidwe were on our way back and to wait where he was."

"My boy!" murmured Mrs. Baxter, and not all thepicture hats in Piccadilly could give her the look of joythat her face wore now.

"Seems Bob found trouble in the office that he couldn'twrite about, so he just came over." The old fellowturned to Betty. "I told ye there was a leak in thatNew York office."

It was not until they were seated in the train thatEleanor was enlightened as to Miss Thompson's newpurpose.

"Mr. Baxter's secretary? It's absurd!" she declared.

"Please don't say that, Mrs. Baxter," pleaded Betty."I've only just found out about—Father and—I couldn'trespect myself if I just did nothing and let Mr. Baxtersupport me."

"There's the American spirit for ye," approved Hiram.

The train rushed on and presently, as happens inrailway journeys, the three lapsed into silence. Hiramthought of his business worries and of his plan forsolving the problem of the relatives; Eleanor thought of herson, and Betty thought of various things. Poor child,she had enough to think of! What a sad awakeningafter all her bright dreams! She wondered who wouldlive now in her lovely Paris apartment that would neverbe hers again. Who would stand of summer evenings,as she had stood so often, on the balcony outside herbedroom and watch the swallows circling over the chestnuttrees on the Champs Élysêes? Perhaps she wouldnever see Paris again!

Then she thought of Bob Baxter, the playmate of herchildhood, whom she had not seen for years and years,not since she was a little thing with yellow braids downher back and freckles on her nose. A homely little thing,they always said. She wondered if Bob remembered heras a homely little thing. Perhaps he did not rememberher at all.

She turned toward the fleeing landscape and, in thewindow, caught the reflection of her own lovely face.Miss Betty Thompson, if you please, a poor dependent,a drudging secretary! It was sickening, maddening; shecould not bear it. And then, through the torture of herthoughts, came tripping brightly a whimsical fancy thatbrought back the laughter to her eyes. And the laughingeyes in the window seemed to say: "How could he possiblyremember you?"

"Guardy," she asked softly, "would you do somethingfor me?"

"Sure I would," said Hiram.

"Even if it seems silly—just to make me happy?"

Baxter nodded his big head slowly. "Try me, littlegirl."

"You said it would shame the relatives—what I amgoing to do?"

"It will—you bet it will—when they know."

"But I don't want them to know. That's the point.It isn't any snobbish reason. I'm not ashamed ofworking, but——" She threw all her feminine power intoone swift, bewitching appeal. "Guardy, I don't wantthem to know that I am Betty Thompson. I don't wantanyone to know it except you and Mrs. Baxter. Pleaselet me have my way. Let me just be your newsecretary, Miss—er—I'll take some other name."

"No, no, I won't stand fer any fake name. Take yerown name. I'll introduce ye as Miss Thompson, my newsecretary. They'll never suspect that yer BettyThompson."

"But some of the relatives will be sure to know you,"objected Eleanor.

"The relatives have never seen me," said Betty.

"Bob has seen you."

"Not since I was ten years old—that's eleven yearsago. Was I terribly homely, Mrs. Baxter?"

"Well, my dear, you were by no means a beauty."

"You certainly have changed," put in Hiram admiringly.

"Thank you, Guardy. Then it's all settled. I'm tobe the new secretary, Miss Thompson? Not MissThompson, the new secretary—you see, there's a difference.Is it a bargain?" she asked, giving them her twohands, while a mischievous light danced in her eyes. "Isit? You don't mind, do you? I'll work, I'll do anything,but I want your promise that I'm going to be the newsecretary, Miss Thompson."

"I give ye my promise," said Baxter, and he held outhis big hand, which she first patted affectionately andthen hugged in her warm, white palms.

"And you?" Betty turned to Eleanor. "Please! Perhapswe'll only keep it up for a few days?"

"What a tease!" laughed Eleanor. "Very well, MissThompson, I give my promise."

And so it was arranged.

It was half-past four when they reached the little station,where guests for Ipping House left the train. Betty'sheart beat with excitement and surprise as a splendidlooking young fellow, tall and broad-shouldered, cameforward to meet them.

"Bob!" "Mother!" "Dad!" came the quick, happycries and then, after an awkward moment, the youngAmerican was presented to Betty.

"Bob, I want ye to know my new secretary, MissThompson," said Hiram, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Miss Thompson!"

"Mr. Baxter!"

Their eyes met and that first quick scrutiny broughtan impression, a swift sensation that neither ever forgot.

After seeing the ladies comfortably disposed in thetonneau, Hiram climbed into the front seat beside hisson and the car, after a preliminary fit of monstrousague, leaped forward with a dragon-like snort andswiftly rounded the grass-bordered flower-bed where theambitious station master had spelled the name ofIppingford in sprawling and almost illegible nasturtiums.

A blur of whitish gray varied with deep green andmomentary splashes of every possible rose color was allBetty saw of the village street. For a fraction of asecond her eyes caught and held the fantastic image ofa cat on a swinging sign—A Blue Cat—with goldenfeet, or were they golden boots? Before her mind hadpieced the picture together the little tavern was left farbehind. Now they were gliding swiftly and silently,save for the murmur of the motor, through a shimmeringtwilight of moss-grown beeches and ivy-coveredoaks, where high hawthorn hedges shadowed miniaturejungles of interlacing leaves and ferns and nestlingflowers. Like a blue-green tapestry it shut them in on eitherside. Only as the car slowed for an instant when roundinga corner could one make out a detail of harebell,foxglove, wild rose, or honeysuckle. It was Betty's firstsight of a rambling English lane, and her mind flewback to the stolid French country roads lined with staid,orderly poplars.

"This is mad, quite mad, by comparison," she said toherself, "but exquisitely mad like Ophelia." Then aloudto Mrs. Baxter, as she leaned back: "How cozy theyare, these English lanes!"

Now they were speeding down a narrow green alley,where the hawthorn hedges met overhead and the soundwas as if they were going through a tunnel. Mrs. Baxterdid not hear, but she nodded and smiled to saveBetty from the necessity of shouting.

Betty sat directly behind Mr. Baxter at the other sideof the car from Bob, and, though she could study himunobserved, she had, after the first shock of meeting,avoided looking at him. She had wanted to be alone—quite,quite alone. She wanted to think it all over, toreconstruct herself, as it were, to adjust herself to thisnew, this totally unexpected edition of her old playmate.So she had welcomed the distraction of this intoxicatingbeauty that swam past her in the golden midsummerhaze.

If it did not leave her to herself, at least it took heraway from this Bob, this disturbing giant, with his broadshoulders bent forward easily in the business of steering,and who now, at last, held her eyes and would not letthem go. Not even the wild roses could drag her glanceaway, and they continued their mad backward race withthe foxgloves and ferns and harebells and honeysuckle,all unobserved by Miss Betty Thompson.

And presently she found herself waiting for themoment when he would turn again to speak to his father,when she would once more see his profile. SomethingHiram Baxter had just said caused Bob to laugh as helifted his head, and Betty laughed aloud for sheersympathy. A moment before Bob had been frowning and,with the heavy Baxter eyebrows and pugnacious jaw,unrelieved by the regularly modeled features of hishandsome father, Bob's face in repose only just missed beingplain, just missed it, Betty thought, by that miss that isas good as a mile. And now when he laughed everyfeature, every line of his honest face seemed tocollaborate in the expression of irresistible mirth.

They were turning in at the park gate of Ipping House.For a moment the car came to a standstill, chutteringimpatiently while a small, apple-faced child, a little girlwith reddish hair and wondering eyes, who had watchedtheir approach from the steps of the lodge, swung theiron gate slowly open.

As the car lunged forward again Betty gave a backwardlook along the shaded roadway. The figure of ayoung woman in a scarlet cloak, slim, dark, foreignlooking, a gypsy, perhaps, was standing in the shadow at aturn of the road watching them intently. The nextinstant she had disappeared among the trees. It happenedso quickly that, as the iron gate clanged behind them,the scarlet of the girl's cloak was all that Betty's mindretained of the instantaneous picture. It was a peculiarshade of scarlet. Where had she seen it before?

CHAPTER V

THE REVEREND HORATIO MERLE

In order to make it clear how Hester of the scarletcloak (for it was she) happened to be waiting atthe lodge gate on the evening of Betty Thompson'sarrival, we must go back a little and consider theactivities of the Reverend Horatio Merle during the previoustwenty-four hours.

It was on the morning of the day preceding HiramBaxter's return and the curate and his wife were lingeringover their matutinal repast in the sunny breakfastroom of Ipping House. A nice little clerical man,a pink and puffy little woman; he with finely drawnfeatures and thin side whiskers, she with alert, almostdomineering, eyes.

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Merle, looking up fromthe newspaper. "Just listen to this, Horatio!"

"I am listening, my dear," said Horatio, carefullyreplacing in its Dresden cup the egg which had been doingpreliminary duty as a hand warmer, clasped between hisdevotional palms.

But Harriet Merle with the self-absorption of newspapermonopolists was now reading rapidly half aloudhalf to herself with tantalizing incoherence—"first-classcarriage—inside pocket—five thousand pounds—progressivemothers—thoroughly searched—Bishop of Bunchester."

"That accounts for it," she said at last, laying downthe newspaper. "That explains it," repeated Harriet.

"Explains what? What is it all about?" queried herhusband, nervously adjusting his eyeglasses, which magnifiedto an almost goblin intensity the note of interrogationin his pale blue eyes.

Harriet briefly recapitulated the startling news of thestolen purse, to a running accompaniment of "Tuttut!"—"Bless my soul!"—"Well, I never!" from herastonished spouse, who straightway begged to see thenewspaper for himself and, with fascinated interest, studiedthe details of the robbery.

"Clever piece of work," the curate muttered. "Lookslike a high-class crook." And his eyes went off intospace.

"A crook? Horatio! What do you mean?"

"Nothing, my dear! Nothing!" he assured her witha guilty look, for the truth was this mild-manneredclergyman adored detective mysteries and in his secretchamber had devoured numbers of them.

"Now you see, Horatio, the bishop will be detained inLondon over Friday, and as Dr. Dibble is laid up withhis throat, that is why the Progressive Mothers haveasked you to deliver the address at the opening of thebazaar."

"Dear, dear!" sighed Horatio, ignoring the all-importantmatter of the address. "Such a large sum, suchan incredible sum! Fancy losing anything so huge asfive thousand pounds!" he smiled at the thought. "It'slike—it's like the musician who lost a bass drum in ahansom cab. Now if it were five shillings, or even fivepounds, I could really sympathize; and, speaking ofsympathy, Harriet, I think I will go to the rectory thismorning and see if there is anything I can do for poorDr. Dibble."

"You'll do nothing of the kind." Harriet had finishedher breakfast and now rose majestically to her fullheight of five feet three inches (including her marceledpompadour and military heels). "You'll go straight toyour room and write your Progressive Mothers' address.You may make light of our poverty and the humiliatingdependence it entails on the hospitality of my cousin,Hiram——"

"Second cousin-in-law," gently corrected Horatio.

She swept the interruption aside. "You may evenscoff at my relationship to Cousin Eleanor, but youshall not make light of this opportunity. It is notonly an honor, Horatio, but there is also a——" Harriethesitated.

"Honorarium?" suggested her husband.

She nodded. "I don't know how much, but we cannotafford to ignore it, and, besides, there is no knowingwhat it may lead to. Poor, dear Dr. Dibble must be inhis eighties, and another of these attacks——"

Horatio raised a hand in protest. "My dear, I begof you not to impute such mercenary motives to myanxiety about Dr. Dibble's health."

But Harriet was not listening, she was gazing with anexpression of horror at Horatio's outstretched hand.

"Horatio!" she exclaimed.

He examined the back of his two hands, then turnedthem over and held them out with the air of a schoolboyexpecting to be scolded.

"I assure you, my dear, I scrubbed them with all mymight, but the water was so cold, so very cold," heshivered at the recollection.

Harriet shook her head. "It isn't that," she said.

"Then what is it, my dear? This suspense is killingme."

"Your cuffs, Horatio."

Her voice had in it a note of anguish. For the momentall the pitiful makeshifts of the last few months,ever since Horatio resigned from his last pulpit, andtheir present dependence on the bounty of a distantrelative, seemed to find concentrated expression on Horatio'sfrayed cuffs. Harriet was on the verge of tears.

"Come to your room," she said. "I will get my scissors."

They paused at the first landing of the long oak staircase,Harriet for breath, Horatio for Harriet.

"I wish you thought more of your appearance, Horatio,"she panted. "Cousin Hiram, though he is only anAmerican, is so particular about his shirts."

"If I had Cousin Hiram's money I might——"

"No, you wouldn't, Horatio. You'd spend it all oncharities and Angora cats and—mechanical toys," sheadded indignantly.

"And real lace dresses for my old Dutch," laughedHoratio, putting his arm around her, "and satin slipperslike the Countess Kate's."

"The countess!" snapped Harriet.

Horatio felt her shrug of aversion at the mention ofKate Clendennin's name. He knew what Harriet wasthinking, knew what she would say if she spoke. Katehad something no woman of forty-nine can forgive: shehad youth. Kate had other things equally unforgivable,things that went with youth and satin slippers, and atitle—a title after all is a title even if it is only a Germantitle, and Harriet classed German titles in a vaguecategory with German silver, German measles, cousinsGerman, and—Germans!

"They're coming now," said Horatio, interrupting herthoughts.

"What? Who?"

"The satin slippers," he repeated in a stage whisperand pointed upward. His choice of words moved evenHarriet to reluctant mirth, for the countess had put onheavy walking boots, and the sound of them now descendingthe uncarpeted oak stairs was anything but satin.

Kate Clendennin paused a moment in her downwardflight to exchange the usual morning insincerities. Shewas a splendid specimen of British young womanhood,with her dark, well-behaved hair and gray-green eyes,capitally set off by a gray tweed walking suit. Harrietregarded her resentfully. What right had Kate to thecomplexion of an early riser when she always breakfastedin bed, and to the figure of Artemis when she never setfoot to the ground if there were a horse or an automobilein sight?

"Ah! I hope you slept well," said Mrs. Merle.

The countess smothered a yawn with a tan glove. "Ireally don't know; I'm not awake yet." She was thinking,"What an odd little couple they are, these two, thispink-and-white co*ckatoo lady in the faded purple morninggown, and this little gray mouse in the black velvetcoat."

"Is Mr. Fitz Brown down yet?" they heard her call toParker a moment later, as she disappeared into thebreakfast room. "Tell Anton we shall want the motor."

"It's perfectly shameful the way those two abuse dearCousin Hiram's kindness," grumbled Harriet. "They'vehad the car every day this week."

The Merles were now standing in Horatio's study neara window overlooking the conservatory. For a momentthere was silence, broken only by the gnashing of thetiny scissors. The operation of cuff trimming is adelicate one, requiring skill and steadiness of hand. Thedeviation of a thread's breadth by those sharp littlescissors might be fatal to the cuff, might even endangerthe life of the shirt.

"I have always maintained," the curate remarked, "thatsurgery is a science for which women are by naturepeculiarly——"

"The other hand, please," interrupted Harriet shortly.She was annoyed by Horatio's avoidance of her petsubject of discussion. It was his cue here to say: "IfLionel and Kate abuse Cousin Hiram's hospitality, why,so do we." To which she would reply: "That is different,Horatio; we are relatives of Eleanor Baxter." Andhe would say: "So are they, Harriet." And shewould answer, contemptuously: "They are thirdcousins." Then Horatio would say: "Yes?" He had aparticularly irritating way of saying "Yes?" And, ifHarriet weathered this irritation sufficiently to answershe would generally sweep out of the discussion with,"You know perfectly well, Horatio, that people like theBaxters consider being second cousins to such a familyas mine a very close relationship."

In her secret heart Harriet knew that Horatio wasright, but she had never admitted it and never would.There was no knowing how Horatio would follow upsuch a victory. Suppose he insisted on their bringingtheir visit to an end. It was not to be thought of!Their money was all gone, they had no other relatives.What would become of them?

"There!" she said at length, surveying the completedcuff. "That's better. Now you must get to work on theaddress."

Harriet replaced the scissors in a silver sheath thathung from her chatelaine at her side. At the door sheturned with a look the curate knew well. "You will findeverything you need, Horatio, and I will see that youare not disturbed."

The door closed with a subdued but ominous after-click.Horatio stood listening until the sound of his wife'sfootsteps had died away, then, tiptoeing quietly acrossthe floor, he turned the knob cautiously and pulled. Alas!There was no mistake. Harriet had locked him in. Hewas a prisoner in his own room.

"Strange," he reflected, "that the change of only aquarter of an inch in the position of a minute piece ofmetal in a door should transform into a gloomy dungeoncell what, only one moment before, was a comfortablestudy, with its inviting easy chair, its reposeful sofa,and——"

He looked quickly, smitten by a sudden dread. It wasas he feared—the easy chair was gone, the sofa, too, hadbeen taken away, and there, grimly awaiting him on thetable, were a solemn row of dark policeman-like books,Cruden's "Concordance," Roget's "Thesaurus," the"Dictionary of Phrase and Fable," Philpot's "Elements ofRhetoric" and Veighley's "Mythology." In the shadowof these and other cheerful volumes stood a bronzeinkstand of mournful Egyptian architecture, and exactly atright angles to this lay a quire of blue ruled sermonpaper. Parallel to the paper rested a pen of shiny blackand, as Horatio soon ascertained, evil tasting wood.

"Pththt!" he exclaimed suddenly, after some minutesof violent concentration on the subject of ProgressiveMothers. "Why doesn't Edison invent a penholder ofsome edible material?"

And now the curate's thoughts wandered back to themystery of the bishop's purse. Who could have taken it?There were two women in the railway carriage and twomusicians. Horatio much preferred crimes with awoman at the bottom and he disliked musicians, so hedecided that one of these fair travelers—of course, theywere fair—had turned the trick. He loved the crispvulgarity of that expression—turned the trick. And,forthwith, he loosed his fancy over the paths of fearlessadventure that he loved to tread. Now he was a greatdetective, on the track of a desperate criminal, and hisgentle soul thrilled in the conflict of plot and counter-plot.In all literature and theology there was nothingthat stirred Horatio Merle like these imaginings.

Half an hour later, Harriet, listening at the studydoor, heard a faint scratching sound and smiled insatisfaction.

"He's writing," she said to herself and stole swiftlyaway. She had an errand in the village and could leavenow with a clear conscience.

The scratching sound continued. It came, however,not from the writing table, but from the windowcasem*nt, which presently swung open, apparently of itsown accord. Whereupon Horatio came back, with astart, from his heroic wanderings, back to the world ofdrab reality and looked blinkingly about him. There,on the window ledge, sharply silhouetted against thewistaria leaves, stood Martin Luther. His tail swayedswiftly from side to side like the ebony baton of a chefd'orchestre. His staring eyes were like two circularholes through which you saw the green of the leafybackground. He held his head proudly, he was carryingsomething. Horatio shut his eyes quickly. There weremoments when he hated Martin Luther.

When he looked again the cat was standing by hischair purring noisily to attract attention to somethingthat lay on the floor. It was a field mouse, just such aone as he had watched in the cornfield the day beforeand had scolded Martin Luther for frightening. Perhapsit was the same field mouse.

"You little murderer!" cried Merle. "It would serveyou right if I had left you to drown in the canal!"

He pushed the cat away roughly and picked up theunconscious little creature. The field mouse stirred inhis hand. Merle examined it tenderly and was surprisedto find it apparently quite uninjured. He stroked itgently with his finger. Suddenly the mouse sat up andbegan preening itself with an incredibly rapid whirringmovement of its tiny hands. Then just as suddenly themovements stopped, the little head drooped, and the eyesclosed.

"Poor little thing!" said Horatio. "The shock wastoo much for it."

He had scarcely uttered these words when the mouseopened its eyes again and went on preening itself asif nothing had happened.

"You're sleepy, that's what's the matter with you,"decided Merle, after watching several repetitions of thisperformance. "I'm going to take you home and put youto bed. As for you, Martin Luther," he turned severelyto the cat, "you are a disgrace to the family and deserveto be excommunicated."

Martin Luther, after a stare of pained incredulity,walked stiffly to the farthest corner of the room and,turning his back on the curate, signified with silent andelaborate symbolism that he washed his hands and feetof the whole matter.

And now the Reverend Horatio, mindless of difficultiesand dangers, set about keeping his rash promise to returnthe field mouse to its sorrowing relatives. First hetried the door in the vain hope that Harriet had secretlyrelented and unlocked it. No such luck. The windowwas his only means of exit. Very well, he would exitby the window. The thought of failing to keep hisword never entered his head.

Looking out of the window, the kindly gentlemanstudied the situation with scientific mind. Three feetbelow was the glass roof of the conservatory, which wasnot more than eight feet wide at this point and curveddownward like the brink of a glass waterfall. At itsouter edge there was a drop of perhaps six feet to thedriveway.

One thing the curate, leaning out, noted with joy.A little to the right, just where the conservatory roundedthe corner of the house and the supporting girder wasof a greater width the wistaria took an unexpected turnand spanned the dome of glass with a network of rope-likebranches that covered it in some places to the widthof a foot. It was as if the friendly tree had miraculouslygone out of its way to help him. To Merle's imaginationthis seemed like a sign of providential approval.

There still remained the disposition of the field mouse,but this offered only a momentary difficulty. Thesolution was found in a bag cleverly improvised from thecurate's silk handkerchief, the ends gathered together,dumpling-wise, and secured by the string of his eyeglassdetached for the purpose. And, thus enveloped, thelittle creature was safely and comfortably suspended(like a princess swung in a Sedan chair) from the topbutton of Horatio's black coat. This arrangement leftthe curate's hands free for climbing.

Having assured himself that the combined strength ofthe branches and the glass would bear his weight, Horatioproceeded with the descent and found this perfectlyeasy; but just as he had reached the jumping-off place,the curate was brought to a palpitating halt by the soundof steps in the conservatory beneath him. Parting thewistaria leaves and peering downward through the glasshe saw Anton, the chauffeur, moving among the plantsfrom the direction of the library.

"What's he doing there, I wonder?" thought Merle."What business has Anton in the conservatory?"

As he came directly underneath the spot where Horatiowas crouching, the chauffeur stood still and lookedabout him cautiously. Apparently satisfied that he wasunobserved, he pulled a blue-and-white envelope from hispocket, and, skillfully loosening the flap, took out a paperwhich, as he held it scarcely two feet below him, Merlecould see was a cablegram. After a glance at thecontents, Anton replaced the paper in its envelope andquickly retraced his steps toward the library.

It all happened so quickly that, even had Merle triedto read the cable, he could not have done so. Somefigures and the word "Gramercy" caught his eye. Then,as he looked away, the humorous appropriateness of theterm eavesdropper to his position on the roof caused himto laugh aloud. It was fortunate for the ReverendHoratio that Anton was out of hearing, more fortunatethan the gentle curate dreamed.

CHAPTER VI

HESTER OF THE SCARLET CLOAK

Great was the rejoicing in the home of thefield mouse on the return of the prodigal.Merle, happy in the success of his mission,watched the little fellow scamper off among the barleystalks and made no attempt to follow his course orintrude upon the welcoming festivities.

His errand of mercy accomplished, the curate's pathof duty now led directly back to Ipping House, backto the prison cell where Roget and Cruden and all thepolice platoon of beetle-colored books and the funerealinkstand and the penholder of evil tasting wood grimlyawaited him. A straight and narrow path between thehigh hedge and cornfields, over the meadow, across theold stone bridge, down the lane to the park gate on theIppingford road—all to be drearily retraced. In theopposite direction lay a new and untrod path, a woodlandway that whispered invitingly with mysteriousdarknesses and possibilities of adventure.

The process of reasoning by which the Reverend HoratioMerle convinced himself that a woodland path, startingin exactly the opposite direction was a short cut toIpping House was anything but satisfactory when heafterward attempted to reveal it to Mrs. Merle. Indeed,but for the ready tact of Martin Luther on this occasion,he would have been left entirely without an audience,as, in the middle of his explanation, the door wasslammed indignantly by the departing Harriet.

"In any case," he told himself, as he turned his backupon the cornfield, "I can think about ProgressiveMothers just as well in this wood as I can shut up in mystudy."

Strange to relate, that was the last thought on thesubject of Progressive Mothers that visited the curatefor many hours. It was as if the spirit of the wood hadoverheard his rash boast and summoned all its forces toteach Horatio a lesson. Never was there such a conspiracy.With one accord birds, trees, flowers, butterflies,and all the creeping things of the wood united tocompass the downfall of Horatio Merle. Hissurrender was complete and, from the moment of hisentrance into the wood, the all-important matter of theaddress passed completely from the clergyman's mind.The Bishop of Bunchester was right when he said thatMerle was a born naturalist.

At the end of two hours Horatio sat down to rest onthe bank of a rocky brook, tired and happy, without theleast idea where he was. His hat was gone, his feetwere wet through, owing to the treachery of amoss-covered stone, and his coat was torn and smeared withleaf mold. Earlier in his wanderings the joyful curatehad fallen into a deep saw-pit concealed by tall brackenand he bore upon his person the marks of his strugglesto extricate himself.

Merle looked at his watch. The hands pointed to aquarter past one, indicating to Horatio that it wasexactly five minutes to two. The original walk fromIpping House to the cornfield had taken him fifteenminutes, and this was the short cut home!

What would Harriet think? The thought of whatHarriet would think brought Harriet's husband to hisfeet and approximately to his senses. The first rationalidea since his unhappy inspiration of the short cut nowcame to him. He would follow the brook. "A brookcan't go round in a circle, so it must lead somewhere,"he reasoned, "and anywhere is better than nowhere."

Comforted by this logic, Horatio followed the courseof the brook. If it did not go in a circle, there weretimes when Merle was not sure whether it was the samebrook or another one going in the opposite direction.

"It must go somewhere," he repeated firmly when, forthe second time, he passed the chimney of a ruined papermill he had left behind several minutes before. And,sure enough, another turn of the brook brought himto the edge of the wood. Here the brook surpassed allits previous feats of contortion and doubled back,growling and grumbling, as if to say it had come miles outof its way and missed an appointment with a mostimportant river, all on account of an absent-mindedcurate.

Emerging from the wood and descending a steep bank,Merle found himself in a narrow lane which herecognized as a tributary of the Ippingford road. On theother side of the lane at the top of the bank was a thickhedge which formed one of the boundaries of theMillbrook golf course. Here the wanderer had a choice oftwo ways. The lane, though a trifle the longer, waseasier walking than the golf course. On the other hand,it was the more frequented, the golf course at thisseason being often quite deserted, which was an importantconsideration in Horatio's hatless and earth-stainedcondition.

The sound of a distant auto horn decided the waveringcurate and he scrambled up the bank, trusting toluck to find an opening in the hedge. The only openingprovided by the playful goblin who was conductingMerle's fortunes was scarcely more than a thinness, butHoratio plunged into it, appalled by the thought thatHarriet might be in the approaching vehicle. She sometimeswent for a ride with the Winkles in their big car,and if Harriet should see him now, if anyone should seehim now!

As the automobile shot past, Merle crouched motionless,safely obliterated by the hedge whose color schemematched his own. Then, as he tried to push on throughthe branches, he was suddenly restrained, not by ordinarythorns, but by the uncompromising pull of a ropeof barbed wire that formed an extra barrier along thetop of the hedge and that now had hooked itself firmlyinto Horatio's coat. Squirm and struggle as he would,the agitated naturalist could not free himself, and, tomake matters worse, as he reached his left leg forwardand tried to brace himself for a better pull by digginghis boot into the turf of the golf course, he felt his toeviolently caught in a fierce grip and so powerfully heldthat he was now literally anchored in the middle of thehedge, unable to move a single inch forward by reasonof the cruel barbed wire or a single inch backward onaccount of whatever savage creature had seized hisextended toe—a most painful and embarrassing positionfor this kindly Christian gentleman!

Horatio's first effort was to get rid of the animal thatwas holding his left foot. It must be a dog, he reasoned,yet it was strange that he had heard no growl. Whatelse but a dog could it be? He peered through thebranches, but could distinguish nothing except the greenof the turf.

"Whoa, doggy! Good boy!" he called out caressingly,at the same time trying discreetly to withdraw his leg;but the grip held firmly.

"A most extraordinarily steady dog," reflected Merle."And a silent dog." He wondered if it was possible thathe had been bitten by a canine deaf mute. There wasno question that he had been bitten by something, forhe could feel the teeth on the toe of his boot.

At this moment Horatio was conscious of footstepsapproaching along the path outside the hedge and,screwing his head around, he made out the figure of awoman in a brilliant red cloak. There was no longer anyquestion of concealment. He must get out of this painfulposition and, in his most conciliatory tone, headdressed the lady from the depths of the hedge.

"My dear madam, I regret exceedingly the necessitythat compels me——"

"Oh!" cried the lady, and Merle observed that thescarlet cloak had stopped, while a pair of lustrous, darkeyes gazed suspiciously in his direction. "Don't bealarmed, my friend," he begged. "I wish you no harm.On the contrary, I need help. The fact is, some animal,a dog, I think, has hold of my left foot."

"A dog!" exclaimed the other, stepping back.

"He won't hurt you," said Merle reassuringly. "He'son the other side of the hedge. Can you see him, mydear?"

Encouraged by these words, the lady, now seen byMerle to be young and dark and decidedly good looking(although plainly dressed), drew nearer to the mysteriousvoice and was presently searching among the leavesand branches for an explanation of this singularsummons.

"I don't see anything," she said.

"Perhaps if you threw a stone, or—could you gothrough the hedge? You see, I am caught on this barbedwire."

"Wait! It's your coat sleeve," exclaimed the youngwoman. "There!" and with a quick turn of her handshe released the impaled garment.

"Thank you," he murmured. "Be careful of the dog!I'm going at him now. Hey, there! Good heaven!"

As he spoke Horatio, loosed from the restraining wire,stumbled on through the hedge, while the young womanstared apprehensively after him. There was a clank ofmetal, a few muttered words, and then Merle came strugglingback, scratched, torn, and panting, but full of eagerinterest.

"What do you suppose had hold of my toe?" he burst out.

For a moment Hester (for it was she) surveyed himin silence, then she let herself go in a fit of uncontrollablelaughter, while Merle looked at her in pained surprise.

"But it's true," he insisted, "something did have holdof my toe. It wasn't a dog, but—look! You can seewhere its tooth went through my boot. It's lucky I wearlong ones, isn't it? Otherwise it might have gonethrough my foot. Do you see?"

"Yes, sir, I see," answered the girl, checking herhilarity as she recognized, in spite of his batteredcondition, a wearer of the cloth. And, sure enough, there inthe toe of his left boot was a small, round hole to whichthe curate pointed proudly.

"You couldn't possibly guess what made that hole," hedeclared, "not in a hundred guesses, so I'll tell you. Itwas a mole trap. Fancy that! You know, they set themon the golf course and I poked my toe right into one.A mole trap, of all things!" Then, glancing anxiouslyat his watch, "Half past three! Bless my soul! I can'tpossibly get back to Ipping House before four o'clock."

At the mention of Ipping House the Storm girl lookedat him with startled interest and forthwith her wholemanner changed.

"Is that where you live?" she asked.

"That's where I am visiting," answered Merle, and hisface clouded as he thought of Harriet. "Ah, well, wemust make the best of it," he sighed. "That little fieldmouse is happy and—my dear young lady, I cannotexpress to you my gratitude for the admirable way inwhich you came to my rescue."

"Oh, that's all right."

"Allow me to present myself. I am the ReverendHoratio Merle. I judge by your appearanceand—er—accent that you are a stranger in this region?"

"Yes," answered Hester, with a quiver of hesitation,"I—I just got off the train."

Horatio was immediately interested. "The train fromLondon?"

"Yes. I was never here before and——" the patheticnote sounded in her rich, low voice, "I'll be verygrateful, sir, if you will advise me where to go."

"Why—haven't you friends in Ippingford?" askedHoratio in surprise.

The girl shook her head and her dark eyes rested onthe curate with such an expression of sadness and sweetresignation that he felt inexpressibly touched.

"My dear young lady," he said in ready sympathy,"my dear Miss—er——" he paused to give her anopportunity to tell him her name, but this was preciselywhat the adroit young woman was not yet prepared todo. She was not sure what name to give him.

Miss Thompson knew her as Jenny Regan, the nameshe had given to the police, and it was in pursuit of MissThompson (and her golf bag) that she had come toIppingford. On the other hand, various newspapers hadchronicled the fact that a young woman named JennyRegan was implicated in the robbery of the bishop'spurse, and to give that name here might make troublefor her. And yet if she gave her real name, HesterStorm, what would Miss Thompson think?

"I have had such a hard time, especially this last year,"she murmured, avoiding the difficulty.

"You must tell me all about it," said the curate kindly."Come—as we walk along—all about it."

So it befell that Hester Storm, having started outaimlessly along a country road, her mind filled with schemesfor getting at Miss Elizabeth Thompson, had, by a luckychance, fallen in with this guileless and amiable partywho actually lived at Ipping House and who might beof the greatest use to her.

As they strolled on, side by side, the girl elaboratedfor Horatio's benefit the same hard luck story that shehad invented for Betty on the train, the same nurserygoverness struggles, the same disappointments andhumiliations, only she did the thing much better for Horatio,having had more practice, and, as she finished, thecurate's eyes were filled with tears.

"My dear young lady, I am inexpressibly touched byyour misfortunes, believe me, I am deeply affected."The intensity of his emotion, as he spoke these words,caused the reverend gentleman to open his pale blue eyesvery wide (and his powerful glasses magnified themstill farther) so that Hester thought of him suddenlyas a strange, blue-eyed owl bending over her and, to hideher merriment, was forced to turn away.

"Look at that queer old girl coming down the road,"she tittered, feeling that she must laugh at something.

"Queer old girl!" repeated Horatio, focusing hisvision in this new direction. "Why, bless my soul, it'sHarriet!"

A moment later Mrs. Merle joined them, stern ofaspect, a female inquisitioner, with power of life or death,her husband felt, over wayward though well meaningnaturalists.

"Horatio!" breathed the lady, and that one word heldsuch depths of scorn and menace that the curate neveragain doubted the possibility of eternal punishment.

"My dear Harriet," he began weakly, but she cut himshort.

"Who is this person?" she demanded, with a freezingglance at Hester.

Then came Horatio's great moment when, inspiredwith the courage of despair, he rallied against thebreaking storm and, for once in his life, as Hiram Baxterwould have expressed it, played Harriet to a standstill.Not one instant did he give his wife to press her attack,not one word of explanation or apology did he vouchsafe,but, by a masterly use of the feminine method, he put theastounded lady at once on the defensive, then held herthere with admirable strategy, then drove her back, pointby point, until she was utterly and ignominiouslyvanquished.

"I have just been in great peril, my dear," heanswered gravely. "In my stained and disorderedgarments you may see evidence of the—er—struggle."

"The struggle? Horatio? You have been attacked?"his wife cried in alarm.

Realizing the value of this suggestion and gainingconfidence with every word, the curate continued, facingHarriet almost sternly now.

"You may see for yourself, my dear, where the weaponpenetrated."

"The weapon? Oh, Horatio!" She trembled.

With accusing forefinger, as if Harriet herself wereto blame, the curate pointed to the sinister hole in hisboot. "There!" he said. "And if this young lady hadnot rushed to my assistance with a courage andresourcefulness that I have rarely seen equaled——" he pausedto control his emotion, while Mrs. Merle wrung herhands in distress.

"I have been so hasty, so inconsiderate," she wailed."I shall never forgive myself. And you, my dear younglady," she turned her brimming eyes to Hester, whoseface was averted, "what must you think of me? Horatio,introduce us," she whispered.

"Certainly, my dear, this is my young friend,Miss—er——"

Then the adventuress decided. "Miss Hester Storm,"she said simply and, with her wonderful, wistful smile,she held out her hand to Mrs. Merle.

"I'm sure I'm very grateful for what you've done,Miss Storm," said Harriet graciously.

And presently these three, such was the effectivenessof Merle's new diplomacy, were walking on most amicablytoward Ipping House, the subject of conversationbeing the wrongs suffered by Hester in a thankless worldand the obligation of the Merles to now, in somemeasure, relieve these wrongs. It may be added that never,to the end of her days, did Harriet Merle fullyand clearly grasp the details of the terrible dangerfrom which this dark-eyed damsel had saved her husband.

As a turn in the road brought into view the tiny gableof the gray stone lodge of Ipping House, Harriet sawan opportunity to prove the genuineness of her penitenceand gratitude.

"I have it," she exclaimed with a pleased look. "Thevery thing, Horatio!"

"What, my dear?"

"Old Mrs. Pottle!"

"You mean——" he glanced benevolently at Hester.

"I mean that Miss Storm has no place to go in Ippingford,no friends except ourselves and—there are twospare rooms at the lodge. I am sure Cousin Hiramwould have no objections, and poor Mrs. Pottle needssome one to help her. Would you mind helping at thelodge, my dear?"

"No, indeed," answered Hester sweetly. "I am onlytoo glad to help. It's so kind of you and your husbandto give me the opportunity."

Thus it came about that, on the following evening,Hester of the scarlet cloak was watching eagerly nearthe lodge when Hiram Baxter's big automobile swung inthrough the gate and moved swiftly up the drive witha musical murmur of its smooth running engine. Onthe back seat was Miss Elizabeth Thompson, and Hesterthrilled with excitement as she recognized the fairAmerican, the lady of the golf bag. Here was her chance, hergreat chance, but—she had one misgiving. Miss Thompsonknew her as Jenny Regan, and now she hadgiven the curate and his wife her real name, HesterStorm.

CHAPTER VII

THE NEW SECRETARY

Hester's problem was exceedingly simple; shewanted two or three minutes alone with MissThompson's golf bag. That was all she askedof fortune, two or three minutes; and, for theaccomplishment of this purpose she had summoned all her witsand all her daring. Easy enough to talk about keepingstraight, but if you happened to be a girl who knewwhere $25,000 was lying in wait for some one to pick itup and were the only person in the world who had aline on this pleasant bunch of money—say, what was theuse of arguing? She had made the break and wouldsee the thing through. It wasn't every well-meaningcitizen who could land a fortune by putting in a littletime chasing a golf bag!

Meantime, while this dark-eyed schemer waited for achance to ravish the beautiful bank notes from theirunsuspected hiding place, Betty Thompson, all unconsciousof Hester's presence, was going through agitatedhours in the little mezzanine chamber opening off thelibrary that she had chosen for her bedroom, partly onaccount of its appropriate situation for a secretary andchiefly because of its quaint unusualness. At the firstglance her fancy had been taken by the odd little staircasethat curved up in a corner of the big room to a narrowdoor high in the paneled oak wall. For the rest itwas a plain, convent-like chamber with whitewashedwalls and one small window opening, like that ofHoratio's study, over the roof of the conservatory.

Little it mattered to Betty whether her room was largeor small and whether its furnishings were sumptuous orsimple. She had more important things to think of,poor child, and a problem to face that required all herfortitude. Here were the hopes and dreams of her liferudely shattered and her whole outlook changed in amoment. Instead of being rich, as she had alwaysthought herself, with a fortune that meant freedom,pleasure, everything, it now appeared that she was apoor girl with a burden of debt and must work for herliving. She who had never learned to work and whohated drudgery, who had often asked herself how shopgirls and office girls could possibly endure their dullexistence, now she must work for her living! No wonderMiss Betty Thompson tossed sleepless and wretched andtearful through most of this first night at Ipping House,after a forlorn dinner sent to her room, under plea ofheadache, and then scarcely touched.

It was late the next morning when Mrs. Baxterknocked at Betty's door and entered with brisksalutations. Was the headache better? Yes, thanks, it was.And would the new secretary have breakfast in bed?The new secretary laughed and admitted that, for thisonce, she would very much enjoy some coffee and toastin bed, nothing else, please; and she assured Mrs. Baxterthat never again would she be so neglectful of herduties. What must Mr. Baxter think of her?

"Mr. Baxter went into town on the early train,"answered Eleanor reassuringly, "so don't disturb yourself.I think he left some papers for you with Bob."

"Oh!" said Betty, and she recalled, with a thrill ofpleasure, the tall, clean-cut, young American who hadmet them at the station. Nice eyes had little Bobby, whowas now big Bobby! Very nice eyes! And rather goodshoulders! Extremely good shoulders! Must havebeen an athlete at college—rowed on the crew and thatsort of thing. She would ask him. Stop, she would donothing of the sort! She mustn't ask personal questionsor think of him as Bobby. He was Mr. Robert Baxter,a very serious person with papers for her to copy, andshe was—she was the new secretary!

Strange to say, this thought that in the night hadbrought such gloom came now to Betty as a matter ofamused contemplation. Mr. Robert Baxter! Ahem!And more than once, while she carefully dressed, theAmerican girl flashed mischievous and approving smilesinto the glass out of her deep, blue eyes and, when,shortly after ten, she descended to the library by herlittle winding stairs, she was as fresh and lovely a visionof a fair young woman as one would wish to see, quitein spirit with the pleasant sunshine flooding the park andthe blackbirds rejoicing in the beeches. Miss Thompson'sbuoyant youth and sense of humor had come to therescue.

A glance showed her that the library was empty andshe spent some moments enjoying the dignity of thislong, spacious room that was to be the scene of herlabors. Those old carved oak panels of the napkinpattern, how she loved them! And the Elizabethan ceilingand the tall, deep windows opening on the conservatory!Surely the very last place where one would expect tofind the desk of a hustling American man of business.Yet there it was, waiting for Betty to begin, not aroll-top desk, thank heaven, but an antique piece of curiousdesign and richly inlaid standing near one of the greatwindows and now heaped with a pile of mail for HiramBaxter that had accumulated since his sailing from NewYork.

At a little distance from this desk was a long, narrowtable, also carved, but of a later period, with a standardtelephone at one end and a typewriter at the other, whilebetween these were rows of neatly arranged papers,pamphlets, and reports. On top of the typewriter lay alarge sheet of paper, on which the new secretary read ablue-penciled message to herself:

"Dear Miss Thompson," began the message. "Fatherhas gone to town. You will find some correspondenceon the other desk that he wants you to look over. Pleasemake a little abstract of who wrote the letters and whatthey are about. I'll be in shortly and explain. Yourstruly, R. BAXTER."

It was with mingled emotions that Betty read this note."Dear Miss Thompson!" There it was in black andwhite! And, having seen it, she did not particularlylike it. Nor the cool way in which Bobby Baxter gaveher orders! He would be back shortly to explain.Indeed! R. Baxter would be back shortly. Very well!When R. Baxter came back she would show R. Baxterthat she could be just as stiff and business-like as he was.

Seating herself at the desk, Betty began with the letters,looking up from time to time to enjoy the changinggreens of the conservatory that shimmered in through theleaded window panes. And presently she smiled at herfoolish annoyance. Why shouldn't Bob be stiff andbusiness-like? It was all her doing and it was too latenow to draw back and——. Here was a task that shehad given herself, a sort of penance that would showhow deeply she realized her great obligation to HiramBaxter. She had set out to be the new secretary, and, inspite of R. Baxter, with his eyes and his shoulders, inspite of annoyances or humiliations, she would be thenew secretary.

Thus resolved, Betty threw herself zealously into herwork and presently brought such a spirit of intenselymodern activity into this ancient and solemn room thatthe row of ancestors in their dull frames above thepaneling looked down in faded astonishment at this vivid,self-reliant, American girl bending busily over her deskby the window.

So absorbed was the new secretary in these duties thatshe did not hear a quick step in the conservatory northe opening of the farther French window as Bob Baxter,glowing with health after a brisk walk, stepped intothe library. He paused at the sight of Betty and waited,smiling, for her to look up, which she presently did witha startled "Oh!"

"I beg your pardon," he said presently. "I see you'reon the job, Miss Thompson."

"Yes," she said briefly, wondering if this was asarcastic reference to her late appearance.

"I've just been for a walk around the pond. Theycall it a lake, I'm told." He settled himself comfortablyon a fat blue davenport that offered its ample hospitalityjust beyond the typewriter.

"Do they?" she replied, scarcely looking up.

"Why, yes."

She faced him now and decided that he had not meantto be sarcastic. And he was good looking. How couldshe have thought him plain the night before? It wassuch a relief to see a man clean shaven after thosehideous mustaches and scraggly beards in Paris!

Then she resumed her work, while the object of herapproval picked up a newspaper listlessly, and forseveral minutes there was no sound in the library save therustle of sheets. Then suddenly Bob's expressionchanged to one of absorbed interest.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "Robbery in a railwaycarriage!! Five thousand pounds! That's $25,000!Why, he's a friend of father's! He visited us in NewYork!"

Betty looked up quickly. "You mean the Bishop ofBunchester?"

"Oh, you've read it?"

"No, no—that is, I mean it happened two days ago.Are there any developments?"

"It seems they have a new clew." Then he read aloud:"Among papers left by the suspected woman, JennyRegan, at her lodgings on Fulham Road, was the visitingcard of a young American lady whose name——" hepaused to turn over the page.

"Yes?" she asked eagerly.

"Whose name," he went on, "is withheld by the policein the hope that it may aid in discovering the criminal."

"How could it aid in discovering the criminal?" shequestioned.

"Oh, they have detectives on the case."

"Detectives! Really!" and, with a thrill of excitement,Betty once more busied herself with her work, while Bobcontinued his reading, glancing from time to time in thedirection of the new secretary. What an interestingface! And such hands! A lady's hands! An artist'shands! Where in the world had the old gentlemandiscovered this girl?

"I suppose my father found you in London?" he askedpresently.

"Yes," she replied, and he noticed her low pleasantvoice and admired the rippling mass of her glossy brownhair as it lifted from her white neck. Here was astenographer, he reflected, with the well-groomed lookof a thoroughbred. The old gentleman certainly was awonder!

Bob wanted to keep her talking, but could think ofnothing in particular to say. Queer how this girl puthim ill at ease. And why should he wish to keep hertalking, anyway? His dealings with stenographers hadalways been on a basis of calmest and most business-likeindifference, but somehow this one affected himstrangely; she "rattled" him.

"Do you take rapid dictation, Miss Thompson?" hefinally ventured.

Betty hesitated a moment and her heart sank as shethought of her limitations at the machine. When shehad told Hiram Baxter that she could work a typewritershe was speaking from the standpoint of an amateur whohad taken the thing up largely as a diversion.

"You mean in shorthand? No, I don't; I'm not astenographer."

Young Baxter looked at her in surprise. "Not astenographer?"

"I take dictation direct to the machine," she explained."Mr. Baxter thinks there are qualities in a privatesecretary that may be more important than the ability to takerapid dictation."

Bob nodded wisely. "I see. I guess Father told youabout the—er—trouble he had with his last secretary?"

"You mean the leak in the New York office?" saidBetty quickly.

Bob lowered his voice. "That's what I mean. You'llhave to be very careful in this position, Miss Thompson.We're in a fight with the big copper trust and Fatherhas enemies, people who are watching every move hemakes and are doing their best to ruin him. That's whyDad went to town this morning. That's why I jumpedon a quick steamer the day after he sailed from NewYork. I heard of things that——" he looked about himcautiously, "that I wouldn't trust in the mails."

"You suspect some one—here?" she whispered.

"I don't know, but—I want you to keep your eyesopen. The market has been strong lately and we'vebeen buying Independent copper all the way up the line.Ten points more will let us out even, but——" he stoppedshort as a man's figure passed through the conservatory.It was Anton, the chauffeur.

"What is it, Anton?" he called.

A man with a twisted nose and a shock of black hairappeared at the French window and touched his cappolitely. "Looking for a wrench, sir. I'm fixing up therunabout."

"Where's the car?"

"The countess and Mr. Fitz-Brown are out in the car,sir."

"Oh!" said Bob, whereupon the chauffeur, withanother salute and a keen glance at the new secretary,withdrew.

"Mr. Baxter," inquired Betty, "isn't there a great riskin buying stock when you don't really pay for it?"

"You mean on a margin? Of course there's a risk.That's what keeps us worried."

"Then—why do you do it?"

"We can't help it."

"Why?"

"You see, Father inherited this fight from his partner.He's dead. It's a long story. Dad will be sure to tellyou some day."

Betty burned with eagerness to hear this story, toknow more about her father, yet she dared not press herquestions, and suddenly Bob became silent. Then, as ifrestless, he rose from the davenport and strolled over toone of the windows, then turned again, toying with acigarette case.

"Do you mind?" he asked politely, indicating the silverbox.

"No, I like it," she said. It was evident that he hadno intention of going and she must begin this copying ifshe was ever to get it finished. The time had come whenshe must demonstrate her ability to use the keys. So,gathering up a pile of letters, she moved resolutely overto the typewriter.

"This machine is very dusty," she decided, after apreliminary examination. "Here's a brush to clean thekeys, but—do you suppose I could have a little oliveoil?" she asked.

"Why, certainly, I'll get you some," and he hurried off,thus giving Betty a few minutes for preliminary practice.Fortunately, the keyboard was the one she knew alreadyand she soon found, to her great relief, that she coulddo the work fairly well.

When Bob returned with the oil Betty thanked himsweetly and then, while she fussed with the levers,managed tactfully to turn the conversation back toMr. Baxter's partner. And presently she learned thesickening truth that Hiram Baxter's present difficulties wereentirely due to the fact that her father had been led intospeculation.

"It was the old story, Miss Thompson; he thought hecould pull a fortune out of the market, but——" Bobshrugged his shoulders.

"He lost?"

"Lost his money and a lot of Father's. They had beenpartners for twenty-odd years, did a nice conservativebanking business until this thing happened."

"Oh! Oh!!" murmured the unhappy girl. "Why didhe do it?"

"The same old reason. They always lived in a ratherlarge way. The old man had a daughter, an onlychild, and—he just worshiped her, lavished things onher. I'd have done the same, for she's a corking finegirl, Betty is, only—it took a lot of money and—Bettywanted to live in Paris and—oh, well, you understand."

"You mean she was extravagant?"

"Generous—extravagant—it comes to the same thing,and the old gentleman wanted to leave her so she couldlive as she pleased, but—he didn't do it."

Bob had risen again and stood leaning against one ofthe stiff-backed chairs, blowing cigarette smokethoughtfully toward the conservatory. For a few momentsBetty could scarcely trust herself to speak.

"And the girl—Betty—what became of her?" sheasked presently.

"Oh, she's over in Paris, I believe. She doesn't knowa word of this. I'm only telling you as Father's privatesecretary and—you understand this is absolutelyconfidential, Miss Thompson?"

"Of course."

"It would break Betty all up if she knew it."

"But—don't you think——" hesitated the girl and,despite her bravest efforts, her eyes betrayed her deepdistress.

Bob looked at her fixedly. "I say, you have a tenderheart, Miss Thompson. What were you going to say?"

"I only meant—it seems unfair to—to—the girl,"stammered Betty. "It puts her in a false position.Perhaps she has been spending a lot of money that shethought was hers."

"That's all right," declared Bob cheerfully. "Fatherand I will stand for it. We're pretty keen about Bettyand—she's going to have everything she wants. Soremember, if she shows up here, which she's apt to do, nota word about this, Miss Thompson."

"I'll remember," answered Betty, with a deeper meaningthan her companion suspected.

Then there was silence again, broken only by theclicking of the machine.

"It's odd about Betty," Bob went on, half to himself."I haven't seen her since she was a little tot about eleven.She was sailing for Europe."

Betty faced him with brightening eyes. "Really? Youhaven't seen her since then?"

He shook his head. "The last I saw of Betty was alittle figure in a gray ulster and a Tam o' Shanterwaving an American flag to me from the deck of a bigsteamer that was getting smaller every minute, while thelump in my throat was getting bigger."

The agitated girl bent closer over the keyboard to hideher mantling color, while Bob continued, all unconsciousof the effect he was producing. "That was twelve yearsago. Betty must be twenty-three—think of that!"

"Do you think you'd know her if you saw her now?"

"Know her? Know Betty!" he exclaimed. "Ofcourse I'd know her. I'd know her anywhere."

"Is she—er—pretty?"

Bob thought a moment, stroking his chin wisely. "Um—er—well,no, you couldn't call Betty pretty. Sort oflanky, long-legged girl, with freckles, but she had an airabout her, even at eleven. I've no use for thesemagazine-cover sirens, anyway."

"Does she—does she ever write to you?"

He settled himself on the arm of an easy chair. "Weused to write, but it dwindled. I haven't heard fromBetty in a long time. You see, I've been hustling inNew York, and—she's been studying singing in Paris.She thinks she has a voice, poor child!"

Betty smiled and bit her lip.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this. It can'tinterest you much," he said.

"Oh, but it does," she insisted. "I like to know aboutthe people I am to meet. I suppose Miss Betty Thompsonwill visit here?"

"She's sure to some time, but you never can tell when.These singing people are all more or less crazy."

"Yes? I should think you'd write and tell her you'rehere. That would surely bring her."

"Ah! You're teasing now, but—by Jove, that isn't abad idea! I believe I will write to her."

"Shall I take it down for you?" She looked at himquite seriously and then put a fresh sheet in the machineas if awaiting his dictation.

"What? On the typewriter? What would Bettythink?"

"That depends. Do you owe her a letter?"

"Owe her? It's the other way around. She owes mea whole bunch of letters."

"Well, then, I should think——" she began, but Bobinterrupted with a burst of laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! I'lldo it. I'll be very stiff and formal. It will puzzle heranyway, but—have you time?"

"Yes, Mr. Baxter," she said, with exceeding amiability."I am ready."

Thus it came about that Betty's first duty as privatesecretary was to take down a letter to her own sweet selffrom a man who seemed to like Betty Thompson, notonly as he remembered her eleven years ago, but as hesaw her now without knowing it, which struck the fairsecretary as decidedly amusing.

"My dearest Betty—" Bob began, then strode aboutthe room in search of further inspiration. "Have yougot that?"

"My dearest Betty," repeated Miss Thompson.

"That doesn't sound very stiff and formal, does it?"laughed Bob. "You wait a minute. Now, then." Andhe went on with suppressed merriment, "What inthe world has become of you? I would have writtenoftener only I've been having such a lively timethat I haven't had a moment. That'll make her sit up,eh?"

"Perhaps!" answered Betty demurely, as she clickedoff the words.

"I met a dream of a girl in New York," he continued,"a brunette, and another on the steamer, a blonde—thatmakes two dreams—but they weren't either of them inyour class, Betty, dear?" Bob smiled complacently."How's that, Miss Thompson?"

"Is it true?" asked Betty.

"About not being in her class? Well, I should say so.She's the finest, gamest, bulliest little sport you ever saw.Come to think of it, I don't believe I'll tell her aboutthose other two girls I met. What's the use?"

"Do you think she would care?"

"Maybe not, but it sounds a little fresh and I wouldn'thurt Betty's feelings for the world. We'll cut the letterout, Miss Thompson. I'll write one by hand."

"Very well," obeyed the other, and drawing the sheetfrom the machine, she crumpled it up and threw it intothe waste basket.

"It's funny how that letter brings her back to me,"mused Bob. "What a loyal little sport she was! Alwaysgetting herself into scrapes to help other people out ofthem! And generous! Why, she'd give you her lastdollar! She'd give you the coat off her back; yes, shewould, Miss Thompson."

"She must be a perfect angel," smiled the girl.

"Not she. She's got a temper all right. I wouldn'tgive a hang for a girl who hadn't a bit of temper. Weused to have regular fights. Ha, ha, ha! I rememberwhen we broke Father's glasses in one of our scuffles.I did it, but Betty took the blame, or she tried to. Dadgave me an awful scolding and made me spend threedollars of my money for a new pair. Three dollars isa lot for a little fellow; it was all I had in the worldand Betty was so sorry for me that—what do you supposethat little monkey did?"

"What?" questioned the secretary, and there was aquiver in her voice.

"She had no money of her own; Betty never had anymoney, so she took her new club skates and her bicycle,mind you, she just loved that bicycle, and she sold 'emboth to a boy named Cohen for three dollars."

An indignant look flashed in Betty's eyes. "SammyCohen! Little Shylock!"

Bob looked at her sharply. "How did you know hisname was Sammy?"

"Why—didn't you say Sammy Cohen?" she answeredin confusion.

"Did I? Well, anyway, Betty stuffed that three dollarsinto my savings bank because she knew I wouldn'ttake it. Can you beat that?"

At this moment their conversation was interruptedby the entrance of Parker, the butler, who came to say,with mysterious nods and a grim tightening of the lips,that Mr. Fitz-Brown and the countess had got in troublewith the car at the foot of the hill and that Anton hadgone to their assistance. Whereupon Bob Baxterhurried off to see what was the matter and Parkerhurried after him, if Parker could ever be said tohurry.

Betty was glad to be alone, and for some minutes shesat thinking—thinking—while a perplexed smile playedabout her sweet mouth and a new gladness shone in hereyes, a gladness that kept coming back and would notbe denied, try as she would to frown it away. Therewere difficulties and sorrows attending Miss ElizabethThompson, but one great cheering fact rose above themand made life seem worth living after all, the eternallyblessed fact that, when youth hears the call of love, thennothing else in the world matters very much. She rosesuddenly from her chair and, searching eagerly in thewaste basket, drew forth a crumpled sheet and, smoothingit out, gazed at it with quickening pulses.

"My dearest Betty," she murmured, and her lovelyface was radiant with a great happiness. "My dearestBetty! My dearest Betty!" She spoke the words softly,over and over again. And, yielding to the cry of herheart, she pressed the precious paper to her lips, thenproudly, joyously thrust it into her bosom.

CHAPTER VIII

A FACE IN THE GLASS

Shortly before one o'clock the chiming gong forluncheon resounded pleasantly through the bighouse and Mrs. Baxter, with thoughtful consideration,came to the library for Betty, who, owing toher secluded dinner the evening before and herbreakfast in bed, had not yet met the relatives.

"Don't you think, my dear," began Eleanor, "that wehad better stop this foolishness before it goes anyfarther? Really, now?"

"It's not foolishness, it's very far from foolishness,"declared the girl. "You promised to respect my wishes,Mrs. Baxter." Her eyes were so serious that the otheryielded forthwith and, leading the way to the diningroom, presented Mr. Baxter's new secretary, MissThompson, to the assembled guests; and, suddenly, bytheir indifferent civility, Betty realized how, by a word,she had reduced her importance in the world of IppingHouse to about that of a nursery governess.

Very much on her dignity, the new secretary began hermeal, seated between Harriet Merle and LionelFitz-Brown and directly opposite the Countess Clendennin,whom she studied with alert feminine interest, partlybecause Kate was obviously a pretty woman of thedashing, showy kind that all other women regard as naturalenemies (especially if they happen to be widows underthirty) and chiefly because the countess had Bob Baxteron her right and seemed disposed to make the most ofthis proximity. "She isn't losing any time," thoughtBetty, giving Lionel the "listening look," while she notedthe breezy unconcern of Kate Clendennin's attack."She'll be calling him 'old top' in another minute," shesaid to herself, and Kate, in the next breath, actuallydid say "my dear boy." Betty laughed aloud, causingLionel to beam with the happy consciousness of havingscored a hit.

Some deprecating references to a Hollandaise sauceserved with the turbot drew from Eleanor an apologyfor the inefficiency of a new cook. There was troublein the kitchen, she explained, owing to the fact thatMr. Baxter had discharged the housekeeper, Mrs. Edge.This was the first thing he had done the previous evening.He thought Mrs. Edge extravagant and no doubt shewas, and, of course, Mr. Baxter must do as he thoughtbest, but it did seem a pity to upset the household.

This indication of Hiram's attitude toward extravagancecast a momentary gloom over the company, whichwas dissipated by the countess, who pointed out amusingly,and with surprising culinary knowledge, exactlywhat was wrong with the Hollandaise and added thatthe late count, her husband, had been an invalid foryears before his death, during which time Kate hadpersonally seen to the preparation of his meals.

"I say, Miss Thompson," chuckled Fitz-Brown, in awhisper, "she probably poisoned the old boy. Eh,what?" This genial fancy threw the gentleman into a paroxysmof suppressed laughter.

Betty turned to scrutinize her neighbor and the sightof his jolly, wholesome countenance, as he put forth thissingular suggestion, brought her back to complete goodhumor. England has produced various types of greatmen, great fighters on land and sea, great writers, greatorators, and so have other countries, but England hasundisputed preëminence in one variety of masculineproduct, that is the amiable, monocled, haw-haw, dearold chap, well-meaning, silly ass creation that bloomsextensively in London clubs and drawing-rooms.

Such was Lionel Fitz-Brown, who had not been atBetty's side for five minutes before he had given herdetailed information as to his dear old uncle in UpperTooting, who had the title, don't you know, that wouldcome to him one of these days if something would onlyhappen to his cousin in Wormwood Scrubs, who stoodbetween and was disgustingly healthy.

"Can't you get him to go in for flying machines?"suggested Betty mirthfully.

"I say! that's an idea, Miss Thompson," exclaimedLionel, readjusting his eyeglass. "By Jove, that's anidea! What an awfully jolly thing if I could get one ofthose airmen or birdmen to give my uncle a fewlessons!" And again he burst into roars of laughter.

Betty's attention was now drawn to some remarks ofHarriet Merle touching the Progressive Mothers' bazaarthat was to be opened this afternoon in St. Timothy'sparish house. Harriet dwelt with pride on the fact thather husband, the Reverend Horatio, was to deliver theaddress. The Reverend Horatio, she said, was at presentresting in his room in preparation for his oratoricalflights and Harriet would bring him up a light luncheonon a tray. Horatio found it necessary to be veryabstemious at these periods of intense mental concentration.

At which Lionel again exploded softly for Betty'sparticular benefit. "Haw, haw, haw! I'll tell you about thisintellectual concentration," he confided. "There's a jollygood reason why the Reverend Horatio isn't sittin' inthat chair next to the countess puttin' down this beastlysauce and all the rest of it."

"Tell me," laughed Betty.

"Bend over so she can't hear. Now! It's because shejolly well locks Horatio in his room and leaves him thereuntil he gets his work done."

Betty's eyes danced. "Doesn't he like to work?" shewhispered.

"Like to work! Why, Mrs. Horatio nailed up theblinds yesterday in the Reverend Horatio's room so hecouldn't climb out through the window. Haw, haw,haw! Intense intellectual cat!"

Whether this last was meant as a slur on Harriet or acompliment to Martin Luther Betty never discovered,for at this moment the luncheon came to an end with amurmur of talk as to afternoon plans. The countess,having flashed her fascinations on young Baxter, nowcarried him off with a suggestion of cigarettes.Mrs. Baxter proposed a drive and offered to drop the Merlesat St. Timothy's, which offer Harriet accepted forherself alone, explaining that the walk would do Horatiogood and would allow him to continue his oratoricalmeditations uninterrupted. This proved to be anunfortunate decision.

Betty returned to her work in the library, where shewas glad to be alone, away from the chatter and thetrivialities, alone with her thoughts; yet not alone, forevery corner of this great room seemed alive withmemories of the morning, memories of him. What a verygreat difference a few hours had made! Howextraordinary that this vigorous young American, whom she hadnot seen for years, should have suddenly—withoutintending to do it, without dreaming that he had doneit—should have—well, what had he done? What was thetruth about her feeling for this playmate of herchildhood, Bob Baxter?

Does a woman ever admit, even to herself, that a manhas won her heart until she has good reason to believethat she has won his? Does a pretty woman, a youngand charming woman, ever admit such a thing? Probablynot, and Betty was no exception to this rule offeminine reserve. But there were two significantindications in her thoughts, one that she did not in the leastenjoy the Countess Kate's flirtatious tendencies with Boband the other a decision that now she could not break herincognito, even if she would. Her pride forbade it. Tolet Bob know that she was his old friend, BettyThompson, would be a confession of weakness, as if sheadmitted that she was not charming or pretty enough toattract him simply as Miss Thompson. No, decidedlyshe would not tell him.

Betty had just arrived at this self-respecting conclusionwhen there came a step outside and the curate entered.

"I beg your pardon," he began timidly. "I am theReverend Horatio Merle, one of the relatives. I believeyou are Miss Thompson, the new secretary?"

"Yes," said Betty.

Horatio consulted his watch and paused as if makingan arithmetical calculation.

"Let me see, the bazaar opens at half past three. Mywatch says five minutes past three, which means that itis really a quarter past two. I like to keep my watchfifty-five minutes ahead of time, Miss Thompson," heexplained, with a bright smile.

"Why not an hour ahead?" she laughed.

"No, no! An hour would be too much. Fifty-fiveminutes gives me exactly time to dress and shave and—Ibeg your pardon for going into these details. Thepoint is I had just started for the bazaar—you see I liketo go leisurely—and I was passing the lodge when I meta young woman, a fellow country-woman of yours—mywife mentioned to me, Miss Thompson, that you are anAmerican?"

"Yes, I'm an American."

"Ah! Very fortunate! Extremely fortunate!" Hestood twisting his long fingers together in greatsatisfaction. "The young woman I speak of is also anAmerican, a most deserving person, but—er—she has met withreverses and—er—Mrs. Baxter has been kind enough tolet her stay at the lodge and do what she canto—er—assist."

"I see," nodded the girl.

"Her name is Hester Storm, and, as she naturallyfeels lonely here, being an American, I thought that youwould speak to her and—er—perhaps encourage her?"

"Of course I would."

"I may add that Miss Storm rendered me animportant service the other day when I was sore besetin—er—I'll explain that later on. She is outside now, infact, she seems anxious to meet you and—er—may I?"

"Certainly," said Betty, with cordial sympathy andfollowing the curate toward the conservatory she madeout the figure of a woman in a red cloak, a strangelyfamiliar red cloak, sharply contrasted against the foliage,and as the woman turned and came forward Betty saw,with a start of recognition, that it was her companion onthe train, Jenny Regan.

"This is the young woman—Miss Hester Storm," saidthe curate.

"Miss Hester Storm?" repeated Betty, in surprise,while the other threw her a beseeching glance for silence.

"Yes. An interesting name, is it not?" chatteredMerle, quite oblivious to the rapid pantomime that waspassing between the two women. "She has been travelingwith a Russian princess, but the princess drank—itwas very unfortunate and—Hester will tell you aboutit—won't you, my dear?"

"I'll tell her all about it," answered the dark-eyed girl,and she managed, with the pleading of her eyes, to givethe words a double meaning.

This being arranged, Horatio took a hurried departure,announcing that he must have time to compose his mindbefore the Progressive Mothers' address.

"Well?" questioned Betty, when the two women werealone.

"Don't blame me, Miss Thompson, until you've heardwhat I have to say," begged Hester.

"He called you Hester Storm."

"I know, but——"

"Your name is Jenny Regan—isn't it?"

"Please let me speak. I couldn't give my real name—afterwhat happened on the train. It's been printed inthe papers and—don't you see, nobody here would havetrusted me? It's terrible to be suspected of a thingwhen—when you're innocent."

Betty pondered this. "I suppose that is true," sheagreed, and Hester breathed more easily. At least shewas to have a chance to tell her story, some story, andher inventive faculties had never failed her yet. It wasa pity if she couldn't cook up a tale that would satisfythis rich girl's curiosity without arousing her suspicion.

"You want to know how I happen to be here?"anticipated Hester.

Betty admitted that she would like to know this andstraightway the other began her extemporization, thegeneral lines of which, it must be said, had been plannedin advance, for she realized that her benefactress was nofool. It was simply a plausible continuation of her hardluck story as outlined on the train, with a vividinsistence on the shock she had suffered through beingunjustly suspected. This was the last straw and it hadbroken her spirit. No one would believe in her or helpher, and she hadn't the courage to struggle any longer.She didn't care what happened to her, she didn't wantto live and—just as she was in this wicked spirit, shehad thought of Betty, and it had seemed as if she heard avoice telling her to go to this gentle lady who hadbefriended her and—trusted her and——

At this point, as Hester was working up to an effectiveclimax of sighs and tears, Parker entered and addressedBetty in his most haughty manner.

"Mr. Robert Baxter gave me these 'ere letters. Hesaid I was to give 'em to the new secretary."

"Very well," said Betty, and she took the papers, whilethe dark girl stared in amazement. The tables weresuddenly turned.

"The new secretary?" questioned Hester, when thebutler had gone. "He called you the new secretary?" Hereyes were on Betty steadily now, and they were nolonger pleading, submissive eyes, but had suddenlybecome hard and suspicious.

"Why—er—I can explain that," Betty hesitated.

Hester nodded shrewdly. "It'll take a lot of explaining,if you ask me. On the level, are you a lady or—what?"

"I've been doing Mr. Baxter's secretarial work——"

She felt the color flaming in her cheeks under Hester'sbold scrutiny. "It's a—a sort of a joke."

"A joke? You pound that typewriter—for a joke?"

"Why—er—I do it to help Mr. Baxter."

Hester studied Betty silently, then, in a cold, even tone,"Say, lady, you'll have to show me. I'm in bad myselfand—I want to know about you. Ain't this Mr. Baxterthat you're tryin' to help, ain't he a rich man?"

"Yes, but—Mr. Baxter has had losses in businessand—he has enemies and—— Oh, you wouldn'tunderstand! You can't understand!"

Hester turned away and walked toward the conservatory.She must think. After all it was none of herbusiness why Elizabeth Thompson was doing Baxter'ssecretary work. Hester was at Ipping House for thegolf bag and for nothing else, and straightway shereturned to her original plan of propitiating Miss Thompsonand thus establishing herself in the Baxter household.

"All right, lady," she said, softening her tone, "I'lltake your word for it, but—if you've had troublesyourself you know how I feel and—all I ask is a chance towork and—make a living."

"What kind of work can you do?"

"Sewing, all kinds of sewing and—I can trim hats.I make all my own things. I made this dress and thiscloak."

"Really! I think your cloak is very smart," and Hesterreflected that it might well be, seeing that she hadpaid five hundred francs for it on the Rue de la Paix.

"I suppose I could recommend you to Mrs. Baxter andthe other ladies," hesitated Betty, "for sewing andmending, only—there's our meeting on the train—it's veryawkward."

"Why is it? We don't have to tell them about thetrain, do we? I'm here anyway. The Reverend Merlegot me here. All I ask you to do is to let me fix oversome dresses and shirtwaists."

"Very well," decided the secretary. "I'll do that."

"Say, will you let me begin right away? Will you?So I can satisfy that she dragon down at the lodge?"

"Mrs. Pottle?"

Hester nodded, with expressive pantomime indicatingthe nature of the dragon. "If that old thing knows I'msewing for the ladies here she'll let up on the scrubbingtalk. Why should I scrub when I can sew?"

This sounded reasonable and Betty began to feel thatshe had been not quite kind to Hester.

"It's a good time now," she said, with increasingfriendliness. "I've nearly finished this work and, if youdon't mind going to my room, we'll see what we canfind."

The Storm girl gave a little gasp of joy. Was thereever anything as easy as this? Would she mind goingto Miss Thompson's room! Would she mind taking$25,000 on a gold spoon? Oh, dear! Oh, dear!

But she simply answered with a grateful, innocentlook, "I'll be glad to go."

So they climbed the winding stair, Hester thrillingwith expectation. She had no doubt the bishop's pursewas still in the golf bag's depths where she had droppedit, and the golf bag itself was probably in this very roomwhere they were going; or, if not there, it must beknocking about in some odd corner or dusty closet,where she would quickly find it, now that she had therun of the house, and, having found it——

"Oh!" she cried suddenly and stopped short at theopen door, unable to speak or to move, for there, inplainest sight, resting against a tall chest of drawers,was the coveted object, the treasure-holding golf bag.

"What is it?" asked Betty.

"Nothing, lady. I—I was a little out of breath,"stammered the girl, recovering herself quickly. Here washer golden opportunity and she must not spoil it by anyqueer behavior.

And now Hester's luck attended her, for not only wasBetty quite oblivious to her protégée's agitation, but,after some perfunctory wardrobe investigation, sheremembered, with misgivings, those letters that Bob hadsent to be copied, and she fell in readily with an artfulsuggestion that the sewing girl be left here in thechamber to repair a torn skirt while Betty descended to herduties in the library. It really was too easy!

As soon as she was alone Hester moved swiftly towardthe golf bag, then paused and glanced cautiouslyabout her. Every moment was precious, but she mustmake no mistakes. A chance like this wouldn't cometwice to a girl and—what was that?

She listened intently, afraid of her own breathing.Silence! It must have been a creaking timber. Absolutesilence! Ah, there was the typewriter clicking! Agood thing Miss Thompson had left the little door ajar!She could hear any slightest sound from the library, anystep on the stair.

Very carefully Hester lifted the golf bag by itssupporting strap. She remembered how the clubs hadrattled that day in Charing Cross station. They rattled alittle now. Should she take them out or try to reachdown into the bag? Better see where the purse was first.No, she couldn't see. There were too many clubs packedin close together and—it was all dark—down at the bottom.Perhaps she could see better by the window or—ah! theelectric light! There by the dressing table! Shecould hold the bag right under it.

A moment later, with a smothered click, the lamp gaveforth its yellow glare, and, quivering with excitement,Hester looked down among the clubs. One glance wasenough. There at the very bottom, nestling comfortablybetween a niblick and a cleek, lay the fat brown purseheld tight in its elastic band, the bishop's purse, with itsincredible hoard of banknotes. The thing was done!The trick was turned! She had only to lay the bagsoftly on Betty's bed—there, and reach her arm inand—what was that?

With a swift, instinctive movement Hester stood thegolf bag back in its corner, then turned slowly, and, asher eyes swept the mirror, she saw that she was deathlypale. What was that creaking noise? A step? Shestrained her ears, but there was no sound save the steadytypewriter murmur from below. Then, still looking inthe mirror, she gazed, fascinated, at a door on the fartherside of the chamber, not the door to the library stair,but another door, a green door, and, as she looked, thisdoor opened slightly and she saw distinctly the reflectionof a man's face, a man with a slightly twisted nose anda shock of black hair. He was standing there in thegreen door staring at her, and it seemed to Hester thatshe had seen this man somewhere before.

"It seemed to Hester that she had seen this man somewhere
before."

CHAPTER IX

A FLASH OF MEMORY

The man opened the green door and came forwardslowly into the chamber, but he came in a shambling,apologetic way, and Hester realized thathe was not there in any aggressive or accusing spirit.On the contrary, he looked at her almost pleadingly outof small, shifty eyes. Where had she seen those eyesbefore?

"Who are you? What do you want?" she demanded.

He stood still, working his lips nervously under hislittle black mustache.

"I am Anton, the chauffeur," he said glibly. "There'sa pane of glass broken in the roof of the conservatoryand Mr. Baxter asked me to fix it. I was going outthrough that window. I didn't know any one was here,Miss—er—" he looked at her inquiringly.

"He got away with that all right," she reflected.Where had she seen this man? Was it in Paris? InMonte Carlo? In New York? And suddenly, by oneof those quick intuitions that had often guided her, shedecided to take the aggressive.

"Don't you remember me?" she smiled. "Hester Storm?"

"Hester Storm?" he reflected. "No, I—I can't saythat I do."

He lifted a hand to his forehead, then ran his fingersback through his thick hair, and Hester noticed a singlewhite lock threading the black mass just above thetemple. Where had she seen a white lock like that?

Again he ran his fingers through his hair and paused,with arm lifted and elbow forward, while his handgrasped the back of his head. It was an awkwardposition and—she had seen it before—she had seen a mansomewhere—hold his head like that and—look straightbefore him the way this man was looking.

"I must have been mistaken," she said quietly. Shebegan to wonder if Anton suspected her. Could heknow anything? How long had he been standing atthat green door before she saw him? "Why are youstaring at me like that?" she asked.

"Just to make sure, but—no, I don't know you; I'venever seen you." He put down his arm and listened amoment to the reassuring sound of the typewriter."What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm doing sewing for Miss Thompson," she answeredinnocently. She spoke in a low tone, and she noticedthat he spoke in a low tone.

"What made you think I knew you?" he continued.

CHAPTER X

HORATIO DISCOVERS A PEPPERMINT TREE

A charity bazaar, generally speaking, is aninvention designed to mitigate the sufferings ofthe rich during the painful operation of removinga small portion of their superfluous wealth for thebenefit of the poor.

Charity, however, to appeal successfully to the tastefeminine, must come in various shades and styles, andeach of the ladies of St. Timothy's parish had her petshade. So it happened that the date of this bazaar hadbeen fixed and most of the arrangements completed longbefore the good ladies had agreed upon the charity to bebenefited.

It was only after several stormy meetings that, for thesake of peace, it was agreed to leave Charity out of thequestion. And then it was that the Bishop ofBunchester, by a happy inspiration, suggested starting abranch of the Progressive Mothers' Society at Ippingfordand, as the expenses of stationery, stamps and thesalary of a secretary must be met, the object of thebazaar settled itself without further discussion.

Thanks to the untiring energy and unfailing tact ofMr. Ferdinand Spooner, secretary of the ProgressiveMothers' Society, the ladies of the committee were notonly on actual speaking terms with each other, but wereworking harmoniously together for the great cause.Each of these ladies was happy in the consciousness thatshe had obtained, not through undue favor, but inrecognition of her peculiar social preëminence, the tableoccupying the very best position in the hall. This also,it may be noted, was due entirely to the unfailing tact ofMr. Ferdinand Spooner.

Whenever Mr. Ferdinand Spooner was asked to admireany particular table, he praised it without stint, buthe was ever careful to add that each of the tables wasquite perfect in its own way, and, in the minutes of asubsequent meeting of the Progressive Mothers' Society,the resolution proposing that a vote of thanks be tenderedto Mr. Ferdinand Spooner, for his untiring energy andunfailing tact, was moved, seconded and carried unanimously.

The bazaar had been advertised to open at half pastthree o'clock, and keenest interest had been aroused bythe announcement that, on account of the indispositionof Dr. Dibble, the address would be delivered by theReverend Horatio Merle. Almost every one in theparish knew Horatio Merle by sight. More often thannot the curate and his wife were the only occupants ofthe Baxter pew, but such was his shrinking from grownup human society and so retired his walks that very fewknew him personally. Harriet, too, for reasons of herown, worldly reasons, of which she was secretlyashamed, had responded meagerly to the friendlyadvances of the ladies of St. Timothy's. Nor, in thisrespect, were the Merles any exception in the Baxterhousehold. Hiram, who with his son spent most of histime in America, regarded English society very much ashe regarded the English climate and English businessmethods, and Eleanor preferred to share his seclusionto braving the leveled lorgnettes and monocled stares atHiram's homely American speech and manners.

As for Lionel Fitz-Brown and Kate Clendennin, theywere sufficiently occupied with each other and dismissedthe entire parish as a "beastly bore."

From her chair at the back of the hall Harriet Merlewatched the clock anxiously. The hands now pointedexactly to half past three, the time fixed for the openingaddress. For twenty-seven hours Harriet had waitedfor this moment, had mentally rehearsed the scene to itsminutest detail—the expectant hush that would followthe introductory remarks by the harmless but necessarySpooner—then Horatio, solemn, transfigured, in theblack surplice that Harriet had only the morning beforeshaken from its long camphorous sleep, would slowlymount the steps to the platform, looking neither to theright nor to the left—and, when the hush had becomeabsolutely unbearable, he would cough nervously and——

In sudden panic Harriet looked at the clock. It wasfive minutes past the time. The decorous applause thathad followed the secretary's remarks on the duties ofProgressive Mothers (a Progressive Mother must beprogressive, she must nurse her babies—progressively,she must bathe them—progressively, she must punishthem—progressively, etc.) had died away a long minuteago. The expectant hush was becoming unbearable.Where was Horatio? Why didn't he come? What hadhappened?

Ferdinand Spooner tiptoed importantly from one toanother of the ladies of the committee. People werebeginning to whisper. Harriet shrank into her meagerfeather boa. She clasped her hands till they hurt in hereffort to keep from crying. Tears came into her eyes anddropped upon the white gloves that she had worked sohard to clean for the occasion. Oh, why didn't he come?She had sat up half the night with him and made coffeeto keep him awake till the address was written.

She thought of the money that Horatio would havereceived—one pound, perhaps even two pounds—andhow she needed that money. Now there would benothing.

What was the secretary saying? He feared thatMr. Merle had been unavoidably detained and the committeehad decided that the address should be omitted, andhe now declared the bazaar formally opened, and heasked them all to join in singing the national anthem.As the harmonium groaned the first bar of "God Savethe King" and every one stood up, Harriet, grateful forthe cover afforded by this ancient custom, but, for themoment, past all caring whether his majesty was savedor not, made her way to the door without attractingattention. Her only thought was to get out, out into theair and away from people—away from the sound ofsinging.

* * * * * * *

During this time Horatio, rejoicing in the thoughtthat he was leaving his young protégée, Hester Storm, ina peaceful and sheltered haven, had turned down theshady drive on his way to the Progressive Mothers'bazaar.

At the first bend of the road the curate came to astandstill. Here a little green lane, leading to the woods,sidled off alluringly to the right. Merle shook his head."No, thank you; no short cuts for me to-day," he saidaloud, and quickly turned his back on the green temptress.

As Horatio resumed his walk a small, plaintive voiceclose behind him caused him to look round. "Why,Martin Luther!" he exclaimed, pointing sternly downthe lane. "You go straight home!" Then as MartinLuther rubbed coaxingly against his legs: "It's no use,you can't come. In the first place you've not been invitedand in the second place it's a very mixed party. Youwouldn't like them," he whispered consolingly as helifted Martin Luther to his shoulder.

Fortunately it was only a couple of minutes' walkback to the lodge and there the cat could be left in thecare of Mrs. Pottle or little An Petronia Pottle untilhis master was well out of range. Mrs. Pottle was properlyshocked at the tale of Martin Luther's behavior—shehad never seen the like of it, such a forward cat;she would think shame before trying to go where shewasn't invited, and what for would he be wanting to bemixing himself up with the likes of the ProgressiveMothers—my word!

Martin Luther could listen respectfully to Merle forvarious reasons, one being that Merle was of his ownauthoritative sex, but Mrs. Pottle's theatricals only boredhim and he retired to the square cave under the stonechimney seat which he assumed had been built for hisexclusive use when he condescended to visit the lodge.

Mrs. Pottle followed the curate to the porch. "Howabout this Storm girl?" she asked.

"What do you mean? Don't you like her, Mrs. Pottle?" Therewas real concern in the clergyman's voice.

Mrs. Pottle folded her arms; her whole attitude wasan answer to his question.

"I'm not saying if I likes the girl or don't like her,"she went on; "but there's one thing I do say: She'snever been taught how to make a bed, nor yet how to dusta room. And what's more," here Mrs. Pottle fumbled inher pocket, "I found this on her table." She held outa rabbit's foot, tinged at the end with pink powder.

"Bless my soul! The foot of a rabbit!" exclaimedMerle, in genuine surprise. "Dear me! This is mostastonishing. Perhaps Miss Storm is interested in naturalhistory."

"Natural 'istory?" cried Mrs. Pottle derisively."Unnatural 'istory I calls it; that's what she powders herface with."

"You don't say!" said the curate gravely, returning therabbit's foot to Mrs. Pottle. "I should never have knownit. How does my little friend An Petronia like her?"

"An Petronia?" The old woman shook her head."There's no telling," she said. "It'll take a better headnor what I have to say what that child's thinkin' on.She's that deep and only eight years old come Michaelmas.She takes up with such funny people——" Mrs. Pottlestopped, confused and reddening at Merle's amusedsmile of acknowledgment. "Oh, Lor', sir; I beg yourpardon, sir. I didn't mean——"

"That's all right, Mrs. Pottle," said the curate kindly."What do you think? Your grandchild confided to methe other day that she is writing a book."

"Petronia writing a book! Well, I never!" exclaimedthe astonished Mrs. Pottle. "It must be in her blood.And now I think of it, sir, her stepfather once kept alittle stationery shop down Millbrook way—so it doescome natural to her, doesn't it, sir?"

Merle laughed. "But you mustn't tell any one,Mrs. Pottle. It's a secret. No one knows about it butPetronia and you and me." He looked at his watch."Half-past two; I must be going. The bazaar opens at halfpast three; there's plenty of time, I know, but I fear totake any chances."

As the wicket gate closed behind the curate Mrs. Pottleran down the path. "If you're going by the road,sir," she called after him, "you'll be meeting Petronia.She walked to the village over an hour ago with thelittle Royse girl and Freddy Nichol. It's Freddy's birthdayand he's got a bright new threepenny bit to spend,and they're going to——"

Horatio, taking advantage of a compulsory pause forbreath on the part of Mrs. Pottle, thanked her hurriedlyand set off at a brisk pace toward Ippingford, and,so steadfastly did the good man set his face against thetemptations of the wayside, that in less than half anhour he had passed the main street of the village andwas within five minutes' walk of St. Timothy's parishhouse.

Then, to his great relief, the curate found by hiswatch that he had almost half an hour to spare. It wasa welcome reprieve, such was Horatio's dread of thissudden plunge back into public life. Every moment wasprecious—what should he do?

"What a pity I did not meet An Petronia," he said tohimself. She was a great friend of Horatio's, thisstrange little maid with gold-red hair and questioningdeep-set eyes and that odd smile. Many were the walksand talks they had together, Petronia holding on by thecurate's forefinger, asking questions. Such questions!How many buttercups full of rain can a mouse drink?Telling him tremendous secrets and confiding to him allher troubles, what mountains of troubles! And yetMerle had never heard Petronia cry, not even the timewhen she was bitten by the frightened squirrel, whosefoot she freed from the weasel trap, did An Petroniacry. Once when she had been disobedient and Mrs. Pottlehad felt it necessary to whip her granddaughter,the child had not uttered a sound, which so frightenedthe old lady that she had never lifted a hand to the childsince and never would.

The sound of children laughing startled Horatio fromhis reverie. He was passing the little sweetshop at theend of the village street, kept by one Mrs. Beadle, andbehold, there was An Petronia surrounded by a mobof laughing, chattering playmates. They were lookingin at the window and playing some game of Petronia'sinvention, in which the objects displayed in the shopwindow played an important part.

"Freddy Nichol, that's not fair! Peppermints doesn'tgwow on twees," Petronia was saying in her odd,low-pitched voice as Merle came up to the group.

Instantly she was at her old friend's side and lookingup in his face. "Does they, Daddy Merle?" she asked.

"Does what, my dear?" said Merle, taking her hand.He had not heard An Petronia's assertion.

"Does peppermints gwow on twees?"

"I didn't say peppermints, I said pepper," put inFreddy.

At this there was a perfect hubbub of "he dids" and"he didn'ts," as the children took sides, all but Petronia,who, having started the row, now stood tightly holdingthe curate's hand and watching the conflict with wide,fascinated eyes.

When things had arrived at the hair-pulling and slappingstage, Merle, feeling Petronia's hand tighten roundhis finger, had a sudden inspiration. Clapping his handsto attract attention, he called out suddenly in the mostthrilling tones at his command, "Who wants to know asecret?"

In an instant the clash of battle ceased, for a momentthere was perfect silence, tiny tears were brushed awayby grimy little fists, touzled hair was smoothed or tiedback as the case might be, little girl arms stole aroundlittle girl waists and little boy elbows around little boyshoulders and then there burst forth a chorus of voicesclamoring as one child, "Tell us the secret! Tell us thesecret!"

"Children!" said the curate, when silence wasrestored, "I'm going to show you a peppermint tree!"

"A weally twuely peppermint twee, Daddy Merle?"said An Petronia, her eyes filled with wonder.

"A peppermint tree!" echoed the others.

"Yes," said Horatio, "a really truly peppermint treewith really truly peppermints on it, and I'm going toshake the tree and you shall catch the peppermints asthey come down."

"Are we going to see it now?" asked An Petronia.

"Where is it?" eagerly chorused the others.

"It is only a little way from here," said the curate, asthe plan formed itself in his mind, "but before we startI must go into the shop and see Mrs. Beadle. I am notquite sure just which tree is the peppermint tree, and, asMrs. Beadle is so fond of peppermints, she will be ableto tell me exactly how to find it. You had better waitfor me at the corner," he added, "I shall only be amoment or two."

As the children trooped across the street, chirping andchattering, the curate, full of his happy little scheme andall oblivious of the flight of time, stepped into the shop.A few moments later he reappeared and, if in theinterim Mrs. Beadle's stock of peppermints had appreciablydiminished, no corresponding increase of bulk wasapparent in the region of Horatio Merle's pockets, soartfully had the sweets been bestowed about his clericalperson.

At the corner of the lane the children awaited him inexpectant silence. Without a word An Petronia slippedher little hand in his and down the lane they went, thisstrange hushed processional led by the gray-haired curatehand in hand with little An Petronia.

"Here it is!" cried Merle at last, pointing to a smallacacia, a toy-like tree with slender trunk and bushy topthat stood on the very edge of the wood. An unmistakablepeppermint tree, thought An Petronia.

Following the clergyman's directions, the childrenformed a ring around the tree, while he stood in themiddle clasping the thin trunk in both his hands.

"Now," said Merle, "I'm going to sing something andyou must listen and sing it after me." He thought amoment and then sang:

"Tree, tree, Peppermint Tree!
Let some peppermints fall on me!"

"Now, then, children, all together!"

They needed no rehearsal. Children have their ownlittle notes like birds and cherubim, and, as for thetempo, the author and composer took care of that.

"Splendid!" cried the curate at the end of the firstrepetition. "Now, once more! And this time, children,you must keep your eyes fixed on the ground, and,when I shake the tree, if you are very careful not to lookup, the peppermints will be sure to fall."

Once more the cherub chorus rang through the woodand this time the branches of the peppermint tree wereheard to swish and shiver and shake in the most excitingmanner. Then all of a sudden the swishing and shiveringand shaking stopped and down came a terrific showerof peppermints like big round sugar pennies, skippingand rolling on the grass at the children's feet.

"Here they come!" cried Merle, flushed with the successof his invention. "Fresh from the tree, pink peppermints!White peppermints! All ready to eat—freshfrom the—" his voice stopped suddenly, the flush diedon his face, leaving it a white mirthless mask of laughter.He was staring at the footpath only a few strides away,staring in consternation, for there stood Harriet with alook on her face that Horatio would remember to the endof his days. He called her name imploringly, he knewthat she must have heard him, but she made no answer,she turned away and walked straight on.

The clock of St. Timothy's was striking. One—two—noneed to count, he knew it was four o'clock. Harriet'slook had told him everything. He had failed in his duty,he was disgraced—before everybody—and Harriet—howshe must have suffered!

Close by, the children shouted and laughed and scrambledfor peppermints. How little they knew the cost oftheir laughter. Their voices grew fainter as Horatioran, ran despairingly, to overtake his wife. A momentlater he was by her side breathless, pleading.

"Harriet—I forgot the time—I—— Don't leave melike this——"

Her only answer was to quicken her pace. He tried totake her hand, but she snatched it away quickly,contemptuously.

Horatio stood still. Dazed, stupefied, he watched hiswife until she was out of sight, then, with unsteady steps,he turned into the shadow of the quiet, questionlesswoods and sank face downward among the ferns. Presentlythere was a sound of something moving throughthe ferns and bushes. Nearer and nearer it came until itwas quite close to him, then a warm little hand, apepperminty hand, stroked his wet cheek and a tear-shakenvoice, the voice of An Petronia, quavered close to hisear, "Don't cwy, Daddy Merle."

CHAPTER XI

LAUGHTER IN THE DARK

Neither Lionel Fitz-Brown nor Kate Clendenninknew the precise degree of cousinship thatconstituted the bond of relationship betweenthem. That such a bond existed had been the naturalinference from their common relationship to Mrs. Baxter,since, to paraphrase Euclid, cousins that are relatedto the same cousin must be related to one another.

But when Cousin Lionel attempted to solve thegenealogical problem with a proposition beginning "If yourgreatuncle, who was second cousin to Mrs. Baxter'sgrandmother, was a first cousin once removed to myaunt——" Kate put her hands to her ears and fled fromthe room. And when a few days later he attempted itagain she threw a book at him.

On the third occasion (by this time they had droppedthe "cousin" and were just Lionel and Kate) shesuppressed him by putting her hand over his mouth, whichonly goes to show that relationship, if sufficiently remote,is no bar to friendly intimacy.

Lionel's frame of mind after meeting the new secretaryat luncheon was a perplexing one. He retired to thebilliard room to think it over, under cover of the noisyosculation of compulsory billiard balls. Lionel had nevermade claim to cleverness; indeed, he regarded it as ratherstupid to be clever and downright bad form to be brilliant."If a chap is a good shot and isn't afraid of ahedge with a barb wire in it, and knows how to fastenhis tie, what more does he want?"

But this American girl—strange a girl like that shouldbe a secretary!—had discovered to him unsuspectedpossibilities in himself. He had actually talked, he hadeven gone so far as to say one or two rather goodthings—that about aeroplanes, for instance—no, come to thinkof it, it was she who said that—what was it he had said?Anyhow, it had made the American girl laugh, so itmust have been rather good. Extraordinary people, theseAmericans; how they sharpen one's wits! On the whole,he was rather pleased with himself. He wondered ifKate had noticed it.

As he thought of Kate, there rushed through hisbrain a succession of pictures of the countess andRobert Baxter at the luncheon table, mental snapshotsforgotten at the moment, now vividly developed....Kate with her head thrown back, laughing at somethingBaxter had said and incidentally displaying a curve ofthroat that would humiliate the most conceited lily petal....Kate, leaning forward on her elbow, her chinslightly elevated on the palm of her hand, with anexpression of rapt attention that is well worth while fora girl whose eyelids have such a delicious downwardsweep.... Kate, in profile perdu, showing the pinklobe of an exquisite ear and her "jolly well brushedtan-colored hair" curving smoothly up from the nape ofher neck.... Kate, with her upturned palm restingon the hand of Robert Baxter—confound him!

The billiard balls were in tempting position and Lionel,sighting for a follow shot, found his gaze irresistiblyprolonged to the stretch of sunlit lawn, backed by darkfirs, to which the window opposite formed a frame. Atthe same moment two figures crossed his line of vision,walking slowly and apparently quite oblivious to theirsurroundings. With cue drawn back for the stroke,Lionel watched them pass slowly out of the picture.It was Kate Clendennin and Robert Baxter!

The next instant an osculatory outbreak of earsplittingintensity echoed through the billiard room, and thered and white affinities went spinning round the table,as Lionel slammed his cue into the rack and stormedout of the room. A few minutes later (when Kate camein to look for him) there was no sign of Lionel, andthe demeanor of the billiard balls was as frigid andstandoffish as if they had never been introduced—orwere lately married.

At the evening meal, called supper by Hiram, Lioneldid not appear, to the keen disappointment of Kate, whohad descended into the kitchen in the loneliness of thelate afternoon and prepared a crême renversée for hisespecial benefit.

It was late dusk when Fitz-Brown returned, by thegolf course, from a ten-mile ramble over Ippingforddowns. All his rancor, jealousy, if you will, haddisappeared. He had clarified his mind by a physical process,a process at once primitively simple and profoundlyscientific. For, if it is true that a physical ailment maybe healed by a mental process, it is equally true that amental ailment can be cured by a physical process. AllLionel did was to walk and walk and walk and allow thefresh summer wind, bounding over miles of gorse andheather, to sweep the fog from his brain. So that, bythe time he emerged upon the Millbrook golf course hewas able to see himself quite clearly and hisself-appraisem*nt was not flattering. He stood on the top ofa high bunker and took a long breath as he deliveredthis ultimatum: "I'm a beastly ass," he saidto himself. "Kate would be a fool to marry a duffer likeme."

He broke off suddenly as he caught sight of thecountess, bareheaded and clad in a dinner gown, puttingpensively in the twilight.

Kate had already caught a glimpse of him as his tallfigure stood for an instant silhouetted against the fadingsky, and, divining his intention to take her by surprise,she addressed herself to the business of putting withconvincing absorption.

As the ball for a breathless moment hesitated at therim of the cup, then, Curtius-like, plunged into thedark abyss, a cheery "Bravo! Kate!" directly behind hercaused a genuine start as perfect as any imitation shecould have given.

"Gad! How you startled me!" There was an alchemyin Kate's personality that transmuted the soundingbrass of profanity into the gold of pure speech. Sheswung round as she spoke.

"Sorry, old girl," said Lionel, "it's not like you to beso jumpy. I say, that was a ripping putt, almost in thedark, too."

Kate laughed. "That's just it. I couldn't see tomiss it."

"Couldn't see to miss it?" mused Lionel; then brighteningsuddenly, "I say, that's rather good!" he laughedfor sheer delight at having seen the point so quickly.

"Good boy!" said Kate, patting him on the back."You're improving."

Lionel stopped laughing. "Am I? By Jove! thenyou've noticed it, too. Most extraordinary how itsharpens one's wits, rubbing up against Americans! Didyou see me at lunch?" he inquired eagerly.

"Rubbing up against Americans?" Kate opened hereyes in feigned astonishment.

"Really, Kate, I wish you'd heard me," he went onearnestly. "I said one or two rather good things."

"To Mrs. Merle?"

"Oh, come, I say!" protested Lionel. "You knowwho I mean, the American girl—Miss—Miss——"

"Oh, the secretary," Kate stifled a yawn. "Sorry Ididn't notice her. What's she like?"

A Machiavellian suggestion entered Lionel's artlessmind. "Awfully jolly sort!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm."Devilish pretty eyes—and fluffy hair—I wish Icould remember it," he frowned.

"You've just said it was fluffy."

"I don't mean her hair; of course I couldn't forgetthat. I was trying to remember something I said toher."

"How unfortunate," purred Kate. "You should havewritten it down."

"It really wasn't bad," he went on. "Anyway it madeher laugh, but—she wouldn't look at a duffer like me." Hesighed athletically. "She's much too clever; halfthe time you don't know what she's driving at, but youcan bally well believe what she says."

It was nearly dark and they had drifted toward asemi-circular rustic bench at the foot of a toweringhorse-chestnut. Lionel lighted his briar and sank, insack-like ease, into the uncomfortable seat, lulled by theincense man burns only to himself, the envy of thewatching gods who invented eating and drinking andfighting and loving, and created the tobacco plant, butnever thought of smoking.

Kate lighted a cigarette. But rustic seats with treetrunks for backs are not made for women. Afterpicking some pieces of bark from her hair and attemptingto fish others from the back of her neck, only to pushthem hopelessly out of reach, she jumped up impatientlyand fell to pacing the soft turf behind the tree,the wavering light of her cigarette swaying hither andthither in the deepening gloom like a dissipated firefly.

"How very funny," she said at length, pausing inher walk to break the smoke silence, "that she can makeyou believe everything she says when you don't knowwhat she's driving at. It sounds like mind reading."

Lionel watched a ball of gray smoke unravel itselfand trail swiftly into the darkness above. "What'sfunny about mind reading?" he asked. "It strikes meit isn't any funnier than palm reading." Then aftera contemplative pause, "That Baxter chap seemed tofind your palm very interesting. Did he tell youanything exciting?"

"Very exciting," her voice came from the other sideof the tree.

"I say, mayn't I know?"

"Oh, it wouldn't interest you."

"I hope it was something good. I'll punch Baxter'shead if it wasn't."

"Then you do believe in palmistry?"

"What's that got to do with it? I say, Kate, whatdid he tell you?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because"—he hesitated—"because I——" Hestopped abruptly to listen. The blackness above themwas stirring. A tremor ran through the great tree.The darkness high overhead swayed with a sound likethe sigh of rain on a lake. Unseen branches movedheavily and then were still. Mysteriously as it came, thewind died away. It was now quite dark under the tree.For a time neither spoke.

A fear he could not explain had come upon Lioneland stopped his speech. A few moments ago his onlyword for palmistry was tommyrot and now the writingon Kate's hand was to him the most momentous thingon earth.

Suddenly, out of the darkness came a strange sound——thesound of laughter, viewless laughter, that diedaway, leaving an uncanny silence.

"Kate! What is it? Where are you?"

There was no answer. He circled the tree swiftlywith outstretched hand, guiding himself by the edgeof the seat.

"Kate! For God's sake. What's the matter? Whereare you?"

The next instant his free hand touched something andhis arms closed around her. It was as if, in the spaceof a minute, he had lost this woman forever and suddenlyfound her again. And now he, Lionel Fitz-Brown,was holding Kate Clendennin in his arms. If the stoneDiana in the sunken garden had turned to flesh andblood and found her way into his embrace it would nothave been more astonishing, incredible. Here she wasresting limply against him, her lovely head on hisshoulder. He could feel her hair against his cheek.

"By Jove! She must have fainted," he muttered.

Carefully he placed Kate beside him on the rusticseat, supporting her tenderly with his arm, her head onhis shoulder, her cheek touching his. How feverish*t felt! He began to be alarmed.

"Kate!" he said in a low tone.

"Yes? What is it?" she whispered.

"How do you feel?"

"Pretty comfy." She nestled closer.

Lionel was astonished. "Didn't you faint?" he askedanxiously.

"Faint?" Kate sat up suddenly. "Is that what youthought?"

"What were you up to just now when I—when Ifound you?" stammered Lionel.

"I was—giving you the slip," said Kate.

"Giving me the slip? What for?"

"I wanted to get away before I—before I made abally fool of myself and now—and now I've done it.Are you aware," she demanded abruptly, "that it'shorribly late?"

Lionel struck his repeater. The tiny chimes clingedthe hours and quarters against his right and Kate's leftear. They counted nine and three-quarters.

Kate straightened up and began smoothing her hair."We must be getting back," she said.

Then an inspiration came to Lionel, born of romanticl*terature. "I say, Kate, I—er—I wish we could countall our hours that way."

There was an agonizing pause.

"It would be economical," she mused, "to make onewatch do for two people."

"Oh, I say, you know what I mean, Kate," he wenton desperately, "get married and all that sort of thing.I know an awfully jolly little farm down in Kent, onlyforty pounds a year."

"Yes? And what would we live on?"

"Why, we'd keep a cow—and a hen—and a bee—andall that sort of thing."

"A bee?" Kate burst out laughing, then, suddenly,dropping her bantering tone, she cuddled her firm whitehands into Lionel's big brown ones.

"Lionel," she reasoned, "I don't think I've ever reallybeen in love in my life and you're the only man I evermet that made me want to—no, no! Please, Lionel,listen to me," she held him gently away from her—"mademe want to run away. Now I'm going to tellyou what the palm-reader said," she continued,purposely avoiding the name of Robert Baxter.

"You don't really believe that tommyrot?"

"I do this time because what he told me is going tocome true." She placed her hands on his shoulders withan affectionate movement. "He told me I'm going tohave heaps and heaps of money! Lionel, aren't youglad?"

There was something far from gladness in Kate'sown voice and Lionel's heart sank in utter desolation.

His thoughts flew back to the day of their first meetingthree months ago—to the first time she had calledhim "Cousin Lionel"—to the time when somehow orother they had dropped the "cousin" and were Lioneland Kate to one another—three milestones on the roadthat led to—where might it not lead to? And now shewas turning back. Where? He reflected that he knewnothing of Kate's world before she had come to IppingHouse. From time to time there had been letters forher with German or Swiss postage stamps. Thatwas all.

"So you see," Kate was going on, "it's a case ofHobson's choice. There's nothing else to be done. Mymoney's all gone. Old Baxter has behaved like a brick,but I can't bank on him forever, and now if I—if Imarry Bob——" she broke off with the sound of alaugh.

Lionel shivered. He seized her hand which showeddimly white at his side. It was like ice. It slipped fromhim upward and his ear caught the multitudinous whisperof chiffons.

"Come on," she said.

He rose stupidly and followed her in the darkness.

Half an hour later, as they approached Ipping House,Kate saw what seemed like a shadowy figure that glidedpast the conservatory and disappeared.

"What was that?" She clutched his arm.

"I didn't see anything," answered Lionel.

CHAPTER XII

THE GRAY LADY

The shadowy form seen by Kate Clendennin nearthe conservatory was no phantom born ofemotional excitement, but a flesh-and-blood creature,a keenly alert sentinel, stealthily waiting andwatching for a specific and serious purpose.

For more than one of the dwellers at Ipping Housethis had been an important day. To Betty Thompsonit had brought, the suddenly revealed glory of a deeplove, to Lionel and Kate the first delicious whisperingsof mutual passion and the pain of renunciation, toHoratio Merle it had brought humiliation and self-abasem*nt,and to this poor, soul-stifled girl, Hester Storm, it hadbrought the opportunity to steal $25,000.

With her own eyes Hester had seen the purse; it wasthere in the golf bag, she had almost had it in her hands.Almost! If that tumble-haired, shifty-eyed chauffeurhad kept away she would have had the money. And ifMrs. Baxter hadn't borrowed the golf bag, just at thewrong moment, she would have had it. Hard lucktwice. Well, the third time would be different, and shewould land the goods. In the whole world she wasthe only person who knew where this purse was, so allshe had to do was to watch the golf bag and wait foranother chance.

Through the long afternoon Hester watched andwaited in Betty Thompson's chamber, showing anindustry and zeal in her sewing that Betty thought mostcommendable. All this time the girl was eyeing theclock, wondering if, before she finished her work,Mrs. Baxter would return the golf bag. But no Mrs. Baxterappeared and at six o'clock she was obliged to go. MissThompson wished to dress for dinner and—no, she didnot need a maid.

Hester walked slowly back to the lodge consideringwhat her next move should be. Evidently she must actquickly or someone else might see the purse. Someonemight already have seen it. Some caddy boy! OrMrs. Baxter herself. There it lay, down among theclubs, quite unguarded except by the darkness in thebottom of the bag. Hester's hope lay in that littlelayer of darkness and in the unlikelihood that any onewould search there.

What would Mrs. Baxter do with the golf bag aftershe had finished using it? She would naturally returnit to Miss Thompson. She would return it thisevening and Miss Thompson would naturally put it inher chamber, just where it was this afternoon, there inthe corner by the dressing-table.

And then what? The Storm girl's face darkened andher hands shut tight. This was no time for trifling withfortune. The opportunity was hers now, this night,but it might be gone to-morrow. She must act at once.At once! Before she reached the lodge this decisionhad taken form vaguely in her mind, and, before shehad finished her supper, it was clearly crystallized: shemust do something before morning. Something! Butwhat!

At a quarter before seven Hester heard the pantingof an automobile near the lodge gate and, hurrying tothe window, she watched Mrs. Baxter and Robert asthey swept past in the big, closed car, the young mandriving. Stare as she would the agitated girl wasunable to catch sight of the golf bag, but she knew itwas inside the car, it must be there; in a few momentsit would be back in Ipping House, where she might getit—if she only could think how—later in the night.

Later in the night! That meant entering the bighouse secretly and lying in wait until she could makeher search. She could look in the library, in the hall,in the hall closet under the stairs. That would be easy,but suppose the golf bag were not there? What if Mrs.Baxter had brought it to her own bedroom or to MissThompson's bedroom? Then what?

Hester finished her supper soon after seven andimmediately went to her room—to be alone—to think. Shefelt impelled to do this thing, but she must plan everymove with the utmost caution. No one, better thanshe, knew how dearly she might have to pay for onemistake.

At nine o'clock the girl stole softly out into the park.Old Mrs. Pottle had gone to bed early and the lodgewas still. An Petronia, with her four beloved"Pottles" ranged beside her, was dreaming of "Reginal" andhis misfortunes. Over the beeches and the dim, graymass of the manor a purple darkness was settling andthe little creatures of the night were pulsing theirstrange chorus. The air was warm and the girl wentforth, bareheaded, gliding among the shadows like oneof them. There were several small objects in her trunkthat she might have taken to help her on this sinisterexpedition, several objects that she was impelled totake, but, on reflection, she left them behind, all but one.

For a long time Hester hovered about the manorwatching the lights, listening to the sounds, rehearsingover and over again in her mind the details of the night'seffort, as she thought it would work out. Mr. Baxterwas in London. Mrs. Baxter had gone to her room,there was her light, burning brightly, one flight up underthe gray stone tower. And there was Mr. Robert'slight, two flights up over the far end of the conservatory.The golf bag would not be in his room, that was sure.

What about Miss Thompson? For nearly an hourher little chamber had been dark. She must have goneto bed early. Sound asleep by now. Hello! There goesMr. Robert's light. And there sound the stable chimes.Ten o'clock! All dark downstairs except a light in thebig front hall.

And now two dim figures approached across the lawn,Fitz-Brown and the Countess, and Hester shrank awayamong the shadows. Lionel took down a key from anail outside the conservatory (where he often left itwhen he came in late) and, opening the door, bowedKate in, then followed, closing the door, but quiteforgetting to lock it. Thus fortune favored the youngadventuress, as it had before many times.

With the illumination of a match held by Lionel, thetardy pair passed through the dark conservatory, thenon through the library and out into the spacious hall,where each took a silver candlestick from a table wherea row of these were placed in shining readiness everyevening.

Very cautiously Hester opened the conservatory doorand stepped inside, closing the door silently after her.Motionless, almost breathless, she listened as the othersparted at the stairs. Queer lovers! Was that the bestthey could do?

"Good-night, Kate."

"Good-night, old chap."

Lionel extinguished the hall light and, with flaringcandle-shadows dancing behind them, these two climbedthe stairs. Then came the closing of distant bedroomdoors and Ipping House, dark and silent, settled downto slumber, while the adventuress waited.

Eleven! Twelve! One o'clock! to the slow, soothingvoice of the bells. Those who prowl by night understrange roofs must learn patience and, while these hourspassed, Hester scarcely stirred, except from chair tobench, then back again from bench to chair, noiselessly,for she wore sneakers with rubber soles. She playedodd little games with the moon-beams, making bets withherself as to how long, measured in heart beats, it wouldtake a certain little flickering yellow fellow with a funnytail to creep from one crack to another. And shefound that she could make her heart beat slower bytaking long, deep breaths, which sometimes helped herto win.

At half-past one Hester turned the switch of a tinyelectric lantern that hung from a cord around her neck.A beam of concentrated light flashed across the roomand instantly vanished as the switch went back. Thestorage battery was working well. It was time tostart.

Throwing her spot of light here and there, the girlmade a round of the conservatory, scrutinizing everycorner. The golf bag might be here, one never could besure. Then, finding nothing, she passed into the libraryand repeated her search, then on into the great shadowyhall, all to no purpose. The golf bag was not there.This was only what Hester had expected. It wasaltogether likely that Mrs. Baxter had done one of twothings with the bag: either she had returned it to MissThompson, in which case it was now in Betty's chamber,or, possibly, she had taken it to her own bedroom.And the conclusion was, if she was going on with hersearch, that the girl must now, in the dead of night,enter two rooms where defenseless women were sleeping.This was a serious matter; it meant years in prisonif she were caught.

For several minutes Hester pondered this, whiledisconnected memories of her troubled life came and wentthrough her mind, like pictures, memories of when shewas little and of her sister Rosalie. It seemed as ifnow, in the darkness, she could see Rosalie's sad, tiredface and loving eyes fixed on her. Well, she was doingthis for Rosalie, she wanted the money for Rosalieand—she had gone pretty far already, why not go a littlefarther?

In this resolve the intruder moved back into the libraryand, without giving herself time for further hesitation,she cautiously ascended the winding stair that led toBetty Thompson's room. If the worst came, she didnot believe this kind-eyed girl, her fellow country-woman,would betray her. Besides, why should therebe any trouble? It was only a matter of silentlyturning the knob. The noiseless creeping light would dothe rest. If she saw the golf bag, there by thedressing-table, she could get it without a sound. And, anyway,Betty must be in her deepest sleep. It would take morethan the squeak of a board or the crack of a too tenseknee-joint to rouse her. None of which reasoningavailed, for now, when Hester turned the knob andpressed, she found an unyielding barrier against her;the door was locked.

So that was settled. If the golf bag was in BettyThompson's chamber it must stay there. She wouldtake no risks of picking a lock and—perhaps this wasn'ther lucky night. Perhaps she had better fade awaybefore anything went wrong.

Crouching on the lower step of the stair, Hesterheard the chimes ring out the third quarter before two.Only fifteen minutes since she began her search!Should she make one more effort? Should she tryMrs. Baxter's room and, if nothing came of that, then stopfor the night? It wasn't likely both women would locktheir doors.

The girl was perfect in the geography of the house.Mrs. Baxter's room was one flight up by the mainstaircase, the second door on the right going down thehall. It was easy enough to go to this door and—verywell, she would go there and then decide. No greatharm could come from listening at a door. Alas! Onenever knows how harm may come!

Swiftly and silently the restless searcher glidedthrough the great hall, then up the massive stairs ofheavy polished oak, finding her way through the darknessby the guiding flashes of her lamp. But when shereached the head of the stairs and turned cautiouslydown the corridor, she stopped with a frightened gasp,for there, beyond her, spreading under the second door,Mrs. Baxter's door, was a band of light. And evenas she stood, hesitating, her fears were increased bythe sound of footsteps in the bedroom. Not only wasMrs. Baxter awake, she was coming toward the door.

Like a flash and noiselessly, the Storm girl darted onand vanished into the black depths of the corridorbeyond. If the mistress of the house had heard her onthe stairs, it was toward the stairs that she would gonow, so the safest place was away from the stairs.Trembling and breathless the girl shrank behind someheavy curtains at the end of the hall and waited.

A moment later the door opened and Mrs. Baxterappeared in a long loose garment and carrying a candle.The light was full on her face, which was deathly whiteand bore, Hester thought, a look of terror. And, as thelady moved down the corridor, holding her flickeringtaper, she seemed to shrink away from the black shadowsaround her. And when she reached the stairs shehurried down with furtive glances behind, as if she feltherself pursued. What trouble or mystery was here?

The girl listened until Mrs. Baxter's footsteps soundedin the hall below, then she followed softly and, leaningover the railing, watched the movements of the candle.It disappeared into the library and presently there camethe sound of an opening door. Mrs. Baxter had gonethrough into the conservatory. What could she want inthe conservatory at this time of night? Could shesuspect there was an intruder in the house? Was it thisthat caused her fears? Impossible! No woman wouldleave her room to meet a hidden burglar. She wouldscream: she would alarm the house; she would doanything but face the dangers lurking in a shadowyconservatory.

Then what was the explanation? Why had Mrs. Baxter,with pallid face and haunted eyes, gone down thosestairs? She must be searching for something that sheneeded very much. Strange, that there should be twowomen in this house searching for something that theyneeded very much! And, suddenly, Hester realizedthat here was her chance to look into Mrs. Baxter'sbedroom. The door was ajar, the light was stillburning. One quick glance would tell her what she somuch wanted to know.

There! The door opened noiselessly as she pressedit back. Not a sound from below. Now, then! Thegirl stepped into the chamber and looked about her.On a small table at the head of the rumpled bed lay abook, face downward, by a shaded lamp. Mrs. Baxterhad evidently been trying to read herself to sleep. Someexciting story, no doubt, that had made her widerawake than ever.

Hester moved softly about the room, looking inevery corner, flashing her light into closet and bathroom,then she came out softly into the hall. The golfbag was not there.

Well, this finished her effort for the night. She hadhad no luck and—the best thing she could do was toget out of the house. What could that woman be doingdown in the conservatory?

Again Hester listened at the stairs, but her strainingears caught no sound nor could her eyes perceive thefaintest glow from Mrs. Baxter's candle. Absolutedarkness! Absolute silence!

And now, with infinite precautions, the girl descendedthe stairs, feeling her way, for she dared not use herlight. She was taking a risk, but she might be takinga greater risk by staying upstairs. She had a vaguefeeling that something was about to happen in this vast,gloomy house or that something already had happened.She felt herself stifling. At any cost she must escapefrom these confining walls, she must get out under theopen stars where she could breathe. And she remembered,with a clutch of fear, that old Mrs. Pottle hadspoken of a haunted room in Ipping House whence agray lady came forth at night and wandered through thehalls, a gray lady whose coming was attended by clankingchains and sounds as of a heavy body dragging.

Even as these gruesome thoughts chilled her heartthe girl's foot touched the lowest stair and a momentlater, as she stepped out gropingly into the black hall,she felt herself held from behind, as by a hand,whereupon, in a burst of terror, she tore herself violentlyfree. At the same instant there resounded through thehouse a great clanking of metal and the crash of aheavy body falling. Then silence again, while Hesterstood still frozen with fear. And now, from the directionof the conservatory, there came a piercing, agonized shriek.

It was an emergency to daunt the stoutest heart, butHester rose to it, conquering her panic, because sherealized that she must conquer it. Everything dependedupon what she did in the next few minutes: herhappiness, her freedom, her whole existence depended uponher getting out of this house immediately. Somefrightful thing had happened that would presently throw thewhole establishment into tumult.

Another shriek rang through the house, a pitiful cryof distress and call for help. What could be happening?Hester herself was moved to bring succor to thispoor lady, but she checked her impulse as the sense ofher own danger came to her with the quick opening of adoor overhead and the sound of heavy footsteps on thestairs. It was Robert Baxter, hurrying down from thesecond floor, and calling as he came:

"Mother! Where are you? What is it?" he cried,and Hester heard him turn down the corridor on thefirst floor. He was going to his mother's room. There!He had found it empty. He was rushing back to thestairs.

"Mother!" he shouted again. "Where are you?"

Huddled in the hall below, Hester thought of thefront door, but she knew it was chained and bolted.There was no time to escape that way. Already Robertwas on the stairs, descending slowly in the darkness.It was lucky he had not stopped to get a candle.

Swiftly the Storm girl retreated into the library. Hercase was desperate. Mrs. Baxter was in the conservatory,so her escape that way was blocked. To hidein the house now would be madness. It was only amatter of minutes when the whole household would bearoused, when lights would be blazing in every roomand——

Then came the inspiration. It was a wild, lastchance, but she must take it. A few moments before shehad noticed a motor veil left by some one on the davenport.She snatched this up and, moving silently towardthe conservatory, draped it over her face and figure.The veil was of elastic, filmy material, long and wide.It covered the girl from head to foot, shrouding her insilver gray.

At the open door leading into the conservatory Hesterpaused and, settling her ghostly draperies about her,stood still. Through the crack of the door she could seeMrs. Baxter in the conservatory, rigid with fright, stillholding her candle and staring wide-eyed before her.

"Mother!" called the young man for the third time."Speak to me! Where are you?" He was stumblingabout in the dark hall.

This time Eleanor heard the comforting voice ofher son and tried to answer.

"Bob!" she cried faintly, and staggered toward thelibrary door. "Bob!" she called, louder, and took astep into the shadowy room. Then, as the candle lightflamed forward, she came, suddenly, face to face witha still figure, a shrouded, sinister woman in gray. Itwas too much. It was more than Eleanor Baxter couldbear. With a stifled moan she sank down on the libraryfloor and was conscious of nothing more until sheopened her eyes weakly and found Bob bending over her.

CHAPTER XIII

FIRST AID TO THE INJURED

As regards the gray lady whose seeming apparitionhad spread such wide alarm, anyone curiousto know something of the ghostly LadyeYsobel Ippynge (she was believed to have been poisonedby her husband, Sir Gyles Ippynge, Knight, and firstearl of Ippingford in the early part of the twelfthcentury) will find a true account of her pious life andtragic death in a volume entitled, "Kronicon Uxorium,"in the Bodleian library of Oxford, written by the monkAbel of Ipswich and printed in London in 1529.

The pious Lady Ysobel would have been soredistressed had she known what a fearful pother hercounterfeit presentment (by Hester Storm) would one daycause. What had really happened was perfectly simple,although the consequences were complicated andfar-reaching. When Hester came to the bottom of thestairs she had turned out of her way in the darknessand passed close to a pedestal supporting a suit of armorthat kept impressive guard there in the ancestral hall.So close had she passed that the cord of her electriclamp had caught on one of the links in the coat of mail,whereupon, in her plunge away from this ghostlyrestraint, she had toppled over the grim warrior, pedestaland all, with a crash and rattle of his various resoundingparts that had alarmed the entire establishment.And this uproar had terrified Mrs. Baxter all the morebecause she was already quivering with superstitiousdread after reading that creepy tale of Bulwer Lytton's,"A Strange Story"; in fact, it was to seek relief fromthis obsession that the agitated lady had gone downstairsfor some sulphonal sleeping tablets that she hadleft in the conservatory. And the silent, silver-drapedapparition, looming suddenly in the shadows, had donethe rest.

For the Storm girl it was an incredibly narrow escape.A mere matter of seconds decided her fate. If youngBaxter had carried a candle she would have been discovered.If Mrs. Baxter's candle had not been extinguishedby that lady's fall she would also have been discovered.As it was, Hester had time to flee across thedark conservatory and out into the park (by theunlocked door) before Bob, blundering and stumblingthrough the hall and library, had reached his faintingmother.

It may be added that Hester's quick impersonation ofthe gray lady was not entirely inspirational. She hadheard old Mrs. Pottle refer to the specter that hauntedIpping House that very evening; and, while she watchedat the lodge for the Baxter automobile, her thoughts hadturned to the shivery legend when she heard An Petronia,with motherly tenderness, putting to bed the four"Pottles" (who seemed wakeful) and assuring themthat "the dray lady would tum and det them," if theydidn't go to sleep.

It must not be supposed, however, that either thegray lady or her understudy, Hester Storm, wasresponsible for the series of happenings at Ipping Housethat ended in converting that comfortably appointedEnglish home into as uncompromising a wilderness, asfar as the relatives were concerned, as the mostresourceful Swiss Family Robinson could hope to bewrecked upon. There was another agency at work;to-wit, Parker.

Parker, at this particular time, was the only indoorsman at Ipping House, his rank being that of butler,footman, and valet combined. For sympathetic andpolitic reasons, Parker had given notice on the very sameday that Mrs. Edge had received her congé from Mr. Baxter.

In appearance Parker was of the candle-complexioned,patent-leather-haired type that nature seems tohave distributed impartially between the pulpits andpantries of Great Britain. Parker's greatest personalasset was a subtle fluidity of temperament which causedvisitors at a house where he had been engaged only theweek before to believe that he was an old familyretainer. It was to this priceless gift that Parker owedhis success in New York, where he had spent ten profitableyears and adorned many expensive houses, seldomstaying long in any one place as new accessories tosocial elegance outbid each other for his services. Itwas in New York that Parker's face took on itsexpression of impeccable superiority, the envy of morethan one bishop, an expression acquired through hispractice of combining with his office of butler (for anextra charge, of course) that of private tutor of socialusages to his employers.

In the eyes of Mrs. Edge, and to quote her ownwords, Parker was the "cream of gentlemen." BetweenMrs. Edge and the "cream of gentlemen" there was anunderstanding. When the Baxters returned to NewYork in the autumn and the house would be closed forthe winter, a small but desirable hotel at Inwich (thenext village beyond Millbrook) would be reopenedunder the management of Mr. and Mrs. Parker.

Hiram Baxter, in spite of his homely Americanspeech, which grated painfully on the butler's fineco*ckney ear, somehow commanded the respect of this "creamof gentlemen," who felt that there was good materialin him. He would like to have taken Baxter in hand.He longed to tell him that detachable cuffs and collarswere not permissible; that a black bow tie, if one mustwear such a thing in the daytime, should not have itsends tucked under the flaps of the collar. Twice Parkerhad deliberately hidden the silver clasps with whichHiram suspended his serviette to the lapels of his coat.

"It's fortunate they don't have no English visitors,leastways none that matters," had been Parker'sreflection. Had it been otherwise his sense of fastidiousshame would have compelled him to give notice. Noteven that '66 brandy, upon the question of whose meritsParker and Anton were in such perfect accord, couldhave induced him to stay.

And now he was turning his back on these liquidjoys and two months' wages into the bargain. To beseparated from Mrs. Edge was out of the question.She was his fiancée, also the lease of the "GoldenHorseshoe" was in her name. The wily Parker, however,saw in the ghost incident a way of visiting his resentmenton the Baxter household, and he set about it atonce.

At the time of the night alarm Parker had been thefirst to reach the hall from the servants' wing, and,striking a match, had discovered the figure in armorlying on its face. With an instinctive alacrity, born offormer kindly and remunerative ministrations to elderlygentlemen who had "dined," Parker lifted the helplessdummy to his feet and replaced the helmet, which hadrolled some distance along the oak floor.

A moment later, when Bob appeared, supporting hismother to the stairs, the butler heard Mrs. Baxterexclaim with hysterical triumph: "There, you can seefor yourself, Bob, it wasn't the armor; it's standingup—it never fell down at all——"

Bob raised his candle to inspect the warrior. "Didyou pick up the armor, Parker?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Robert; it was standing up just like it isnow, sir."

"You can go back to bed, Parker. I'll take a turnround the house myself. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir; thank you, sir."

The next day at noon the cook and the first and secondhousemaids gave three days' notice. It was thoughtadvisable not to tell Eleanor, and, after a consultationwith Hiram, Betty engaged a new cook and one housemaidby telephone from a London agency.

That afternoon the cook confided to the laundress, ina frightened whisper, that she had been told in strictsecrecy by Parker, who got it from Gibson, Mrs. Baxter'smaid, that Mrs. Baxter had a white mark on herforehead she would carry to her grave, made by theicy fingers of the Gray Lady. The story spread amongthe servants like an epidemic.

As night came on the last remnant of courageaccumulated in the daylight oozed away, the frightenedfemales refused to be separated and passed the nighton sofas and chairs in the servants' parlor.

As for Mrs. Baxter, the shock she had received wasno mean tribute to Hester's histrionic power. Nothingcould remove from Eleanor's mind the conviction thatshe had actually beheld the supernatural shape of LadyYsobel Ippynge, dead and buried these hundreds ofyears.

Mingled with her physical distress, there was a childishsense of outrage in that, having survived a uniqueand painful adventure, she should, by its belittlement,be robbed of the distinction she felt to be her due.

"If," reasoned the aggrieved lady, "the shock to mynerves isn't proof enough that I have really seen aghost, then it is because of my great self-control; andall the thanks you get for self-control is to be told thatyou have nothing the matter with you."

Very well, she would cease to cast this pearl ofself-control before the swine of unsympathy. She would letthem know how really ill she was. And so, aggravatedby the well-meant but irritating optimism of her family,Eleanor Baxter's "nerves" grew daily worse until, onthe afternoon of her third day in bed, Hiram telephonedto a nerve specialist in London, who took thefirst train for Ippingford and informed the sufferinglady, after a careful examination, that she was on theverge of complete nervous prostration. This was thefirst sensible remark Eleanor had heard for a week.

"Don't give yourself a moment's worry, Mr. Baxter,"said the doctor, as Hiram put him aboard the train. "Allyour wife really needs is a change of air. Better takeher down to Brighton."

"Hm! Brighton! Swell place by the sea, ain't it?"

"It's quite a fashionable resort, just what Mrs. Baxterneeds."

"No ghosts there?" chuckled the big fellow.

"No ghosts," laughed the doctor, as he waved farewell.

Hiram sent Bob back in the automobile and walkedhome. With this mention of Brighton there had cometo him an idea that he wanted to work out, an ideahaving to do with his general plan of reducing expenses.If a stay at the seashore was what Eleanor needed, whynot give her enough of it, say a fortnight or a month?And, if they were going to be away a month, why notclose Ipping House and get rid of a raft of servants?And why not—— then frowning he thought ofhis relatives and of his favorite purpose regardingthem as he had outlined it to the Bishop ofBunchester, and then he thought apprehensively ofEleanor.

"Holy cats!" he muttered. "It's goin' to be a job,but I'll do it."

That evening, after dinner, he went to his wife'sroom and asked her carelessly how she would like togo down to Brighton for a week or two. Eleanorbeamed. She would love it. Was he really going totake her? How soon? Could they stay a wholefortnight in Brighton?

Hiram assured her most considerately that they couldstay a whole month in Brighton, if she wished. Andthey would start the next day. She had been througha great strain. It was no joke to see a ghost, heunderstood that. They ought to have known better than totake a house that had a ghost in it. And then, astactfully as he could, the old boy came around to his pointthat it might be just as well to close Ipping Houseand—and give the ghost a rest.

Eleanor's eyes narrowed dangerously as she watchedhim from her lace pillow.

"Close Ipping House?" she repeated in a cold, eventone. "Do you realize what you are saying?"

Hiram took off his glasses and polished them withhis handkerchief, first blowing on them deliberately.

"Sure I do; that's why I'm sayin' it. If we shut thishouse we can fire the servants, all of 'em; then, whenwe come back we can get new ones, half as many andtwice as good. Don't look at me that way, dearie. Ihate like everything to disappoint you, but——" hereached over and stroked her white hand tenderly, "youknow what I said about expenses? Well, I meant itthen and I mean it now. We've got to economize."

"What about my relatives? Our guests?" the wifedemanded angrily.

"I guess your relatives'll have to take their chancesin a new deal, Eleanor. I'm goin' to have a little talkwith 'em to-morrow morning. I told 'em at dinner.Don't worry, I ain't goin' to say a thing but what's fortheir good. Bet ye three dollars and a half, when yehear my little speech—

"Hear your speech?" she blazed. "Do you think anythingcould induce me to be present while you humiliatemembers of my family? I think it's abominable."

"Hold on! There ain't anything humiliating in alittle honest work."

"Work?" she gasped. "Hiram, you don't mean—you'renot going to put my relatives—to work?"

Hiram shifted his legs with exasperating calmness,pulled at his short, gray mustache, and was about to reply,when Robert strolled in cheerily and went at once toEleanor's bedside.

"How's the little mother to-night?" he askedaffectionately. Whereupon, to his surprise and to Hiram'sgreat discomfiture, the lady burst into a flood of tears.

"I'm so unhappy," she wailed. "Your father istreating me most—unkindly and—and——" her wordswere lost in hysterical sobbing.

Whereupon Baxter stalked out of the room like arumpled Newfoundland dog, leaving Bob to administerfilial comfort and smelling salts, the result being thatEleanor was presently able to give her a son a tearfulversion of Hiram's iconoclastic purposes. Bob listenedwith an amused and incredulous smile.

"Don't you know, Mother," he reasoned, "that Dad'sbark is always worse than his bite? He won't closeIpping House! not a bit of it. I'll talk to himand—what you need is sleep, especially if you're going toBrighton to-morrow."

"I suppose you're right," sighed Eleanor. "You're adear boy, Bob. Send Gibson here. Tell her to bringa hot water bag and my sulphonal tablets. And do speakto your father. Tell him I can't bear it if he closesIpping House."

"I'll tell him. Good-night, little Mother. There! It'sgoing to be all right." He kissed her lovingly and stoleout of the room.

A few moments later young Baxter joined his fatherin the library, where the old man was frowning overimportant papers that he had brought up from townwith him that evening. Things were going badly, thenews from America was most unsatisfactory, and thefather and son, weary and troubled, sat discussing ituntil long after midnight.

"There's some deviltry behind all this," declared thegrizzled old fellow, pounding his fist on the table."There's crooked work in this copper campaign. Why,that Henderson outfit seems to know what we'redoing every day, just as if they had eyes in this room.I tell you there's a leak, Bob, but——" he gloweredabout the spacious walls under his heavy, black brows.

"Are you sure of this new secretary?" whispered theson.

Hiram's eyes softened, as they rested on the windingstair. "Am I sure of her? Sure of her?" Then witha chuckle: "Say, what do you think of my new secretary?"

Bob answered quite seriously: "She seems to be anice girl, but she's too pretty."

"Think so?"

"I don't believe in very pretty girls for businesspositions."

"Don't, eh? Well, you can take it from me, my boy,that this partic'lar pretty girl is all right."

Bob glanced at his watch, then rose and stretchedhimself.

"Half-past two! We can't do any more to-night,Dad. By the way," he suddenly remembered his promiseto his mother, "you're not thinking of closing IppingHouse?"

Hiram was silent a moment, then, slipping his thumbsinto the arm-holes of his waistcoat, he spoke with awise drawl.

"Bob, after you've been married a while you'll findthat a man thinks a lot o' things and then, when hiswife gets at him with the water-works, why he justtakes it out in thinkin'."

"Then Ipping House stays open—just as it is."

"There may be some modifications in the 'just as itis' part of it, but—well, yes, Ipping House stays open."

"I'm glad of that. And the relatives? You're notreally going to put the relatives to work, are you?"

Hiram closed his jaws with a vigorous snap. "AmI? You just show up in this library to-morrow morningright after breakfast and watch me give the Englisharistocracy a little of Hiram Baxter's first aid to theinjured. Good-night, Son."

CHAPTER XIV

THE PARABLE OF THE COCOANUT PIE

There was fluttering anticipation among therelatives as they gathered in the breakfast roomthe next morning and dallied with broiled kidneysand anchovy toast while awaiting Baxter's summons.Which came presently when Hiram, red-facedand genial of visage, opened the door.

"If you folks don't mind," he said, "I wish you'djoin me in the library for a little friendly talk."

At last the great moment had come, and, one by one,the relatives passed through the hall into the roombeyond, each showing in face and manner an overbubblingdelight at the thought of the benefits they expected toreceive from Cousin Hiram. And, one by one, theyseated themselves in the stiff, high-backed chairs thatwere ranged along the wall. Baxter settled himself onthe corner of the davenport and faced them. His eyeswere cheerful, his smile was cordial; there was not theleast indication of what was coming.

"Make yourselves comfortable, friends," began Hiram."I've got a few things to say, and ye might aswell take it easy."

There was a shifting of positions, a little expectantcoughing, and then, just as Baxter was about to begin,Harriet Merle prodded Horatio, who was staringabsentmindedly before him.

"Horatio!" she whispered.

The curate came to himself with a start, blinkedrapidly behind his glasses, and then, remembering the dutyhis wife had put upon him, rose solemnly to his feetand, in his most clerical manner, addressed HiramBaxter.

"Ahem! Mr. Baxter! In the name of the relativesgathered here, allow me to extend to you our mostcordial welcome on this occasion of your return toEngland, together with the expression of our gratitude foryour large and unfailing generosity in the pastand—er—ahem!"

"Hear, hear!" applauded Lionel.

But Hiram lifted a hand for silence. "One moment,Brother Horatio," he drawled. "Before ye wind up yerspeech, ye'd better let me make a few remarks. Yemay want to change yer peroration."

"How delightful!" murmured Harriet.

"Go on, Cousin Hiram," urged Kate.

"Hear, hear!" repeated Lionel.

"Ahem!" coughed the curate and sat down.

"I've called you people in here," continued Baxter,"to tell ye something that I've been thinkin' about ferquite a while. We're goin' to Brighton to-day, Eleanorand me, fer a couple o' weeks—this ghost business hasbroke Eleanor up a good deal—and I want to get thisthing off my chest before I leave. Yer all good friendso' mine and yer all more or less in hard luck. Seemslike things naturally go wrong with ye—it's been so feryears, ever since I've had the honor o' belongin' to thisfamily. Well, a man hates to see his wife's relationssuffer and I've tried to do what I could, but—I'm hereto tell ye now that I don't feel as if I've ever done theright thing by ye. No, sir. All these years I've triedto help ye out of yer troubles, but I've never turned thetrick."

"Oh, I say!" protested Lionel.

"You've been splendid," Kate declared.

"We wouldn't have you any different, dear CousinHiram," beamed Harriet.

Baxter paused a moment and adjusted his spectacles."Think I'm a pretty good feller, don't ye? Well, yerwrong. Look at my friend, Fitz-Brown, my wife'ssecond cousin once removed. Up to his ears indebt—always has been. Ain't that a shame! My wife'ssecond cousin once removed!"

The old boy leaned forward earnestly, his big, strongchin on his big, strong hand and in his kindly, homelyway addressed the gentleman in question who was pullingfiercely at his yellow mustache.

"Now, friend Lionel, I'm goin' to show ye how yecan always have money enough and never have anymore debts or bother."

This roused the monocled one to genuine enthusiasm."I say, I'll be awfully pleased," he responded.

"I'll do it. And I'm goin' to show you," HiramBaxter turned sharply to the curate, "how you can curethat tired feelin' and hold a preachin' job for more'nfive consecutive minutes."

"Oh, thank you, sir," murmured Horatio.

"And I'm goin' to show you ladies how to be happy.Yes, sir. Trouble with you is yer bored to death. That'swhy ye want to go kitin' around to Monte Carlo andJerusalem. I'll fix it so ye can't ever be bored."

"I wish you could," laughed Kate.

"My dear Countess," reproved Harriet, "if CousinHiram agrees to do a thing you can depend upon himabsolutely."

"It ain't necessary to go into details, but each oneof you knows what ye've had from me straight and regularevery year for the last five years. It makes quitea total, ten thousand pounds or more, fifty thousanddollars that I've spent tryin' to get you people on yer feet,and I ain't ever been able to do it. Each year yer inworse'n the year before, and it's all my fault. Want toknow why? Because I've been tryin' to help ye on theEuropean plan, which ain't worth shucks; but I've hadmy eyes opened, and now I'm goin' to change and helpye on the good old-fashioned American plan, warrantednever to fail."

"Yes?"

"Tell us!"

"Please tell us!"

"Hear, hear!" buzzed the eager chorus.

Then came the first intimation of the truth, slowly andsmilingly delivered, but bringing shattering disillusion,nevertheless, to the trusting relatives: "The Americanplan of helpin' people consists in showin' 'em how theycan help themselves."

The effect came gradually in a movement of generalsurprise and consternation.

"Oh, I say!"

"But——"

"You don't mean—you surely don't mean——"

"Tell ye exactly what I mean. Yer all nice people,but ye've been trained wrong. Your idea is to sit in thesunshine and let somebody shake plums into yer lap,which is all right if ye can find a feller to do it, butI'm tired o' shakin' plums and the tree's pretty wellskinned, so——" Here he turned to the countess andHarriet with his most ingratiating smile: "Ladies, Iwant to ask you a question. Suppose you were on adesert island and were gettin' terribly hungry, andsuppose ye looked up and saw some nice, ripe cocoanutswaitin' to be picked. You'd say to yourselves: 'Themcocoanuts look awful good,' and ye'd ring like furyfor the butler and the maid to come and pick 'em andmake 'em into cocoanut pies. But the butler and themaid wouldn't show up, because yer on a desertisland—uninhabited. See? So after a while ye'd get tiredo' ringin' and ye'd say to the countess——" here hebeamed on Mrs. Merle, "'Countess,' ye'd say, 'it ain'taccording to Hoyle fer ladies to climb cocoanut trees,but this is a case of hustle or starve, so we'll flip up acent to see which one of us boosts the other into thembranches.'"

"Never," declared the curate's wife, scandalized.

"Yes, ye would!" pursued Hiram. "And before nightye'd be eatin' the finest cocoanut pie ye ever tasted,for——" he paused and then added with his mostimpressive drawl: "Take it from me, ladies, there ain'tno pie in the world like a self-made pie."

This statement was received in silence, in thin-lipped,despairing silence. Slowly but surely the relatives werebeginning to get dear Cousin Hiram's idea.

"Ahem! Mr. Baxter!" coughed Horatio, rising again."In the name of the relatives gathered here, allow meto thank you for the beautiful—shall I say touching—parableof the cocoanut pie. I think, however, that Ivoice the desire of the relatives gathered here in askingyou to make your ideas a little clearer in their—shall Isay in their immediate application?"

"All right, Brother Horatio," smiled Hiram, as thecurate resumed his seat. "I'll come down to cases.We're members o' the same family and we've got tostand together."

"Ah!" approved Harriet.

"Just now it happens that I need your help. I'vegot big resources, but I'm in a hard campaign. I'vegot my back to the wall fighting for my life and—well,we'll come through all right and you'll benefit withme, but for a while we've got to cut down on expensesand—er—you people'll have to—er——"

The bolt was about to fall, the words were on Hiram'slips: "You people'll have to do some work," but as helooked into the faces before him, pathetic, incredulous,the old fellow weakened. "You people'll have to—er—givethis thing your—er—serious consideration," hesubstituted.

But the countess understood, and, with a little laughand a shrug of her shapely shoulders, she came straightto the point. "You mean we'll have to—have to—work?"

Hiram nodded slowly.

"Understand, there's no hurry about this. I want totreat ye right. I want to help ye. I want to see yerfaces bright and yer needs provided for, but I can tellye this, from a long experience, that the thing in mylife that's made me happiest is the honest work I'vedone. Remember, things go on here in Ipping Housejust the same, whatever you folks decide. If ye can'tthink of anything practical to do, why, never mind.I'll stand by ye as well as I can; but if ye could thinko' something that yer fitted to do and could put yerheart in, why it would solve your problems and it'dhelp solve mine. You'll be sore on me for a while, likethe kid that sputters and kicks and swallers a quart ofwater when you chuck him in a pond to learn him toswim."

Harriet's face was a study in horror. "Good heavens,you're not going to——"

"Chuck us in a pond? Eh, what?" gasped Lionel.

"No, no. I mean work is like swimmin'. Ye hate ituntil ye learn how and then yer crazy about it. Why,you people'll feel just fine when ye've cut out this bluffand fake business. Do ye know what a little usefulwork'll do? It'll make men and women of ye."

"But what work can we do?" protested the countess.

"Jolly good point, that," echoed Lionel.

Hiram reflected a moment.

"I suppose there are things you folks could do, ifye had to, plenty o' things. Maybe I'm mistaken,maybe it's a crazy idea, but——"

Here suddenly the curate spoke. "I think Mr. Baxteris quite right," he began in a low tone vibrant withfeeling.

"Horatio!" glared Mrs. Merle, but the little manfaced her calmly.

"My dear, I beg you not to interrupt." Then, turningto the master of the house: "Speaking for myself,"he continued, "and not for the relatives gathered here,I wish to say that, in view of your great past kindness,my dear Mr. Baxter, I feel that you are justified, fullyjustified, in asking us to help you meet the serious and,let us hope, temporary difficulties that beset you. AndI would remind the relatives gathered here of KingSolomon's beautiful and impressive words: 'Whoso keepeththe fig trees shall eat the fruit thereof, and whosowaiteth on his master shall be honored.'"

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.Disapproving as they were, and bitterly disappointed, therelatives, in spite of themselves, were impressed by acertain unsuspected moral strength in this gentleutterance.

"King Solomon cert'ly knew his business," approvedHiram, as much surprised as the others at this turnof affairs.

"And I beg to suggest," proceeded Merle, appealingto the astonished group, "as the least importantand the least worthy person here, yet one who hassincerely at heart the welfare of all, I venture to suggestthat, before any hasty words are spoken or any irrevocableaction is taken by the relatives gathered here,I would suggest, I say, that the relatives withdraw totheir rooms or elsewhere for a little—er—thoughtand—shall I say self-examination?"

"Good idea! Fine idea!" nodded Baxter, and a momentlater, with a quizzical look in his cheery blue eyes,he watched the relatives file out silently, one by one, amighty sore bunch, he reflected, mouths down and nosesup, Horatio going last and bowing respectfully to Hiramas he closed the door behind him.

For some moments the old man sat in the corner ofthe davenport, smiling at this latest development. Whowould have thought of it? The Reverend Merle achampion of honest labor! Standin' up like a littlebantam rooster against them relatives!

Presently Bob entered, eager for news.

"Well?" inquired the son.

"Bob," drawled the big fellow, "I'll bet ye fourdollars and a quarter King Solomon wrote them proverbso' his after he'd been worked by relatives. Say, witha thousand wives he must have had an everlasting lotof 'em!"

An hour later the luggage cart appeared for the threelarge boxes, the two steamer trunks and the assortmentof Gladstone bags, hold-alls, and dress-suit casesthat Eleanor had caused to be packed for their brief andsimple sojourn in Brighton. Some of these things, it istrue, belonged to Betty, whose services were required byMr. Baxter, and who now appeared, ready for the journey,a radiant summer vision all in white except for abunch of pansies at her waist and a graceful, pale-blueplume in the wide-brimmed straw hat that becominglyshaded her eyes.

The car drew up at the door, coughing and sputtering,with Bob Baxter at the wheel. Hiram sat in frontbeside his son, Eleanor and Betty on the seat behind. And,just as they were starting, Kate Clendennin tripped downthe steps and, declining to squeeze in among the bagsand bundles, leaped lightly upon the footboard at Bob'sside and remained there, despite Eleanor's protest, allthe way to the station.

Poor Betty! There was a moment's delay in startingthe train, after the guard had given the signal andslammed the doors, and the banished secretary, lookingbackward through the window, caught a glimpse of thedeparting motor as it rounded the nasturtium bed. Katewas on the front seat next to Bob, and they both lookedback, the countess laughing and waving her hand. Thenthe car turned a wooded corner, and that was the lastpicture—Kate and Bob together, close together, glidingswiftly, perhaps slowly, through those leaf-arched lanesand delicious lonesome glades of the forest. They hadtaken the longer way home, but there was timeenough—there was not the slightest need for Kate and Bobto hurry.

CHAPTER XV

THE FOUR POTTLES

Kate and Harriet went straight to their bedrooms,Harriet to rehearse her part in the forthcomingscene with Horatio; Kate, in an angryfever, to ring for Gibson to pack her boxes without amoment's delay. She rang several times before ahousemaid appeared and informed her ladyship that Gibsonwas nowhere to be found. There was a suppressedeagerness about the girl, as if she had something furtherto disclose, something unusual, but Kate did not questionher, and she left the room, closing the doorreluctantly behind her.

On the table near the bed lay a yellow, paper-backedbook, open and face downward, in unseemly straddle,as Kate had left it the day before to keep the place.It was a collection of stories by a new French author.She picked it up and began slowly turning the pages.

Still reading, she sat down on the bed. In a littlewhile she lifted her feet and lay back without takingher eyes from the book. Half an hour later the yellowbook lay on the floor where Kate had flung it. Howcould anyone write such trash!

Alone in her room Harriet waited for Horatio. Sincethe tragedy of the afternoon before, the husband andwife had scarcely spoken, and Harriet welcomed a stormto relieve the charged atmosphere. She was ready withher opening speech and she knew what Horatio mustinevitably reply, and she had prepared a crushingrejoinder. But Horatio did not come.

In the mournful exodus from the library the gentlecurate had been the last, holding the door open for theothers, and, after softly closing it behind him,without lifting his eyes from the ground, he had passed,unseeing and unseen, through the hall and out into thesunlit garden.

Scarcely noticing and caring not at all where he went,Horatio found himself in the lane, and now, while Harrietlistened in vain for his shuffling steps on the stair,the curate was a good mile and a half away in the veryheart of the Millbrook woods. He had followed atrandom any path that offered; if there were a choice,taking the one with the darkling look that might leadto the witches' hut or the cave of the gnomes.

And now, when he was beginning to feel the creepyjoy of being lost, that he had never quite outgrown, thecurate came suddenly upon a bright grassy hollowamong the dark trees, guarded from view on all sidesby high ferns. The dark old beeches gathered round itand stretched their great elbows over it as if to keepits existence secret from all the world but one little girl.Even the sun, who was invited everywhere, was onlyallowed to take furtive peeps through the green fingersof the jealous old beeches. It was as if they said: "Goaway! This little golden maid is all the sunshine weneed, thank you!" For there, in a green velvet chairformed by the twisting mossy root of an immense beechtree, sat An Petronia.

The curate stood still in the shadow among the tallferns, fearing to startle her. She was listening withshut eyes and parted lips. Twice through the greensolitude sounded the long, intensely solemn note of awood thrush, then it was gone, leaving behind it anecho-haunted stillness.

An Petronia opened her eyes and caught sight ofthe curate.

"Daddy Merle!" she called to him. "Did you hearthe thrush? I wonder what he said, Daddy Merle?"

"He said, 'I wonder who that little girl is that sitsall alone by herself in my private wood?'" intoned thecurate. "Aren't you afraid of getting lost?" he said,as he descended the ferny slope to where she sat.

"I isn't losted. I tan't det losted. I has four Pottles."

She pointed to four dolls, in various stages of dilapidation,sitting stiffly in a row in front of her, their eightfeet immersed in a trickle of water that seemed to comefrom nowhere and disappeared magically among theferns, chuckling to itself at the success of its vanishingtrick.

"Dear me," said Merle, inspecting the dolls with aprofound show of interest, "I had no idea you had somany children. What are their names?" he inquired.

"They're not children," said An Petronia, "they'rePottles. Their names are Maffew, Mart, Loot, and thisone," she picked up the least favored in appearance ofthe four, "this one is Don." She caressed him tenderly.It was plain that Don was the one she loved best,perhaps because of his great misfortune. Don washeadless.

"He had real hair once, but I losted his head," AnPetronia sighed deeply. "I wish I had all the Pottles,Daddy Merle."

"Then there are more?" asked the curate, wonderingwhither the child's strange fancy was leadingher.

"Of torse there is. I had a picture of them. Don'tyou know the twelve Pottles, Daddy Merle?" Sheopened her blue eyes in pained surprise at the woefulignorance of this otherwise perfect old gentleman.

Then a great light burst upon Horatio Merle. "Why,to be sure, my dear! Of course I know the twelveapos—I should say Pottles. I have known the twelvePottles ever since I can remember, my child. Dearme! dear me!" His face fairly beamed with pleasure at thislucky intuition. The curate's happiness at havingreinstated himself in the estimation of his little friend wasonly equaled by An Petronia's joy at the recovery of herso nearly lost ideal.

"I just knew you knew, Daddy Merle!" she cried,and pressed her little palms together in an ecstasy ofchildish delight.

"But aren't you afraid they'll catch cold?" said thecurate presently, in a tone of proper concern, as AnPetronia was returning the headless John to his placebeside Matthew, Mark, and Luke, who still sat stoicallywith their feet in the water.

She shook her head gravely, almost reprovingly."Oh, no! The Pottles is having their feet washed.They tan't tach told." Then, after a moment ofpondering: "Would you like to see the picture, DaddyMerle?"

Before he could answer she had jumped up and disappearedbehind the great beech tree. She had only beengone a moment when out of the stillness came a smallvoice: "Tum and see my little house, Daddy Merle!" Itwas the voice of An Petronia, but strangely muffledand far away.

Full of curiosity, Merle scrambled to his feet andpeered round the tree. An Petronia was nowhere tobe seen. What had become of her? Another step andthe mystery was explained.

Between two of the buttresslike roots on the otherside of the ancient beech was a dark fissure extendingfrom the ground upward for three or four feet andjust wide enough to form a doorway for little AnPetronia. A practical woodman viewing the hollow treethat An Petronia called her "little house" would havehad no thought beyond the loss of so many cubic feetof good timber and whether the tree was worth choppingdown. To the gentle curate waiting in the greensilence, here was a magic door through which at anymoment might issue a laughing faun or a wistful dryad.As for Brother Beech, after all the only one vitallyconcerned, there was no tree specialist to tell him (fora substantial consideration) that he had only a very fewyears more to live and must avoid strong sunshine asmuch as possible and give up rain in excess, and aboveall be careful not to expose himself unnecessarily to theSeptember blasts. And so the reckless little leaves intheir gold-green finery laughed and sang and dancedand feasted summer after summer just as if they weregoing to live forever and there were no such things asSeptember gales.

From the inside of the tree came small, whispery,squirrel-like noises, and presently through themoss-rimmed opening stretched the hand of An Petronia,holding out a faded green, oblong package, bulging withpapers and tied with white tape.

"Please, Daddy Merle, will you hold it for me?"

Relieved of their burden, the hands disappeared.Merle examined the package with interest. It was theback of an old exercise book converted into a portfolioand was full of papers. He turned it over curiously.On the other side was a white label. The curatesmiled as he read the inscription in childish capitals,"The Misforchins of Reginal," by An Petronia Pottle.

An Petronia's novel! It so happened that this wasthe first time Merle had beheld the little novelist'sautograph. "What a funny way to spell Anne!" he saidhalf-aloud.

"That's the way I always spell it, Daddy Merle." Hestarted at the sound of An Petronia's voice. He hadnot heard her as she slipped out of the tree. Now shewas standing close beside him and in her hands wassomething small wrapped in white tissue paper.

There was a timid challenge in the child's voice, thefirst hint of the future conflict between artist and critic.

"'An' is the very first word in my spelling-book," shehurried on, "A N—an. It's the same name, DaddyMerle, only in the speller it's An Apple and I'm AnPottle."

There was no disputing such logic as this, accompaniedas it was by a rainy look that must be instantlykissed away from An Petronia's wide blue eyes.

"My dear," he said, and if the truth must be toldthere was a hint of rain in the curate's own eyes, "Anis your very own name and the way you spell it is thesweetest and dearest way in all the world, and you mustnever spell it any other way," which was the first, lastand only concession to the "Dire Heresy of SpellingReform" ever made by the Reverend Horatio Merle.

They were seated once more on the soft moss by theside of the four evangelists, who greeted them withundiminished apostolic serenity. An Petronia had undonethe tape that bound her portfolio and was turning overthe contents, pieces of paper in various sizes, from halfsheets of note to torn scraps of wrapping paper, coveredon both sides with the large, irregular handwritingof the budding novelist. By her side sat the curate, hisgray head bent over the picture which An Petronia, afterunfolding its tissue paper wrappings, had withheroically suppressed misgivings intrusted to his hands.It was her most precious possession, a photograph ina tarnished gilt frame from a painting of Christ washingthe feet of the apostles. Below the picture wasprinted a text from the Gospel of Saint John, xiii., 15:

FOR I HAVE GIVEN YOU AN
EXAMPLE, THAT YE SHOULD
DO AS I HAVE DONE TO
YOU.

The curate stared at the familiar words. Once hehad preached a sermon from that very text. He smiledsadly as he recalled that sermon.

"What do these words mean?" he had asked. "Couldit be possible they were ever meant to be obeyed literally?Was it not rather a piece of oriental symbolism, aparable without words teaching the lesson ofhumility............" If only he had ended his discoursethere. If some angel of discretion had barred the wayto that fateful peroration; "Not the mock humility ofthe imperial blasphemer who once a year descends fromhis throne to wash the feet of twelve disinfectedbeggars......." How should he, Horatio Merle,have known that the crotchety old Rector of Deepmoldnot only had decided views on the sanctity of kings,but was a relation by marriage of a certain quasi-ecclesiasticalperson in high favor in the Austrian Emperor'shousehold?

"You would have said it just the same, Horatio!"Harriet had declared in a burst of indignant tears asshe crumpled up the rector's letter accepting Horatio'sresignation. Perhaps he would—who knows?

Merle sighed regretfully as he thought of that cosylittle cottage at Deepmold—the little terrace with themossy steps—his rose garden, where he used to smokehis pipe (smoking destroyed the pernicious aphidas) andthink about his sermon. There was an old sundial onthe terrace and round its stone dial Horatio hadchiselled with his own hands a verse of Omar Khayyam:

"The moving finger writes and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all your piety nor wit
Can lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it."

Somewhere deep down in Horatio Merle was a soulstratum of fatalism, not the wine-instilled bravado ofOmar; rather the inspired fatalism of one who said:"Take no thought of the morrow."

And now, in the afternoon silence of the woods, thecurate pondered on the fate that had seemed to shapehis ends so unprofitably. Was there ever anyone in theworld less fitted to be a clergyman than he?

Why has the silence of the summer woods been sooften likened to the silence of a cathedral? They havenothing in common. The silence of the cathedral is thesilence of great stones frozen together by Fear. Thesilence of the woods is the stillness of innumerablesounds blended, as all the colors of the rainbow areblended, into the white light which is invisible.

"Daddy Merle, how do you spell enjoyed?" An Petronialooked up from her writing.

He spelled it for her slowly and she said it afterhim.

"Thank you, Daddy Merle."

Again he found himself staring at the picture of theapostles. It fascinated him. It seemed to Merle as ifthe painter's self were speaking to him across thecenturies.

"Do they look as if they were acting a play, theseholy men that I have painted? Has the spirit ofChristianity so changed that the sacred commands of theMaster must be explained away with strange words?Has the flock strayed so far that the shepherd's crookhas come to be only a symbol and the shears of theshearer a metaphor and the sheepfold a figure of speech?Have I painted my picture in vain?"

And now the printed words of the text before himseemed to speak aloud, to call to him:

"For I have given you an example, that ye shoulddo as I have done to you."

There was no mistake about the meaning. It was acommand, a command to be obeyed literally. If thechurch thought otherwise, then he must part companywith the church. He could not serve two masters. Hehad made his choice, he would obey the call. Thehumbler the service he found to do, the more gladly wouldhe do it. Was not that what Hiram Baxter himselfhad tried to tell them in his homely way? "It willmake men and women of you," that's what he hadsaid. Hiram Baxter was right.

And then a great resolve formed itself in the heartof Horatio Merle. He would take Hiram Baxter athis word, he would tell him he wanted to work. Hewas willing to do anything so long as it was work, solong as it was helpful. He had been blind, and in hisblindness he had tried to lead others as blind as himself.

"I have lost my way," he said aloud. He had risento his feet and stood with head bowed and handsextended in an attitude that would have been theatrical ifit had not been so utterly unconscious.

"You isn't losted, Daddy Merle." He felt the claspof her little hand. "Tum with me, I know the way."

Together they walked through the high ferns, in someplaces over An Petronia's head, and through dim,winding woodland passages and secret stairways of mossyrocks behind the tapestry of ivy and convolvulus knownonly to An Petronia, until they came out on the Millbrooklane just in time to see the last flicker of sunlightthrough the hawthorn hedge.

CHAPTER XVI

THE DESERT ISLAND

The night before the departure of the Baxters forBrighton the spectacle of a huge pile of packedboxes and the report that the family were fleeingfrom the doomed mansion, never to return, hadcaused a fresh outbreak of hysterical panic among theremaining servants. And scarcely was the car out ofsight bearing the Baxter party to the station when adeputation from the servants' hall, hatted, coated andhandbagged and headed by Parker, waited on Mrs. Merle,as the senior representative of the family, andtold her that they were very sorry, but nothing wouldinduce them to spend another hour in the house. Onlyout of consideration for poor Mrs. Baxter had theyremained until her departure.

For the first time in her life Harriet, confronted byan emergency, totally lost the power of speech. Whenat length she recovered her breath and words were readyto flow, she found herself alone; the deputation had leftthe room, closing the door quietly behind itself.

Half an hour later the station-master at Ippingfordtelephoned to say that two servants who had arrived onthe early train from London, on learning, at the station,the cause of the vacancy they were required to fill, hadtaken the first train back to town.

As Harriet put up the receiver, she heard thediminishing hish of wheels on the damp gravel outside. Thesound died away and a sudden quiet came upon IppingHouse, a stillness that smote Harriet's nerves like thestillness that awakens the passengers on an ocean linerwhen the engines stop working in the night. To tellthe truth, the situation was much the same, for withthe exception of Anton, the chauffeur, Hester, the newsewing girl, and Mrs. Pottle at the lodge, there was nota single servant left at Ipping House.

"What will Horatio say?" thought Harriet.

To Harriet's utter amazement, Horatio, when toldwhat had happened, remained perfectly calm; he evensmiled. She stared at him open-mouthed.

"Horatio! Have you heard a single word I've beentelling you?"

"Yes, my dear."

"Is that all you have to say?" She spoke sharply.

Horatio was removing his galoshes, muddy from along walk. This operation had to be performed standing,as the only two chairs in the room were occupied,one by the agitated Harriet, the other by the slumberingMartin Luther.

As the curate looked up, clasping one foot in his twohands and hopping absurdly on the other to keep hisbalance, he resembled some fantastic bird of the cranefamily. At any other time Harriet might have smiled;now she was too angry. Her white pompadour bristledand her eyes blinked rapidly as if making ready to leapat him.

"It is incomprehensible," he said at length, afterdepositing the galoshes neatly beneath Martin Luther'schair. "It is incomprehensible, my dear, in this age ofaeroplanes and cinematographs and popular education,that anyone should still believe in supernaturalphenomena."

Only by shutting her lips tightly and gripping thearms of her chair did Harriet restrain herself fromviolent interruption. When she spoke it was anexplosion.

"Horatio! are you crazy? Don't you understand?There isn't a servant in this house. There's no one tocook our luncheon, and, if there were, there is no oneto serve it, no one to do anything, and you stand thereand talk about aeroplanes!"

There was a quiet about Horatio that, exasperatingas it was, somehow disconcerted Harriet. She watchedhim silently, resentfully, as he picked up the cushionon which Martin Luther was reposing and deposited itcarefully on the floor without waking the cat. Sleepilyconscious of the proximity of a sympathetic hand,Martin Luther stretched his paws and extended his neck tobe scratched, then curled up to sleep again withouthaving once opened his eyes.

Seating himself in the cushionless chair, Horatioleaned his head against its tall straight back. "Noone to serve, no one to do anything." He was echoingHarriet's words; his eyes were resting on hers, yet histhoughts were far away, fixed on something invisibleto Harriet, a faded picture in a tarnished gilt frame.

A dim, arched room, a group of uncouth, dark-hairedmen seated sideways about a long table on which werestrangely fashioned tankards and curious goblets. Atthe feet of one of these men was One who kneeled uponthe stone floor. His eyes were sorrowful, His smoothhair fell heavily about his bent shoulders and, aboveHis bowed head, there wavered a thin pale circle ofblue-white light. And this One who kneeled upon thestone floor was washing the feet of that other who wasseated at the table.

There was a look in her husband's face that carriedHarriet's thoughts far away from the present, back tothe first time she had seen that look and believed thatHoratio was different from any other man, believed that,with her at his side, he was destined to do great thingsand to help make the world a wonderful place. Andwhat had he done? What had she done? Who was toblame for the failure, for the poverty, for the pitifuldependence? She wondered what was to become of them.How could they stay on here after the way Cousin Hiramhad talked? To be sure, Cousin Eleanor had beenkindness itself. She had kissed her quite tearfully thatmorning and hoped she and Horatio would stay with them aslong as they kept the house open. She had even hintedat their visiting them in New York.

The sound of a motor below coming round the drivebrought Harriet to her feet. She ran to the window.

"It's Cousin Robert and Kate Clendennin," sheexclaimed. "They ought to have been back hours ago.Robert will make everything all right. I will speakto him at once about getting servants."

She moved quickly and was already half out of theroom when the sound of Horatio's voice halted her likean electric shock.

"Harriet!"

There was a tone in Horatio's voice that drew Harrietback into the room as if by physical force.

"What is it, Horatio? You frightened me." Shepressed the palm of her hand against her side.

He was standing before her; and the pinkness hadgone out of his face. He took her hand and led hergently back to the chair.

"Sit down, Harriet." He seated himself in the otherchair. "I'm sorry I frightened you, love, but you mustnot speak to Robert Baxter about the servants."

"Why not, Horatio?"

"Because—because——" He looked at her dumbly,his underlip shook and tears came into his eyes.Harriet began to be really frightened. What hadhappened? Why didn't he speak?

"Harriet," he went on at last, "I implore you not tospeak to Mr. Baxter. I beseech you to do nothing inthis matter."

"But Horatio!"

"I mean it, Harriet. What has happened in this houseto-day is an answer to my prayer."

"You're going mad, Horatio!" She tried to rise, buthe drew her gently back.

"If you do anything, Harriet, if you do not leavethings as they are now in this house, it will be as ifChrist came to the door and you slammed the door inHis face."

He was terribly in earnest, his voice was steady andhis blue eyes met hers calmly; in them shone a light shehad loved him for in the long gone days—a light thatrarely visited them now.

"Do you mean," she asked at length, "that you wantus to do without any servants?"

He put his answer in the form of a question.

"Harriet, do you remember the happiest year of ourlife, when we had no servant at all except thecharwoman who came once a week, when you made thebeds and the bread and washed the dishes and I driedthem, when you were the cook and four housemaidsin one and I was the butler and the footman and theman of all work? I opened the bottle of wine when wehad one; I made the fires, except when the coal bill wasoverdue and there weren't any fires to make; I was theboots, too, and I cleaned the knives and polished ourtwo or three bits of silver. And, when I'd nothing elseto do, I wrote my sermons."

The color came into Harriet's face and her eyes shoneat the recollection.

"You generally composed your sermon on the wayto church. How you used to frighten me, Horatio!I thought every service would be your last! Do youremember the first time I locked you up on a Saturdaymorning to write your sermon?" she added, smiling.

"You can laugh about it now, but it was no laughingmatter at the time," said Horatio. "I made up my mindI would open the Bible at random and take the firsttext my eye fell upon—and what a text it was! 'Can'stthou draw out leviathan with an hook?' Do you remember?"

"It was the best sermon you ever wrote," said Harriet,warming to the remembrance, "though perhaps, dear,it was a mistake to dwell on the impossibility of awhale's swallowing anything larger than a sardine."

"Well, it is true, isn't it?" argued Horatio.

"That's what you told the vicar when he took youto task for it after the service," laughed Harriet, "andwhat was it he said?"

Horatio puckered his face into a frown. "He informedme, Harriet, that it was the business of a curateto preach the Gospel and not to lecture on naturalhistory."

The curate rose and held out his hand. "Come on,Harriet." He drew her to him and put his arm roundher affectionately. "Let's play we're back in the oldstone cottage at Chale, and you go down into the larderand see if there's anything for lunch and I'll go into thedining-room and lay the cloth."

For answer Harriet, conscious of the moisture in hereyes, gave Horatio a swift sidelong peck which was toa kiss what the shorthand symbol is to a written word,and, together, they descended the echoing stairs of thedeserted house.

In the meantime Robert Baxter and Kate Clendennin,returning from the railway station by what the ReverendHoratio Merle might have called a short cut of abouttwenty miles, took no account of the flight of time. Nowthey raced madly down a narrow lane whose hawthornhedges interlaced thickly overhead. Now, as the roadpassed between thrush-haunted woods, they went veryslowly, sometimes standing still for minutes at a timeto listen to the notes of the wood birds. Once whena spotted fawn trotted out of the thicket and ambledin front of the motor, they went at half speed for nearlya mile before the frightened creature decided to taketo the woods again.

In the last four or five days Kate had seen a gooddeal of Bob, since her confession to Lionel on theMillbrook links, and she had not over-estimated her powers.Each day he sought her company more eagerly, andwhile at first she had, without appearing to do so, givenhim opportunities, now, as far as could be, with a youngman who had to give a part of his time to business inLondon, his movements had come to be coincidental withher own.

But Kate knew that the time had come when she must,to put it baldly, either take him or leave him. She hadtold Lionel that she was going to marry Robert Baxter.That, however, was several days ago. Then herdecision was not irrevocable. Now, as she sat besideRobert Baxter in the motor, Kate realized that anyday, any hour, any moment it might become irrevocable.

She spoke suddenly. "We'd better be hurrying," shesaid. "It's getting late. I'm getting hungry, aren'tyou?"

On the way home Kate kept him busy with the highspeed lever, declaring that if they weren't back insideof half an hour she would certainly starve to death. Inless than ten minutes Bob had passed the golf links,and in three minutes more they were whizzing throughthe lodge gates.

Kate felt it the moment they entered the house.

"What is it?" she asked, looking round curiously.

"What's what?" said Bob, as he followed her intothe hall.

"It's so beastly quiet—there's something wrong. Iwonder where Lionel is," she said.

They passed into the library. Kate pulled a bell, once,twice, and once again. No one answered.

"Perhaps it didn't ring," suggested Bob.

They tried one in the conservatory, and getting noresponse, they descended to the regions of the kitchento see what was the matter. With the exception ofMartin Luther, fast asleep on a seat by the range, therewas not a living soul to be found anywhere.

Bob took out his cigarette case, and Kate seatedherself on the dresser, with her feet on a chair.

"We're marooned!" she said; the words came out ofa violet smoke-cloud.

"Looks like it," said Bob as he lighted his cigarettefrom hers.

"I say, can you cook?" asked the voice from the cloud.

"I can make a Welsh rarebit."

"Well, I'll thank you not to." Kate volplaned from herperch on the dresser. "Let's see what there is. There'ssure to be something cold, and, if there are eggs enough,I'll make an omelette a mile wide."

There were cold meats of various kinds, also coldboiled potatoes. These Kate cut up and placed in afrying pan, while Bob made a fire in the range, and,under Kate's direction, put the plates and dishes for theomelette and the potatoes in the oven to warm.

When everything was ready, Kate sent Bob upstairsto set the table and ring the gong for luncheon. As hehurried through the servants' corridor he met Mrs. Merle.

"Oh, Mr. Baxter!" she cried. "Did you ever see anythinglike it! I am just going down to see if I can findanything for lunch."

Bob smiled sweetly as he held the door open andushered Mrs. Merle into the kitchen.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Harriet when she hadrecovered from the first shock of surprise at seeing Kate."If I'd known sooner I might have been some help.My husband is laying the cloth."

"Splendid!" answered Kate, as if it were the mostnatural thing in the world. "Now, Bob, you can help uswith the trays."

Bob led the way with a large tray on which were acold ham and a platter of sliced cold chicken. Katecarried the omelette and a "sweet" she had made at thelast minute of fried bread and strawberry jam. Mrs. Merlebrought up the rear with the dish of fried potatoesand a jar of potted shrimps.

Horatio had just finished setting the table when theprocession of three entered the dining room. His backwas turned. He was making a last round, massagingwith gentle finger tips the few remaining wrinkles inthe white cloth.

In an instantaneous conspiracy of silence they watchedhim as he slowly circumnavigated the snow and crystalcontinent. Arrived at the antipodes, Horatio looked upquietly and met the eyes in the doorway. As they lookedat him a change came over his face. He stood verystraight, looking almost tall. It was happening, themiracle he had prayed for!

"For I have given you an example that ye should doas I have done to you."

Perhaps they didn't know it. Perhaps they thoughtit was all a joke. But he knew better. It was part ofthe Great Design, just as the departure of the frightenedservants were part of the same Design.

Here they came, laughing, joking, but all lending ahand, all serving. Some one was crying: "Hooray forthe new butler! Speech! Speech!" It was LionelFitz-Brown. Returning from a ramble on the moor at thelast minute, he had seen what was up, and, not wishingto be out of it, had dashed into the kitchen garden andreturned, the flushed and joyous bearer of an egregiouslettuce on a lordly dish.

All tongues were loosed now as they followed eachother into the dining room and deposited their viands onthe table.

There was a sudden hush. All were seated butHarriet and Horatio. Harriet went quickly to heraccustomed place and sat down. Only the Reverend HoratioMerle remained standing. The curate had always saidgrace at Ipping House, sounding forth the stereotypedwords with a certain glib solemnity as if he was repeatinga worn out social formula. Now on his lowered facethere was a deep reverence, and his clasped hands werejoined in real supplication.

"For what we are about to receive may the Lordmake us truly thankful." There was a tremor in hisvoice, but it held out to the end.

With still lowered head Horatio moved to the head ofthe table, and, standing by the side of Mr. Robert Baxter,lifted the cover from Kate Clendennin's omelette andplaced it on the sideboard.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE

Long established usage on desert islands hasordered that the first duty of the shipwrecked,after locating the crystal spring and ascertainingthat the cocoanuts are ripe and the mango (or breadfruit tree) abounds, is to signal for help. Accordingly,at this first meal after the desolation of Ipping Housethe sole topic of conversation concerned ways and meansof obtaining new servants without delay. But the Merlestook no part in the discussion.

From the outset the Reverend Horatio's domesticministrations had been accepted, in the picnickian spirit ofthe occasion, as the whim of an eccentric parson andquickly forgotten by all but Harriet in the absorbingtopic of the moment.

Harriet watched him now as he moved quietly to andfro, carrying the large silver platter, bending gravelyas he held it in turn for each of the chatterers at thetable. "Heathens" she reflected bitterly. "They areraging about menials, heedless that they are being servedby an angel!"

A rare partisan was Harriet Merle. With her on hisside, Horatio might well liken himself to a hero of oldarmed with an invincible spear. Harriet gloried inopposition, and it was only when opposing forces were equalthat there was any doubt in her husband's mind whichside she would take. At such times something totallyunexpected, weighing with the infinitesimal preponderanceof a hair, would sway the balance. So it had beenthis morning when Horatio had spoken of long ago daysand the look of long ago had shone in Horatio's eyes.

An hour before, if the priestly Ezekiel himself hadappeared to the curate's wife and prophesied that shewould soon be abetting her husband in this, the maddestof his mad ideas, Harriet would in all probability haveshown the presentient son of Buzi to the door. (HiramBaxter would have told him he was talking through hishalo.) Yet now that very thing was actually happening,and the strangest part of it was that it did not seemstrange to her.

As Horatio stood, with his back to the room, occupiedwith things on the sideboard, there was to Harrietsomething solemnly familiar about his attitude, his quietmovements. Nor was the good churchwoman shocked whenshe realized what it recalled to her mind. It was but anadded proof, if such were needed, that to Horatio thiswas indeed a ritual, and no common service he wasperforming.

At last, it seemed an age to Harriet, every one hadbeen served. The Spanish omelette, a martyr to its ownperfection was no more. Robert Baxter, after payingthe highest compliment possible for a mere man to payto a Spanish omelette, rose from the table and, deputingthe countess to act with Mrs. Merle in the matter ofengaging servants, excused himself on the plea of lettersthat must catch the afternoon post.

A moment later Horatio, steeling himself against Harriet'simploring glance and the appeal of his untouchedplate, left the room. As one on the brink of a journey,the thought of food repelled him. Also he rememberedthat Martin Luther had not breakfasted. He wouldcome back later and help Harriet clear away the things.

Kate had lighted a cigarette and was leaning back inher chair watching the sinuous veil dance of the dissolvingvapor. Lionel's whole being was concentrated on theordeal by fire of a perfecto bequeathed to him by thedeparting Robert.

"By Jove! Where's Mr. Merle?" he asked.

The countess, immediately alert, gave a quick glanceround the table. "Go after him, Lionel. He's hadnothing to eat!" she cried.

Lionel pushed back his chair and strode out of theroom. Some minutes passed before he returned, enteringby the French window from the conservatory. Helooked flustered.

"I can't find him anywhere," he said quickly, in answerto exclamations from Harriet and Kate. "I've lookedall over the beastly house and I'm blest if I know wherehe can have got to."

"He must have gone out," suggested the countess.

"That's the first thing I thought of. He hadn't twominutes' start of me, and I ran all round the house."

"Did you go to the lodge?" queried Harriet.

"Yes, I went there twice. No one has been throughthe gate since this morning. By the way," he added,"Mrs. Pottle says she'll come around and see what shecan do to help, she and that girl she has there, jollylooking girl,—eyes like a—like a fox terrier——" Hestopped abruptly. Kate and Harriet had not waited forparticulars about the Storm girl's eyes—the one wasspeeding toward the kitchen, the other was already halfway up stairs.

Search as they would, the Reverend Horatio wasnowhere to be found and his black wideawake hat wasmissing!

"Horatio never went out like that without speakingto me," lamented Harriet.

The afternoon hours dragged by and when dinnertime came Horatio was still absent. The long oak diningtable had been reduced to the comparatively small circleof its primordial unit. The curtains had not been drawnand, through the tall windows at the end of the room,the ghost of the departed day stared solemnly at thecandles that were usurping its place. But the candlesonly shrugged their flames superciliously—their silvercandelabra had once belonged to Charles I. "Anyway,"they reflected, "it's better to be a live candle than a deadsun!" A remark which, to be strictly truthful, was notoriginal, having been handed down in the candle familyfor generations.

The continued absence of the beloved curate cast adamper on the spirits of the diners and made conversationa burden. Even the all important servant questionwas for the time being forgotten.

"I don't see why we're worrying so," said Kate, aftera longer pause than usual. "He's probably lost his wayin the woods and is trying to find his way home by thatridiculous compass on his watch chain; he showed it tome once." She smiled at the recollection. "It has nomore sense of direction than poor, dear Mr. Merle himselfhas. I give you my word the wretched thing neverpointed twice to the same place. The dear man likesnothing better than to get lost in the woods. He toldme so himself," she added, but her voice belied theoptimism of her words.

In the silence that followed Hester Storm enteredbearing a chocolate blanc-mange, a dark, marble-likeedifice of mortuary design imbedded in a snowdrift ofwhipped cream.

"By Jove, Kate!" cried Lionel, eager to change thesubject, "is that the thing you were making when youchucked me out of the kitchen this afternoon?"

Kate was assaulting the quaking monument with adesperate spoon. "It's Mr. Merle's favorite pudding,"she said shortly.

Lionel subsided. What was the use? No matter whattopic was started, it invariably led to Merle.

The fate of the chocolate blanc-mange hung in thebalance for a brief moment. If to eat it would seem tobe a slight to the curate, to leave it would bea slight to the countess. The outcome was a compromisein which the honors and the blanc-mange wereevenly divided.

Hester was glad when the meal drew to a close. Waitingon the table had been a nerve racking experience forher. Only the thought that she might pick up somechance clue as to the golf bag's whereabouts had nervedher to the undertaking.

Now it was over and nothing had come of it—not asingle word about golf or golf bags. All the talk hadbeen about the old parson who was late for dinner.Probably he had fallen into another mole trap or caughthis whiskers in a bramble bush!

Hester was startled from these irreverent reflectionsby the utterance of the very word she had been listeningfor. The coffee cup she was in the act of handing tothe countess shook perilously on its tiny saucer.

"A golf bag is a funny thing for a secretary to becarting about," Robert Baxter was saying, "but there itwas, and the day Mother borrowed it——"

"By Jove!" interrupted Lionel, checking his half-raisedarm. "That's where the old boy went!"

He drained his cup quickly and put it down. It wascoming out in exasperating driblets like a magazine storyand Hester, suddenly busy at the sideboard, waitedbreathlessly for the next instalment.

"I heard Miss Thompson call out to him from themotor," went on Lionel, "just as they were starting thismorning, that if he cared to get her golf bag he coulduse the clubs all he wanted."

There was another maddening pause. Hester hadreached the limit of her endurance; she couldn't go onrearranging the silver on the sideboard forever. Shehad an insane impulse to shriek. Then, suddenly, thesuspense was over. Robert supplied the missing link.

"Cousin Horatio could hardly get lost on his way tothe club house," he reflected, pushing back his chair asKate started to rise, "but I'll run round in the car andinquire if he was there this afternoon. Why don't youhave a look round the lake?" he turned to Lionel.

They passed into the hall and out through the frontdoor. It was almost dark. Through the moist, warm aircame the scent of pale night flowers dimly white againstthe dark ivy.

"I must be off," said Bob, "or the golf club will beshut. Any one want to go along?"

"I don't think Mrs. Merle should be left alone," saidKate. "I'll try to make her eat something."

Bob started toward the garage as the other twore-entered the dark house. None of the hall lamps hadbeen lighted. In the dining room the candles wereburning low, their impish flames casting jerky shadows onthe disordered table. The empty chairs, pushed back,had the unquiet stillness of arrested movement. Kateshivered.

"Get some candles," she said. "Quick before these go out!"

On the table was the depressing litter of stained coffeecups, together with sundry plates and glasses overlookedby Hester. The countess began gathering the plates andcups together and piling them on the sideboard. Lionelwatched her in silence. Now only the cloth remained.

"Take the other end," she commanded.

Lionel obeyed and together they folded it into itsoriginal creases.

"I say, Kate," he said presently. "What aboutservants—did you telephone?"

The countess was leaving the room to "rout out Mrs. Merle,"as she expressed it. She stopped short and cameback to Lionel. There was a look on her face thatstartled him.

"No," she said at length, "I haven't telephoned. Ihaven't done a thing about it, and what's more, Lionel,I don't believe I will."

"Kate! Do you mean that?"

It was her turn to be startled. She had expectedconsternation, at the very least disapproval. Lionel's tonewas one of joyous relief.

"By Jove, Kate, if that's the way you feel, then Iknow I'm right. I've been turning it over in my mindever since this morning," he went on eagerly, "and whenI heard the servants had all bolted I said to myself:'Now's the chance to show that old blighter Baxter thatan English Johnny who dates back to the Conqueror—andall that rot—is just as good, when it comes to thescratch, as a self-made American who's only just inventedhimself and thinks he's the only Johnny on earththat ever did an honest day's work.'"

As he paused for breath his face became suddenlyluminous with a new idea. "I say! This must be whatthe old boy calls 'chucking us into a pond.'"

"Lionel! You don't mean—you can't mean that hedismissed the servants himself?"

"Who? Old Baxter? Not he! He doesn't know athing about it, that I'll swear to, but——"

"But what?"

Lionel hesitated, then went on quickly. "I got a tipyesterday, and if it wasn't straight from the horse'smouth it was jolly well the next thing to it."

"Well?"

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "If ithadn't been for us four relatives being here Cousin Hiramwould have shut up the house when they went toBrighton."

For a moment there was dead silence. Then Lionelwent on. "That means the old boy really is in a tightplace, otherwise he'd never have thought of it—and,by Jove, Kate, I'd like to do something to help him ifit's only picking cabbages or—blacking boots—there'ssomething I can do." Lionel's face shone with a joyousrecollection. "Once I blacked the boots of six people fortwo weeks."

"You did!" Kate laughed incredulously.

Lionel nodded. "A caravan party in Devonshire, twomarried women, one flapper just out of school, twohusbands, another chap and me. The flapper was thehardest——"

"The hardest?"

"I mean her boots. I couldn't get my hand intothem—had to hold 'em by the heel."

"That settles it!" decided the countess. "It's perfectlysimple. We'll go on just as we are. I'm cook, you'rekitchen boy and boots, and cousin Harriet can beupstairs girl." Kate laughed nervously, then, suddenly herwhole manner changed. "Lionel," she said, "I want totell you something. Ever since luncheon I have beenhaunted by the picture of that darling old man waitingon the table. There was something in his face that wentright through me—I can't tell you what it was, butevery time I looked at him I wanted to run and put myarms round his neck and have a good cry. I never feltlike such a good for nothing rotter in my life. Andwhen I looked up and found he'd gone——" She stoppedspeaking and got up quickly. "There! I must go toMrs. Merle."

Lionel struck his repeater. "By Jove! It's nineo'clock! I must go to the lake."

CHAPTER XVIII

MARTIN LUTHER

All this time Harriet remained in her room,pacing up and down the floor, pausing at everysound to listen at the window. Perched onthe window-sill, Martin Luther mewed insistently, hishead pressed against the leaded glass. Why did he mewlike that?

Suddenly it seemed to Harriet that Martin Lutherhad been mewing for an infinite period of time. Sheopened the window, and the cat, half way through, hesitated,as if considering whether it was really advisableto go out, after all. Then, sliding softly downward tothe roof of the conservatory he disappeared round theangle of the house.

Where had the cat gone? Harriet had an inherentaversion to cats, her toleration of Martin Luther beinga strong testimonial to her love for Horatio, but shehad moments of believing, as he did, that cats possessa fearful knowledge not shared by men. Why hadMartin Luther acted so strangely? Where had he gone?

It was terribly quiet now, and, as the curate's wifeturned away from the window the darkness of the room,deepened by contrast, filled her with sudden panic. Shehurried from the house, and her groping flight was likethe progress of a nightmare.

Out of doors the dew-cooled air pressed Harriet'sforehead like the hand of a nurse. The velvet blendingof darkness and light, silence and sound, was infinitelysoothing. To and fro she paced the darkening lawn,each time venturing a little further. Behind the lodgeit was quite black under the cedars. Out in the lanethe shadows were terrifying.

The hours passed.

Some one was coming. Harriet listened fearfully,leaning back against the steep bank among the pungentferns, her heart beating painfully. As the steps camenearer and she recognized Lionel, her relief from theterror of a strange man turned to despair. Horatio wasnot with him.

"Lionel, is that you?"

At the sudden apparition of Harriet Lionel stoppedshort, and, turning at the same instant, almost lost hisbalance. A small, dark object fell to the ground,something he had been carrying under his arm. Harrietclutched his wrist.

"What's that?"

Without answering Lionel picked up from the groundwhat seemed like a piece of the darkness.

"You'd better take my arm, Mrs. Merle, the road'squite rough here." He offered his arm with anawkward movement.

"What is it? What have you got there?"

She snatched the thing from under his arm; sheneeded no one to tell her whose it was, this soft, blackfelt hat.

"Where did you get it? It's wet—it's dripping wet!"

He felt her nails in his wrist.

"I—I found it—I found it——"

"Where? Where did you find it?" she shrieked.

"By the lake," faltered Lionel.

The curate's wife neither fainted nor lost her head.Her fingers relaxed and she became strangely, terriblycalm.

"A lantern—quick! There's one at the lodge."

Lionel had to run to keep pace with her.

They found the little gothic house quite dark and thedoor locked. Their knocking brought no response. Theonly sign of life was Martin Luther, whose plaintivecries, louder every second, indicated that he was runningto meet them.

"Try the back door," said Harriet. "We must get alantern."

Lionel plunged through the blackness of the rhododendrons,not stopping to find the path. Harriet, leaningagainst the door, kept up a ceaseless pounding onthe iron knocker. Martin Luther continued to mew.

Never before had the curate's wife heard a cat mewin that way—short, sharp cries, changing to long, mournfulwails as he pushed against her in the dark or clawedat her dress. Then his voice died away as with anincredible rushing noise he dashed down the steps andacross the gravel, only to return the next moment withthe same sound of scrambling feet and flying pebbles.

At last her ear caught the swish of parted bushes andthe tread of human feet, and Lionel's voice came fromclose by.

"It's locked."

"Try the windows."

"They're all fastened. What's that?" he cried.

"It's the cat," gasped Harriet. "He's going mad—wecan't wait." Her words seemed to force their waybetween heartbeats.

Lionel guided her down the scarcely visible steps, andtogether they started up the drive. Martin Luthertrotted between, rubbing against one and the other inturn. His plaintive mew had given place to an excited,cooing tremolo. Suddenly from somewhere at the rightcame again the sharp, wailing cries they had heard atfirst.

They stood stock still, and as they harkened the samestrange impulse came to them both. Without a wordthey turned sharply from the gravel, and, mounting thesoft turf of the bank, scrambled through the laurel bushesand ran in the direction of the sound.

It was a forlorn hope, but they followed it, followedit desperately. Now the mewing sounded near, nowfaint and far off. At one time they lost it altogether,then, all at once, it seemed to come from somewherebelow their feet.

"I say! Look out!" cried Lionel, catching Harriet'sarm. "You nearly went over!"

They were standing close to the edge of a darkdeclivity, in reality not very steep, yet of sufficient depthto be dangerous to any one coming upon it unawares.This last remnant of the ancient moat, for such it was,lay only a few yards from the oldest wing of the house,yet so artfully was it screened on two sides by denseshrubbery and on the third by a crumbling, ivy-coveredwall, once part of the old tower, that its presence wasknown to only two people at Ipping House—the curateand little An Petronia.

Harriet, straining her ears, became suddenly consciousthat Martin Luther had stopped mewing! And,as she listened fearfully there came a faint, pulsatingsound, vibrant, velvety, the most comfortable of nature'svoices, whose very name is the synonym for curledcontentment; Martin Luther was purring!

Whereupon there crept into Harriet's heart the dawnof hope she had thought gone forever. And presentlythere came, seemingly from the very center of the earth,a familiar voice, faint but lifelike:

"Poor puss*! Poor old puss! Good Martin Luther!"

"Horatio!" she screamed at the top of her voice.

Once more came the voice of Horatio, this time alittle louder: "Is that you, my dear?"

"Of course it's me! How can you ask? Where areyou, Horatio? What are you doing? Are you hurt?Why don't you speak?"

"I'm all right, my dear," was the faint yet cheerfulresponse, "but I can't get out—the door's locked."

The door? What did he mean? A door out therein the open park?

Harriet was seized by a new terror. Horatio's mindwas unhinged. He had always been eccentric, not a bitlike other people—and now—now it had come!

In her sudden access of woe Harriet Merle did thenearest thing to fainting she knew. She sat down. Thatis to say, Harriet started to sit down. The invisibleprecipice at her feet and the law of gravitation did therest.

As the curate's wife half slid, half rolled down thesteep, grassy incline her ear, keyed to the highest pitchof dreadful expectancy, caught the sound of a scratchingmatch. Lionel was striking a light.

"Wait, Lionel!" she screamed with all the breath shehad to spare, and even as she did so her indecorousrevolutions ceased gently on the level turf at the bottomof the incline.

In an instant she was on her feet and had shakenher disordered plumage into the hen-like seemlinessbefitting a curate's wife.

"Now strike a match, Lionel!" she called.

Then it was that Lionel performed a deed of heroismthat only an Englishman can appreciate. Unopened inhis pocket, just as it had come in that morning's mail,was the last number of a sporting journal known asThe Pink Un, so called from the roseate tint of thepaper, attributed by the fanciful to an inherent senseof shame in the pages themselves in no wise shared bytheir editors. This was the only thing in the way ofpaper Lionel could find in his pockets, and his matchbox was almost empty.

Without a moment's hesitation he unfolded the precioussheet, and, tearing page after page into remorselessstrips, folded them quickly into long spills. Then,striking a match, with the utmost care, he lighted thefirst of his paper torches.

The flame leaped up, and Harriet saw that she stoodin a grassy, bath-shaped hollow, at least two heads higherthan herself, but how long it was impossible to say.Lionel quickly joined her, lighting a fresh torch as hecame, and giving her the remainder of the precious paperto hold in reserve.

As they moved forward cautiously the darkness infront of them resolved itself into a glistening barrier ofivy extending straight upward into the immense blacknessabove. This, as Harriet afterward learned, wasthe other side of the ivy-covered ruin whose forgottenorigin had been a perpetual source of speculation toHoratio and herself ever since they came to IppingHouse.

"Horatio!" she cried, pressing her face against thedamp leaves. She heard his familiar little cough.

"My dear Harriet, there must be a heavy dew. Ihope you remembered your galoshes." His voice seemedto come from the depths of the ivy.

Reassuring as it was, the curate's calmness, his verysolicitude was indescribably irritating to the overwroughtnerves of his wife.

"How can you talk like that," she cried, "after all I'vebeen through, Horatio, thinking you were drowned inthe lake—and you sit there like a—like a mole and talkabout galoshes!"

Suddenly her hand, pushing through a foot's thicknessof ivy, encountered cold stone. Her anger turnedinstantly to fear.

"Where are you, Horatio? Why don't you come out?You must come out! Oh, I can't bear it!" she sobbedconvulsively.

"My dear Harriet," began Horatio—but he got nofurther. Whatever consolation the gentle curate had tooffer was cut short by a joyful shout from Lionel.

"By Jove! I've found the door!" His cry wasaccompanied by a sound of rustling leaves.

As Lionel forced his way through the ivy tangle hispaper torch went out. Lighting a fresh one at thesacrifice of a precious match, he found himself in alow, chimney-like chamber about the width of hisoutspread arms, half buried in earth and smelling ofdecayed wood and fungus. The damp stone sides slantedsharply inward to where, scarcely a yard away, graywith mould and studded with rusty iron bolts, loomedthe upper half of an ancient wooden door. Only onehinge, huge, rusty, and fantastically wrought, was visibleabove the earth. Curled close against the door, blinkingyellowly and purring like an automobile, sat MartinLuther.

Again the torch went out, but Lionel had seen enough.The door opened inward, that is to say, away fromhim, and in the grotesque scrollwork of the great hingewere three empty nail holes, leaving only two entirenails.

He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

"Is the ground clear on your side, Mr. Merle? Thebeastly door opens inward, you know."

"You don't say," came from the curate. "It's pitchdark here. I have a candle, a perfectly splendid candle,but no matches."

"I have some perfectly splendid matches and nocandle," laughed Lionel.

Merle joined in the laugh, and Harriet wondered,fearfully, if the two men had gone mad.

A minute later a crash of rending wood and cringingmetal caused her heart to stand still. At the sameinstant came a triumphant shout from Lionel and a soundof Horatio's voice close by, and, before she fully realizedwhat had happened, Harriet Merle was sobbing, laughing,and scolding in her husband's arms.

Lionel had kicked in the door.

Martin Luther led the way back, his tail at the proudperpendicular of conscious rectitude. He had done agood evening's work and that, too, under most tryingconditions. Human beings, he reflected, were all verywell in their way—unquestionably they had their uses,at times they were even necessary (when one falls intoa canal, for instance), but their deplorable ignorance ofmewing, beyond such elementary phrases as "Please giveme some milk," or "Oblige me by opening this door,"was excessively annoying.

Lionel had raced ahead to carry the joyful news tothe countess. Tucked safely away in his pocket wasa remnant, snatched from the burning of the sinful pinknewspaper, not, it is to be feared, the portion leastdeserving of fiery punishment.

And now Horatio, arriving at the bank which Harriethad descended with such unpremeditated energy a shorttime before, placed the candle upon the ground to assisthis wife up the steep incline. Here his eye fell uponan oblong piece of paper lying on the grass close tothe candle-stick and glistening in the yellow light. Ashe picked it up the word "Reginal" caught his eye. Itwas a page of An Petronia's novel, the "Misforchins ofReginal." The curate put the paper in his pocket toreturn to the little girl, and, in another minute, he hadforgotten all about it.

CHAPTER XIX

THE MISSING PAGE

Robert Baxter was the first to hear the goodnews, and, being a young man of few words,he lighted a candle and made straight for thewine cellar. In a few moments he returned emptyhanded.

"It's mighty funny," he said to Lionel. "There wasa whole case last week—all but one quart, and it'sdisappeared, case and all! And what's more, that '66brandy is gone, too. I'm certain there were at least halfa dozen left. What do you make of it?"

Lionel tugged at his mustache.

"Well, if you ask me, old chap, I don't mind tellingyou I never did like the cut of Parker's sidewhiskers."

"Parker!" exclaimed Bob. "It doesn't seem possible.You never saw such references as he brought. Therewere two bishops and a prime minister. It's queer,though," he added, as he relocked the cellar door.

At the supper table, much to the Storm girl's relief,her services were not required. There were no moresecrets to be learned and to-morrow she would offer tocall at the club for the golf bag. No, that would looksuspicious—well, she would think out a plan, she wouldmanage it some way.

In a great chair at Horatio's side sat little An Petronia,who, at the curate's request, had been allowed to jointhe happy gathering. Clasped in her hand was a pricelessnectarine (too marvelous for human food) and herwatchful eyes were fixed on the door fearful eachmoment of the apparition of a beckoning grandmother andthe End of Things.

And now every one was eager to hear the curate'sstory, all but Martin Luther, who showed not the slightestinterest. It was enough for him that his dear friendwas safe and sound. What more could anybody want?In recognition of his conspicuous services, Martin Lutherhad been awarded a special fish, which now existed onlyin a beautiful dream as Martin lay fast asleep in the lapof An Petronia.

The curate's story did not take long to tell. Whenhe walked out of the dining room this morning tovanish so strangely, his only thought was to get outof doors and, snatching his hat from the antlers in thehall, he passed quickly through the open front door.Then, remembering that Martin Luther had not hadany luncheon, he changed his mind and went straightto the kitchen, entering by the outside door instead ofreturning to the house, which accounted for Lionel'snot seeing him.

As Horatio was about to enter the kitchen, he wasstartled by the sound of steps. He stood still with hishand on the knob and listened. Who could be in thekitchen? Every one was upstairs in the dining room,every one who had any right in the house.

He opened the door quietly. No one was there. Againhe listened. There was somebody in the passage, thedark stone passage that led to the wine cellar and tothe well room further on. Horatio tiptoed across thekitchen and peered through the archway. There wasa faint yellow flicker in the gloom at the turn of thepassage. The curate wondered what anybody could bedoing in the well room. The servants never went nearit. For one thing it had no window and there wassomething frightening about the black oblong of the wellin the middle of the stone floor. It reminded Horatio ofa picture by Doré in Dante's "Inferno," and, accordingto Parker (who claimed to have read it in a book) itwas in that very well that the pious Lady Ysobel hadbeen drowned. Once he had seen the Gray Lady sittingon the edge of the well wringing her hands and "weepingand wailing most orful." It had given him the"willys" for a week.

Keeping close to the wall, the curate crept cautiouslyalong the passage. The well room door was almostclosed. Fearful lest it should creak, he opened it slowlytoward him, inch by inch. At this point in the storythe curate paused to relieve his throat with a glass ofwater.

"Weren't you frightened, Daddy Merle?" squeaked AnPetronia, thrilling with delicious terror.

"Yes, my dear," said Horatio. "When I opened thatdoor and saw where that light came from I am compelledto admit that I was frightened."

Again the curate paused, this time to wipe his lipswith the napkin. Martin Luther opened his eyes andyawned, stretching his fore paws straight out in frontof him, the very image of a sleepy sphinx. "Isn't thatstory finished yet?" he mewed, then raising himselfslowly to his feet he stepped over the arm of AnPetronia's chair and curled up to sleep in the curate'slap.

"Well, my dear?" queried Harriet impatiently.

"I say!" cried Lionel, "what about the light?"

"The light came from the well," replied the curate.

Then he related how, as he stared at the well, halfexpecting to see the Gray Lady rise slowly out of itsdepths, there appeared, instead, a human hand holding—"Whatdo you think it was holding?" he asked lookingat each in turn.

"A dagger, of course," laughed Kate.

"A golden key," came timidly from An Petronia.

"If it wasn't an umbrella, I give it up," said Lionel.

"Go on! Tell us!" urged Harriet.

Robert Baxter had just achieved a perfect smoke ring.He watched it soar upward and melt away, thenquestioned quietly. "A bottle of champagne?"

"My dear Mr. Baxter, that's exactly what it was,"said the curate.

Lionel slapped his knee vigorously. "Parker! ByJove! Five to one it was Parker!"

The curate's eyes blinked with amazement. "Bless mysoul! How did you know that?"

"Oh, I just put two and two together," drawled Lionel,"and it made Parker."

"Fortunately Parker didn't see me," continued Horatio,"and as he reached down for another bottle I slippedback into the passage and behind the door. It was adreadful moment. You may not believe it, I suppose Iwas a little unstrung, but I had an uncontrollable desireto laugh. I pressed my hands over my mouth, but Ifear that only made it worse—it was like new wine inan old bottle—I simply exploded."

"Horatio! You didn't laugh?" exclaimed Harriet.

"My dear Harriet, it burst through my fingers. Youhave often complained of my laugh, Harriet, but thiswas much worse. It must have sounded like that strangecry of the American natives."

Bob looked up, puzzled. "American natives?"

"I take it so," replied Horatio. "I heard it once atEarl's Court at the Wild West Show. It is apparentlyproduced by a rapid oscillation of the palm of the handagainst the mouth while enunciating with great forcethe sound of the fifth vowel."

CHAPTER XX

THE REVEREND HORATIO TURNS DETECTIVE

The first thing in the curate's thoughts the nextmorning was this perplexing fragment of aletter. He examined it carefully, reading, first,the words in An Petronia's childish scrawl written onwhat had been the blank side of a castaway sheet:

chapter nine

reginals mother died six months before he was bornand ever since Mr peabody had injoyed very dilicathealth.

Horatio smiled at this tragically complicated pictureof Reginald's entrance upon the scene of life. Thenhe turned the sheet and studied what was left of theoriginal letter, a letter evidently written by his protégée,Hester Storm. Lengthwise and crosswise of this sheetran sharp creases where the letter had been folded, andon either side the edges were torn symmetrically,leaving half-finished words and sentences. About half theletter was missing.

The letter began, "Dearest sist—" and five linesfarther down the curate came upon "darling Rosalie." Then,after broken lines in which he made out "pull offsomething," there were six complete lines on what hadbeen the last pages, that read:

"...so wonderful in the next few days that Ican keep straight always after this the way you wantme to, darling, and you and I can go out west wherethe air is fine or into the Adirondacks or anywhere youlike, dearest sister, and you'll never have to workany..." Then there was a blot and a tear.

Most important of all was a postscript in the uppercorner that read, "Remember, please, to address me asHester Storm, not as Jenny Regan."

Horatio read and reread this with absorbed interest.He turned it this way and that, squinted at it, sniffedat it, rubbed his glasses, and tugged at his thin sidewhiskers, the total result being that his excitement andastonishment were presently at fever heat as he realizedthat he was on the verge of a momentous discovery.Ordinarily his conscience would have pricked the gentlecurate at reading a letter not meant for his eyes, butthis was an exceptional case, a matter to be immediatelyinvestigated for the common good. It was a criticalmoment. He was on the track of something serious,possibly a crime, and his mind buzzed with the possibilitiesheld by this scrap of paper. What would a greatdetective do with such a clue? What would HoratioMerle do with it?

Tingling with a growing sense of his importance, thelittle man studied the paper again with a penetratingfrown. An extraordinary document! A fascinatingpuzzle! To "pull off something" was, he knew, a locutionfamiliar in the United States, and meaning to "makea coup" or to carry through a purpose; this he hadgathered from his reading of adventure stories in the cheapmagazines. So something was to be "pulled off!" Somethinginvolving "thousands of dollars!" Something thathad delayed a sailing to America and brought to Ippingfordthis unfortunate girl, Jenny Regan, alias HesterStorm, on some desperate errand involving a rich reward.There was her plain statement, "You'll never have towork again!" How simple she must have thought himthat day at the golf course! A gullible fool, believingevery word she told him! It was pitiful!

And straightway Horatio resolved that in the presentemergency, he would act a sterner part; he would behard as adamant and would push this investigationthrough to a relentless finish. That was clearly his dutyin view of the peril to which he had exposed the dwellersat Ipping House. This girl must be baffled in her wickedpurpose, and, having sinned, she must now suffer.

But there was need of caution; he must have his factswell in hand before making any accusation or showingany suspicion; in short, he must dissemble—detectivesinvariably did dissemble, and already Horatio felthimself a detective. He had the analytical mind andintuitive insight, he knew it, always had known it, and,although these qualities had hitherto lain dormant, hewould use them now, and by one supreme effort, hewould not only make amends for past remissness andrender a signal service to the Baxter household, but hewould give himself the exhilarating joy of running downa real criminal.

His first step was evidently to learn from An Petroniawhere and when she had found this important fragment,so he went straight to the lodge and inquired forhis little friend. Mrs. Pottle informed him, with a shrugof displeasure, that the child was playing somewhereabout the grounds, and, after a careful search, the curatefound her in the sunken gardens giving a spelling lessonto a forlorn wooden dolly sprawling on a marble bench.An Petronia was delighted to recover the missingpage from her novel. Her memory about it was perfectlydistinct. She had picked it out of the fireplacein the new lady's room at the lodge. The new lady beingHester Storm? Yes, Hester Storm. Was An Petroniaaccustomed to use scraps of paper out of fireplaces forher novel? Well, yes; because she had no other paper.Besides, this was such a pretty shade. Didn't DaddyMerle think so? Daddy Merle shrewdly agreed thatit was a pretty shade, a beautiful shade. Did AnPetronia think the new lady had any more paper like this?Oh, yes, a whole box full. Indeed! Was Hester at thelodge now? No, she was at the big house sewing. Oh!Well, would An Petronia mind, for a very particularreason, a secret—going to Hester's room and gettinga sheet of this pretty paper, just one sheet?

At this suggestion the child opened her blue eyes andher sweet, red lips in wide astonishment, but beingassured by Daddy Merle (who must know) that it was allright, she danced happily away, while the curate followedon, not quite reconciled to this necessity of setting hiseager little friend to pilfering. Still he saw the value asevidence of a sheet of paper from the sewing girl'sroom, and when the youthful novelist presently returnedwith the desired article (the paper was obviouslyidentical), the good man merely patted the golden red curlswith a solemn warning that not a word of their secretbe breathed to the new lady. And he borrowedovernight the incriminating page from An Petronia's romance.

The next thing was to have a talk with Hester Stormherself, and here Horatio saw the importance of clevermanagement. An experienced detective would drawfrom the girl, without arousing her suspicion, as muchdamaging testimony as possible, and then, havinginvolved her in a network of lies, he would turn suddenlyand overwhelm her with the evidence of her own writtenwords. That would be the method, the curate felt sure,of M. Lecoq or Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and, with a sighof regret, he resigned himself to the painful necessityof following their example. He disliked exceedinglyresorting to subterfuge and—er—dissimulation; butthere was no choice, the thing must be done and—verywell, he would do it. He would be firm, he would berelentless, he would immediately find out what it wasthat his unworthy protégée was trying to "pull off."

Merle's first move was to exercise his patience for anhour and a half, strolling about among the shrubs andbeeches, watching for the appearance of Hester Storm.He knew the girl would come forth presently from themanor, after her task, and he planned to intercept heron her way to the lodge. A detective must always beready to wait, so Horatio waited.

The chiming clock in the stable tower, with pompousdeliberation, had just sounded the third quarter afterfour o'clock when the curate espied a familiar scarletcloak coming down the graveled walk.

"Enfin!" he breathed in relief, and a moment later hewas walking at Hester's side, marveling at the innocenceand candor of her beautiful dark eyes.

"My dear child," he began kindly, "I have somethingimportant to say to you. Would you mind strolling overtoward the lake? I know a quiet seat where we maytalk—shall I say without interruption?"

The girl looked at him in surprise.

"I will do whatever you wish, sir," she said simply."You have been so good to me! I hope I have donenothing to displease you."

"Of course not, my child, that is to say, why—er—ofcourse not," he replied, remembering with difficultythat it was his duty to dissemble.

They came presently to Horatio's favorite retreat bythe lake, a low, broad bench between two friendly firtrees, and here, looking out over the placid surface, withits heavy shade lines following the shores, they had amemorable interview. It was characteristic of Merle thathe chose this spot of soothing beauty, where natureseemed to reveal her tenderest moods, for the hardbusiness of criminal investigation.

"The point is, Hester," he began, "I have beenthinking over the matter of your arrival at Ipping Houseand your establishment here, and, while I have thedeepest sympathy for you, my friend, I feel that I shouldhave shown a greater interest in your family and—er—antecedents;in short, I should have asked you to tell mea little more about yourself."

"I'll be glad to tell you anything you want to know,"the girl said with an air of perfect truthfulness, whilethe curate continued to marvel.

"How did you happen to come to so small and unimportanta place as Ippingford? As I understand it, youknew no one here and—er—why did you buy a ticketto Ippingford?"

"I didn't," answered Hester with ready invention. "Ibought a ticket to York and I—I got off here because,"she hesitated, and her eyes, wandering over the lake,rested on a company of swans that were drifting downthe cove in stately squadron. In an instant she hadher explanation.

"Yes?" said Merle encouragingly.

"I got off here because it was so beautiful. I wantedto be in the country—away from noise and smoke and—yousee I've always lived in cities, and I've been unhappythere; I've had no luck there, and when I saw this lakeand the hills and green things it seemed like a voicecalling me, and I—I just got off the train. I couldn'thelp it."

There was a quiver in her voice that stirred Horatio'ssympathy, but he hardened his heart.

"Then you had no specific purpose in coming to Ippingford?"

"Oh, no! I did not even know the name of thetown."

"And suppose you had found no friends here, noemployment? What would you have done?"

"I should have gone on to some other place. And Ishould never have forgotten the flowers and hedges andthat lovely walk I took the day I met you—when youwere so kind to me."

Her sweet, low tones moved him strangely, but he keptto his task.

"That was only natural, my dear, after you had cometo my assistance. But tell me, are you contented here?Do you plan to stay with us, now that we have madea place for you?"

Hester looked at him sharply. How came he to putthat question? What was he driving at?

"Why, yes," she assured him. "I want to stay, if youare satisfied with me."

"You have no intention of going away? No thoughtof returning to America?"

"No," she said, disturbed by his persistence. "Whydo you ask me that?"

"I thought perhaps your family in America—or yourfriends——"

She shook her head sadly. "I have no family. Nofriends. I am all alone."

"You have no father or mother? No brother? Nosister?"

Again she shook her head. There was no particularreason why she should lie about Rosalie, except that hersister was too sacred a thing in Hester's life to bementioned lightly. And she failed to see what difference itcould possibly make to this queer little man whether shesaid that she had a sister or had no sister.

But it made a great difference to Horatio, for Hester'sdenial of Rosalie came as a crushing culmination to herother falsehoods. She had lied in declaring that shehad no special purpose in visiting Ippingford. She hadlied in saying she was not planning a return to America.And now she had lied about her sister. The moment hadcome for Merle to strike. His trap was ready, his victimhelpless and defenseless; he had only to touch the spring,or, more precisely, to produce the accusing letter.

Horatio sat silent, looking out over the lake nowbathed in its full summer splendor. What a glory ofcolor! What a profusion of life and joy of life! Thebirds, the insects, the myriad creatures of field and woodand lake, all happy in their several ways! There werethe thrushes calling!

Horatio sighed. Why should not men and womenbe as carefree as these songsters of the air? Whyall this sadness in a world that God had made sobeautiful? Why all this sorrow and sin?

Horatio turned to the girl beside him, and there wasa wonderful light in his eyes, the light of humility andspiritual love. She lifted her eyes to his, then droppedthem, then lifted them again, then dropped them again.A strange thing had happened. The curate's heart wasso filled with the spirit of kindness and pity that therewas no resisting it, either by him or by her. His wellplanned attack and her watchful defense were alikeunavailing against the spirit of kindness and pity!

Tears came suddenly into Horatio's eyes, and when hetried to speak there was a catch in his voice. He lookedat this young woman. God's fair creature, and it seemedas if he read into her soul and understood. Then hereached out impulsively and took her two hands in his.

"My poor child! My poor child!" he murmured.

The gentle curate was far off the track of approveddetective procedure. He was neither master of himselfnor of the situation. His analytical mind had failedhim, his intuitive insight also, leaving only the treasureof his heart as an available asset. Quite forgotten washis carefully set trap! And the girl's letter! And herlies! Just one fact remained, that here was a soul indistress, a sister pilgrim on life's hard highway whoneeded succor.

"You have suffered! You have suffered! I—I amsorry!" he added.

In Hester's whole life this was a unique moment. Foryears she had broken the law and had grown skilful indefending herself, after the fashion of law breakers.Had Merle sprung his trap it is doubtful if he wouldhave caught her. Had he challenged her with the letterit is more than likely she would have found some wayof explaining it. Had he pointed out her lies she wouldhave saved herself by other lies. That was the sort ofthing she knew how to do, but she had never learnedto defend herself against love; she didn't know theanswering move to pity—and when he looked at her likethat—as Rosalie had looked—and told her he was sorry,why—it got right through her guard, it was more thanshe could bear, and, before either of them knew it, thatworld-old miracle, the power of simple goodness, hadbeen shown again, and one more starved soul had heardand answered the silent voice.

Hester's bosom began to heave, her breath came inquick, sharp gulps, she clenched her hands and tried tofight this thing that was happening, but it was too strongfor her.

"Wh—what is it?" she gasped, her eyes on him indesperate pleading.

"It is God calling you, my child. It is God calling,"the curate whispered.

Then the storm broke in convulsive, hysterical weeping.And Horatio waited, without speaking, withouttrying to stem the flood.

"I—I've told you what isn't true," she confessed inbroken tones. "I have no right to be here. I—I'm nogood," and the storm broke again.

"Listen to me, my dear," said Merle soothingly. "Weare all of us weak and sinful. I'm sure I don't knowwhy, but it seems to be our fate to——"

"Wait!" sobbed the girl. "You don't know—what Iam. You don't know—what I have done."

"I know you are sorry," he answered gently.

"Sorry," she repeated. "Oh, yes, I'm sorry, but thatisn't enough. I'm going to tell you everything, and——"

"Stop! I don't want to know what you have done. Ican help you better if I only know that you are sorry.Whatever your sins, they will be forgiven—if you askGod for forgiveness. You understand, my child?"

"I—I understand."

"If you see any way to make amends for any wrongact you must take that way."

The girl's head was bowed as if in prayer. "I will,"she said.

"And in the future you must try—with all your heartand soul—— Say those words, my child."

He laid his hand tenderly on her glossy black hair.

"I will try in the future—with all my heart and soul,"she murmured.

"To be honest, to be kind," he continued.

"To be honest, to be kind," she repeated.

"I will ask God every day to give me strength againsttemptation."

"I will ask God every day—to give me strength againsttemptation."

"For Jesus' sake. Amen."

CHAPTER XXI

THE QUARREL

In less than forty-eight hours after her arrival inBrighton, Mrs. Baxter had completely recoveredfrom the shock of her midnight encounter withthe Gray Lady. On the afternoon of the second day shesat in the window of her fifth floor suite at the Metropolewatching the fluttering, swaying, glittering processionon the promenade below, a frolic of glad colors thatmight have sworn at each other in a ballroom the nightbefore now mingling happily together in the goldenurbanity of the sunshine. Some such thought must haveformed itself in Eleanor's mind as she suddenlyexclaimed. "You can really wear any color on a day likethis!"

Mrs. Baxter called to the maid who was moving aboutin an adjoining bedroom, "Oh, Gibson, did I bring mysapphire voile with the duch*esse lace? Thank you—Iwas afraid it had been left."

"And the cerise foulard?—Oh—good!"

On the lower promenade the people looked like coloredbeads, and still further away, on the dazzling white ofthe sands, they were minute dark specks. Low againstthe blue wall of sky hung the ocean like an indigoblackboard on which figures in white chalk wrote and rewroteand rubbed themselves out with magical monotony.

The wind blowing whither it listed raised an edge ofthe muslin curtain and drew it softly across Eleanor'scheek and in the ocean of femininity below her windowa bright colored wave swelled and tossed and broke inlawny froth.

"What a windy place!" Eleanor drew a deep breathand inwardly exulted as she recalled the lavender scentedcontents of the largest and lightest of her trunks.

Meanwhile Betty was taking a lonely walk on the gaylycrowded upper promenade. Her sense of desolationwas intensified by the hubbub of voices about her, thelaughter, the shrieks of distant bathers, the throb of afar off brass band, the cry of a man selling shrimpssomewhere below.

It would have been hard to devise a program lesspleasing to Mr. Baxter's secretary, than this trip toBrighton. Ipping House was, at this moment, the oneand only place on earth where she wished to be. AtIpping House she could, at least, have kept an eye onKate Clendennin. There was no mistaking the countess'designs on Bob. Betty's hatred of the countesswas temperamental, the hatred of the tendril hairedblonde for the straight haired blonde.

Elizabeth Thompson clenched her fingers as shethought of her old playmate helpless in the toils of thatunscrupulous woman. There was no question in Betty'smind about Kate's power of attraction, yet at thismoment the only thing she envied the countess was herunique gift for what is sometimes called "language." Shewas sorely tempted to borrow a few tonic wordsfrom Kate Clendennin's vocabulary.

There was a surprise in store for Betty on her returnto the hotel.

"Read that," said Eleanor, full of elation, handingher an open telegram. "Read it aloud," she addedlaughing, "I can't hear it too often."

It was from Bob in London to say that his fatherwas letting him off for two or three days and he wouldbe with them in time for seven o'clock dinner.

Betty read it aloud, conscious, through her loweredeyelids, of Eleanor Baxter's searching gaze. IfMrs. Baxter expected any revelation from Betty, she wasdisappointed.

"I'm so glad, Mrs. Baxter; that's just the one thingyou need," the girl said calmly and went on withexasperating inconsequence. "It must be nearly five. Doyou want tea?"

"No, I don't want tea, I want Bob," pouted Eleanorwith an imitation of baby petulance.

"I want Bob," echoed a still small voice from theinmost heart of Betty, but her face betrayed nothing.

"My dear child," said Eleanor after watching her insilence for a while, "I wish you would drop thatnonsense about being a secretary. The only way I cankeep from letting it out to Bob is by not speaking yourname at all. If I did I should be certain to call youBetty and that would be the end of it."

Miss Thompson was sorely tempted, her resolutionwas breaking down, but pride came to her rescue.

"Please, please don't," she entreated so earnestly thatonce again Mrs. Baxter yielded.

Bob arrived early enough for a good half hour alonewith his mother before dressing. Betty in her own roomwas taking an unprecedented time in the choice of adinner toilet.

"You oughtn't to look too fine for a secretary," shereflected to herself in the glass, and her self in the glassreflected back rebelliously as if to say, "Oh, oughtn't I?Well, just to show you, I'll put on my frosted rose satinwith the silver fringe." And she did.

Bob had less difficulty than he expected in withholdingfrom his mother, as he had promised, the unusual stateof affairs at Ipping House. Beyond a few perfunctoryinquiries as to the welfare of the relatives, Eleanor askedno embarrassing questions. The mere mention of anythingassociated with her nocturnal adventure was distressingto her, and she felt grateful to her son for notpursuing the subject. There were plenty of other thingsto talk about; then, too, there was dinner to be ordered.Hitherto the meals had been sent up and the selectionof dishes had been left to Betty, but this evening theywere dining to music in the palmy splendor of the publicdining room and the choice of a menu was reserved forthe superior masculine intelligence of Robert Baxter.

Meanwhile in her own room in another part of thehotel Betty was standing with her back to the mirror.Something had happened. A coolness had sprung upbetween Elizabeth Thompson and her reflection; theywere no longer on speaking terms. At the very lastminute Betty, with sudden determination, had taken offthe Parisian masterpiece which now hung across a chair,a toy Niagara of shimmering rose and silver spray, whilethe bewildered chambermaid hurriedly hooked her intothe plainest gown she possessed, a simple black chiffondinner frock.

"Quite good enough for a secretary," Betty remarked,as she turned her back on the mirror. There was nomistake about it, Miss Thompson and her reflection werenot on speaking terms.

"I wonder what's keeping Betty," said Mrs. Baxter toher son, as they waited for the lift in the crimsoncarpeted hall.

She was conscious of her slip the moment she hadspoken. Bob was watching the slow-moving machineryof the lift. A moment before he had quoted a remarkof his father's about English elevators.

"It looks to me like you fellers use molasses insteadof water to work your darned elevators," Hiram hadsaid, and the Britisher's patronizing, "Oh, I say, thatwould be too expensive," had made Eleanor laugh.

Now at the mention of Betty's name Bob turnedsharply.

"Betty?" he echoed. "You don't mean to say Betty'shere! When did she come? Why didn't you tell mebefore?" He looked at his mother in amazement."Why, what's the matter, Mother?"

Eleanor was trying desperately to cover her confusion.

"Did I say Betty? How funny! I mean MissThompson—Mr. Baxter's secretary—she's dressing for dinner.I wonder why she doesn't come," Eleanor coughed nervously.

Bob continued to watch her, his surprise graduallygiving place to a strange suspicion. It was as if a mentalpicture puzzle were fitting itself together in his brain.Only one piece was lacking to make it complete.

"What is Miss Thompson's Christian name, Mother?"he asked very quietly.

"Miss Thompson's first name?—her Christian name?—letme see—why, it's—it's——" Eleanor tried heroicallyto fib, but it was no use. Do what she would therewas only one name in the whole world she could thinkof. She fluttered like a caught bird, then gave it up."It's Betty, Bob."

In a flash Bob's puzzle picture was complete. "BettyThompson! Well, I have been a fool!"

His words, addressed to the ceiling, were receivedwith a solemn plaster imitation of Olympian indifference.

Not so Eleanor. "There! I've broken my promise!"she cried excitedly. "I knew I would!"

At the same instant she became aware that Betty washurrying along the passage toward them. She loweredher voice and spoke rapidly, "You mustn't tell her youknow it! Betty would never forgive me. Promise meyou won't tell—promise, Bob!"

Bob promised with his eyes—it was too late to speak.

Never had Miss Elizabeth Thompson looked less likethe ugly duckling of her freckled childhood. Therenunciation of her Paris finery was more than compensatedfor by the sparkle of her eyes and the flush ofself-victory in her cheeks. At the last minute, partly as aconcession to her vanquished self, partly as a precautionagainst draughts, she had thrown round her shoulders aweb of transparent net, sparkling with embroidered flowers,effecting in her plain black frock a transformationthat would have done credit to Cinderella's fairygodmother herself.

Breathless and apologetic Betty joined the others justas the elevator doors opened and Bob's dignified greetingand his mother's make-believe chidings were quicklysubmerged in the mysterious hush that descends uponeven the most loquacious people on entering an elevator.

A table had been reserved not too near the orchestra,and its highly decorated appearance, due to an over-liberalinterpretation on the manager's part, of Bob'sorder for a centerpiece of roses and two bunches ofgardenias, had created a speculative interest in the littleparty in advance of its arrival. In the language of thetheater, it had "prepared an entrance."

As the three took their places (amid critical feminineand enthusiastic masculine stares at Betty, and criticalmasculine and enthusiastic feminine stares at Bob),Mrs. Baxter, who had, perhaps, the least to do with theattention they attracted, was the only one of the three whor*ally enjoyed it. Betty felt a flush of annoyance, notso much at the attention itself—Paris had accustomed herto being stared at—but it was one thing to attractattention and quite another to bid for it, and that monstrousfloral centerpiece, those unnecessarily large corsagebouquets, fairly clamored for notice. Her quick ear caughtthe words "Awful Americans"—"Nouveau Riche," in ahigh pitched feminine hiss close behind her, and atanother table a monocled lout in faultless evening dresswas saying in a bulky whisper, "Musical comedy, Ifancy." Betty would like to have asked him to whichbranch of the peerage he referred, the Gaiety or theAlhambra. Anyway, she was thankful she had savedherself from the pink and silver Niagara.

As for Robert Baxter, concentrate as he would onthe amiable duties of host, he could not forget hishurt—perhaps only a scratch to his vanity, perhaps somethingdeeper. Whenever during that uncomfortable dinnerhe looked at the lovely girl sitting opposite and thoughtof the trick she had played him, he felt the hurt afresh. Herecalled the first and only long talk he had had with "thesecretary" at Ipping House. What fun she must havehad with him!—and that letter—that fatuous letter! Hisface burned as he thought of it. But now the tableswere turned. He had found out her secret and she didnot know he knew. Now was his chance to pay herback. Bob smiled in spite of himself. It was so likeone of their childhood fights, when Betty had a tremendoussecret she wouldn't tell Bob, and Bob invented amore tremendous secret he wouldn't tell Betty. For awhole afternoon, perhaps, they would not be on speakingterms. Then there would come a crisis, followedby an explosion, and they would say terribly personalthings to each other. Then all at once Betty's eyes wouldfill with tears and Bob would be seized with a strangesensation, as if he had suddenly become an entirelydifferent boy and that other boy would put his arms aroundlittle Betty, and then, and then—yes, they would kissand make friends.

Robert Baxter looked across the table. Betty lookedup at the same instant, and for the fraction of a secondtheir eyes became entangled, and for just that wonderfulfraction of a second Robert Baxter felt the strangesensation of being the other boy. Only for an instant.

"No," he said to himself. "She's made a fool of meand she's got to be sorry for it. Now I have her justwhere she had me, and I'll make her sorry—very, verysorry."

Mrs. Baxter was pushing back her chair; she wouldhave her coffee and her cigarette upstairs. Eleanor hadnever got used to the English lady's custom of smokingin public. If Bob would take her to the elevator he mightreturn and have his cigar in comfort at the table.Perhaps Miss Thompson would show him the promenade.

Betty got up quickly.

"No, no, Miss Thompson, I sha'n't need you. I reallysha'n't," Eleanor insisted. "I have my book, and I shallbe asleep before I've read a page."

Her son accompanied her to the lift. At the door hekissed her. "This isn't good night, little mother," hesaid affectionately. "I shall be up in a few minutes."

He watched the slow-rising lift disappear past thetop of the door and returned through the almostdeserted dining-room to the table where Betty was waitingfor him. She was pouring black coffee into two smallSevres cups from a miniature silver coffee urn.

Bob settled himself in his chair and lighted a cigar.The dinner had been a wretched failure, and he feltquite in the mood to give Miss Elizabeth Thompsonher lesson.

"Two lumps, please," he said, as Betty prepared tohand him his cup.

The secretary smiled. "That's just what I gave you,Mr. Baxter."

"You have a telepathic mind, Miss Thompson."

Something in his tone caused her to look up quickly.

"Have I? How?"

"How else could you know that I took two lumps?"

"You seem to forget," she replied, "that I haveenjoyed the privilege of observing some of your habitsat Ipping House. Perhaps you don't remember," sheadded maliciously; "you were very much occupied."

"That's unkind, Miss Thompson," answered Bob. "Irecall you quite distinctly. You wrote a letter for me inthe morning after I met you."

"Do you mean the letter to the brunette you met onthe boat?" said Betty quietly.

"Girl I met on the boat?" he frowned, as if consultinga mental passenger list. "Oh, no, it was to a girl Ionce saw off on a steamer—quite a little girl—that isto say, she was a little girl then. It was a long timeago. She must be—well, she must be getting along."

"An old maid?"

He pursed his lips and nodded.

"I thought you said she had a voice—was going tobe a singer or something of that sort?"

"She thinks she has a voice," he corrected. "Perhapsshe had one once. It's astonishing, though, how long avoice will last, Miss Thompson. They say Patti sangwhen she was over seventy."

Betty suddenly became intensely preoccupied in thebusiness of refilling her cup. For a time she seemedto forget the young man's presence altogether.

"So you think," she said at length, having exhaustedthe possibilities of the coffee cup, "that having no voice,your friend is only wasting her time in—where did yousay she was studying?"

"In Paris. I may be wrong, Miss Thompson," he continued,"but the probabilities are against her. In everybranch of art there are at least a hundred who fail forone that succeeds."

"May I ask what you consider a test of success?" shequeried, in spite of her desire to drop the discussionbefore Bob's disloyalty drove her to downright hatred ofhim.

"Why, public opinion, of course," he said shortly.

"Has your friend ever had an appearance?" She wasbeginning to hate him already.

"An appearance?"

"Has she ever sung in opera?" Betty kept controlof her voice, and her tightly clasped hands were hiddenin her lap.

He shook his head. "Oh, no, but I once read anannouncement that she was to appear at the TheatreParnasse. I forget what it was—quite a good role, Ibelieve."

Betty picked up the neglected gardenias and pressedtheir cool petals against her hot cheek.

"Go on," she said.

Bob hesitated; he was beginning to wish he had neverstarted on this tack. He had no idea Betty took hervoice so seriously.

"Well, to tell the truth——" He pulled nervously athis cigar, and, discovering it to be out, knocked off theash and relighted it with unusual care. He felt that thisbusiness of chastening Betty was a failure from everypoint of view. The desire to "get even" had completelygone from him; he would be glad now to surrender onany terms, but Betty's waiting eyes offered him noquarter.

"I didn't hear the particulars," he blundered on. "AllI know is, it never came to anything."

"And you've no idea of the reason?" Her flushedface was hidden in the gardenias. Their sensitive petalsfelt what the man could not see.

Bob threw his cigar out of the window. He wishedhe could throw himself after it.

"Oh, well, every one can't sing in opera. Poor girl,I suppose her voice wasn't equal to it."

This was perhaps the most unfortunate speech RobertBaxter ever made. Had he known (and he never didknow) the true story of that unfilled engagement, hewould have died rather than say what he had justsaid to Betty. If, by some miracle, Robert Baxter, thenin New York, had happened into Betty Thompson's littleapartment on the Champs Élysêes that afternoon twoyears ago, when M. Peletier of the Theatre Parnassecalled with the contract for Mlle. Elizabeth Thompsonto sign, it might have proved the saddest, if not the last,day of M. Peletier's existence. The very recollectionof that afternoon brought again to Betty's beautiful facethe white-hot flame of anger that, like a sword of fire,drove the satyr-faced impresario screeching in the fear ofdeath from her apartment, down the headlong stairway,across the crowded boulevard, and into the nearest café,where, over a nerve-fortifying petit verre, he wrote thebrief note informing Mlle. Elizabeth Thompson, withregrets of the most profound, that he must cancelimmediately the engagement of mademoiselle for the TheatreParnasse, having, after mature deliberation, decided thatthe voice of mademoiselle, though of the most charming,was not equal to the demands of grand opera.

And now, when Betty pushed back her chair with suchviolence as to shake the glasses on the table, Bobwondered what was the matter. As she rose the yellowinggardenias dropped to the floor, and it was as if inthat moment all their whiteness had gone into Betty'sface.

He was on his feet in an instant. She looked as ifshe were going to faint. His eye went from table totable—except for a waiter or two drifting about at thefar end of the great room they were quite alone.

"Betty!" he cried. "Are you ill? For God's sake,what's the matter?"

"'Betty!' he cried. 'Are you ill?'"

As he spoke her name the eyes rounded with amazement,then slowly narrowed to an expression that senta chill through Bob's heart. It was no more like Betty,that look, than the voice that accompanied it.

"So you knew all the time who I was, and yet youspoke to me like that—pretending you didn't know."

Bob tried to speak, but she went on in a low, monotonous,terrible voice, only just raised above a whisper.

"You are a coward, and what you have been saying isa lie—a mean, contemptible, cowardly lie. Now I'mgoing. I sha'n't see you again."

Her lips were beginning to quiver. She could nottrust herself to say another word.

Bob, utterly crushed, bewildered and silenced, walkedbeside her for appearance's sake to the door of the lift.Without a word, without a look, she stepped inside andthe bronze door clanged between them.

Alone in the writing-room, Bob tore up sheet aftersheet of the hotel paper in fevered attempts to composea note to Betty. As he crumpled them up one afteranother, he stuffed them into his pocket, not stopping totear them up. The moments were slipping by. At lastin desperation, he wrote:

"Betty—For God's sake see me, if only for a momentbefore I go. My train leaves in half an hour. Bob."

He rang for a waiter and without stopping to rereadit, slipped the note into an envelope, directed and sealedit up, and gave it to the man to take to Miss Thompson'sroom.

After an interminable quarter of an hour the waiterreturned. Bob gave him a shilling and snatched theenvelope from the tray. He turned it over eagerly—itwas his own note, unopened.

CHAPTER XXII

A PROBLEM IN VIRTUOUS STRATEGY

The curate walked back to Ipping House with alighter heart than he had known for days. Itwas true he had not carried out his spectacularpurpose of running down a criminal, nor had he provedhimself a very wonderful detective; in fact, he was stillin darkness touching the nature of Hester Storm'swrongdoing; but it had been his privilege to help thisgirl at a critical moment, and to turn her from evil waysto sincere repentance. As to any future problems orcomplications, Horatio had no fear, for he knew the goodseed was growing in Hester's heart and, if the heart wasright, everything else must be right. And he took greatsatisfaction in immediately destroying the incriminatingletter, rending it into small pieces and scattering thesetoward the lake as he strode buoyantly along the shorepath.

Meantime the girl herself, the object of Merle's lovingsolicitude, sat motionless on the broad, low benchbetween the friendly fir trees. Dazed, frightened, yet fullof a strange joy, Hester was thinking of this extraordinary,this unbelievable thing that had happened. A meeklittle man, with amusing side whiskers, had spoken toher, had looked into her eyes and, suddenly, her wholelife was changed, absolutely and irrevocably changed.She was not and never again would be the girl she hadbeen. That was sure. The words she had spoken withbended head were graven on her memory. She hadgiven her promise to God and to Rosalie, and nothing inthe world could make her break it, still——

She gazed out over the lake where the swans weredrifting idly, and a smile, half plaintive, half mischievous,formed about her warm, red lips, as she reflected thathere was Hester Storm, known on Manhattan Island asa cold-blooded proposition, little Hester, who had goneup against hard games in various cities and gotten awaywith them—not so bad, her bluffing Grimes with thehaughty stare in Charing Cross station—here she waswith a big bunch of money right in her hands, you mightsay, and letting it go, letting the whole thing go andstarting all over again because—because she wanted to.

Now her thoughts went back to the minister's program:To be honest, to be kind, to make amends, ifshe could, for any wrong act—there it was. Well, asto making amends, she would give back the purse. Shehad stolen it, and she would give it back. That waseasy!

No! Not so easy as it seemed, for the purse was inBetty Thompson's golf bag, which was in one of thelockers at the country club, where Mrs. Baxter had leftit. And this locker was secured by a key kept inMrs. Baxter's bureau drawer—also locked. There wereinfinite complications here. Suppose she were foundpicking one of these locks?

The penitent laughed ruefully as she reflected that itwas just as difficult and dangerous to get the purse nowfor a good purpose (to return it to the bishop) as it wasbefore to get it for a wicked purpose. Yet the pursemust be returned; it must be returned immediately, forany day or hour might bring the discovery of thatill-guarded money, through the blundering luck of somecaddy boy or club cleaner or hanger-on about the lockerroom. And such a discovery would inevitably provokea new investigation, and that must not be. Hester wassorry for her wrongdoing, but she had no wish to go tojail.

Here, then, was a delicate problem: to steal virtuouslya purse already stolen, and give it back to the owner sothat he would have no idea (Scotland Yard ditto)whence it came or where it had been or who had turnedthe trick. Hester pondered this for a long time with theold, keen look in her half-shut eyes.

"It can't be done," she finally decided. "I'd just getin deeper and deeper, and—the first thing I knew I'dbe——"

Then, like an inspiration, the solution came. It wasperfectly simple, perfectly safe, the bishop should havehis property within twenty-four hours, and nobody wouldbe the wiser.

"Sure!" the girl reflected. "That does it. I'll tell her,I'll tell her the whole thing. She'll be sorry to knowI'm that kind, but she'll be glad I'm on the level now,and—she'll keep my secret and—she can give back thepurse."

With a sigh of relief Hester rose from the bench, and,drawing her cloak about her, started down the path. Thething was settled and there was no reason for delay. Onthe contrary, the sooner she found Miss Thompson andtold her the truth the sooner this trouble would be ended,and she would be free to go away. A train to London,a call at the steamship agency—why, she might be on theocean in two or three days, hurrying back to Rosalie!Not with a fortune, to be sure, but she knew that Rosaliewould be happier to have her sister back and to hearthe great news of her cutting out certain things, happierthan if she brought ten fortunes—in the other way.

The girl stopped suddenly as she turned the pointbeyond the cove. There was the boat landing and thelittle footbridge leading to the summer house. Andthere, on a bench beyond the summer house, was Anton,the chauffeur, and she remembered, with a vague feelingof alarm, that he was waiting for her!

CHAPTER XXIII

A SCRAP OF PAPER

Since their strange meeting in Betty Thompson'schamber, the shock-headed chauffeur had made itplain to the pretty sewing-girl that he was deeplysmitten with her charms. The fact that she had seen himin New York and remembered a gold tooth, also theinjured ear of his friend with the blue handkerchief,amounted to nothing, for, after this single flash, hermemory had failed her and, anyway, what if he hadtaken a glass of beer with Red Leary in a Forty-secondstreet rathskeller!

The point was that Anton was now ardently andaggressively in love with Hester. Twice he had put hisarm around her, once he had tried to kiss her, and dailyhe had urged her to meet him some evening at thegarage for a joy ride. He had a sixty-horsepower carat his disposal during various odd hours and he saw noreason why pleasant reciprocity relations should not beestablished between himself and this alluring youngwoman.

"You're a peach, kid," he had whispered one afternoonin the conservatory; "you've got me going all kinds ofways with your eyes and your red lips and—say, comedown to the garage after supper for a little whirl. Doyou get me?"

Hester had laughed and shaken her head; then she hadhalf consented to his teasing, knowing well she wouldnot come.

The next day Anton brought her a splendid bunch ofroses and continued his pleading. He was crazy abouther; she had the dandiest shape and—he would treat herright if she'd only come down and—then he tried to kissher.

There were two reasons why Hester had not altogetherdiscouraged these advances: she could not denyherself the feminine satisfaction of exasperating anover-zealous suitor by making promises which she had nointention of keeping, and she did not wish to incur Anton'senmity. She distrusted this man partly through thatvague memory in the rathskeller, partly on generalprinciples. And after the second broken appointment shesent him a civil note pretexting a headache.

The next day he had begged her, almost with tearsin his eyes, to meet him that afternoon at five o'clock inthe summer house by the lake—for a few minutes. Andshe had promised faithfully to come. Anton felt sureshe would really come this time, and in her honor haddonned his best gray suit and a new straw hat with redand black band, which, with his light malacca cane, gavehim quite a smart appearance.

"This is where I land her," he said to himself, as hestrolled across the foot-bridge, sharp on the stroke offive.

But alas for the hopes of lovers! Half an hour passed,three-quarters of an hour and no Hester.

"She's thrown me down!" he muttered angrily and,leaving the summer house, he strode along the path,switching the ground savagely with his cane. There wasno doubt about it, she was giving him the big laugh.Little devil! If he only had something on her so he couldmake her come!

And now a singular thing happened, one of those oddcoincidences that give to trifles the importance of greatevents. A gentle breeze was blowing down the lake and,borne by this, there came fluttering along what seemedto be a small white butterfly and it lighted directly inAnton's path. The chauffeur switched at it with hiscane and missed it, switched at it again and missed itagain. Then he saw that it was not a butterfly at all,but a small square of white paper no bigger than apostage stamp and he wondered how it was that thisfloating fragment had come to rest balanced exactly on itsedge. It certainly was strange! What kept it poisedthere quivering on that moss bank? Why did it notfall over on one side or the other?

Anton stooped and picked up the piece of paper and,seeing some writing, he glanced at it carelessly. GoodLord! What was this! He stopped short and staredat the words, then, lifting his hat, he ran his fingersthrough his hair and for some minutes stood absorbedin thought.

"By the holy jumping Christopher Columbus!" he saidslowly. "I believe I've got it." And sitting down on abench he continued to study the paper. Presently hetook out a gold cigarette case and a moment later hewas blowing out toward the peaceful lake the fragranceof Turkish tobacco with little nods and chuckles ofextreme satisfaction.

It was at this moment that Hester, hastening on hersearch for Betty Thompson, appeared at the turn of thepath and found herself face to face with Anton.

"Ah! Little one!" he exclaimed, rising and goingforward smilingly to meet her. "So you thought you'dshow up after all!"

Hester made no effort to hide her annoyance.

"I didn't come here to see you. I had forgotten allabout you," she said coldly.

"Don't say so," he sneered. "Pretty poor memoryyou've got, kid. Better take something for it."

She noticed a change in this man. Before this, withall his slangy, bantering ways, Anton had always been asuppliant for her favor, eager to please and ready toobey, but now she recognized in his tone a certain swaggeringassurance, as if he felt himself master of the situation.

"He's trying to bluff me," she thought. Then aloud"You'll have to excuse me. I'm in a hurry," and shestarted on.

"Oh, I don't know," he laughed. "Perhaps you cangive me a little time—say an hour or two."

She flashed a scornful look at him.

"If you wait until I spend an hour with you you'llwait a long time, Mr. Anton."

"Oh, no! Not so long, Miss—er—what did you sayyour name is?"

She faced him unflinchingly. "What do you mean bytalking to me like this?" she demanded.

The chauffeur took a pull at his cigarette, then blewout the smoke slowly.

"I'll tell you, girl, what I mean," he answered, eyeingher keenly through half-shut lids. "I mean that fromnow on we quit fooling and you take orders from me.Understand?"

She tossed her head defiantly. "Oh, I guess not!"

"I guess yes and I'll begin right now. I want you tobe at the garage to-morrow morning at ten o'clock."

"No."

"Yes. You'll be at the garage to-morrow morning atten o'clock because I say so, Miss Jenny Regan—I begyour pardon, I should say Miss Hester Storm!"

CHAPTER XXIV

DELIVERING THE GOODS

In spite of her indignant protests and her contraryplans, Hester appeared at the garage the nextmorning shortly before ten. There seemed nothingelse for her to do. Hour after hour through the nightthe troubled girl had sought for some different courseand had found nothing. Somehow this chauffeur haddiscovered her other name, the name she had given tothe police, Jenny Regan, and she could not make anymove until she found out how much more he knew. Shecould not carry out her plan of restitution nor confidein Betty Thompson until she learned what was back ofAnton's ugly, threatening attitude. He was notbluffing, she felt sure of that.

The chauffeur received her with a business-like nod.He was cleaning the big car.

"Hello, little one! I took the old man to the stationthis morning. I'll be through in a minute. Sitdown." And she watched him give the last skillful touches tothe shining machine.

"Now, then, just a second to wash these paws of mine.There! And another to light a cigarette. Haveone?" He offered her the open case.

"Thanks, I don't smoke."

He shrugged his shoulders. "You don't have to beso careful. We're alone."

She tried to hide her uneasiness under a careless tone.

"You're rather fresh this morning, Mr. Anton."

He drew up a wooden chair and seated himself soclose to her that their knees were almost touching.

"Now listen," he said, and his eyes were on her keenly."We're going to talk straight. I'll tell you how we standand—first I'll tell you this. I like you, girlie, but I'monto you."

"Onto me?" she echoed.

"Don't give me the baby stare. I know you've gotpretty eyes, but you're a crook, kiddo, with a record inNew York City, and you stole that bishop's purse!"

"You don't say!" she laughed scornfully. "Anythingelse?"

"Yes. I want to be in on the game. I figure thatsomething went wrong after you swiped the leather thatday on the train—you slipped a cog somehow, and—youcame up here. I don't know why you came, but—you'regoing to tell me."

"Indeed!" she mocked.

"You may not find it so funny in a minute."

There was something sinister in his tone that filled herwith terror.

"You—you say you like me and—then you accuse meof frightful things," she faltered.

"Nothing frightful about it! You got away with fivethousand pounds. Fine! I read about it in thenewspapers. Here!" He drew a folded clipping from hispocket. "'One occupant of the carriage was Miss JennyRegan, an American lady, who succeeded in convincingthe police that she had nothing to do with the robbery.' Oh,no, nothing! Clever girl, Miss Jenny Regan, butnow she'll have to show me."

The chauffeur laughed with cynical satisfaction, andhis gold tooth gleamed. How Hester hated him!

"Then you think I am this American woman, MissJenny—what was her name?"

"Regan. Yes, I know you are."

"How do you know it?"

He searched in his breast pocket, then in his sidepockets, and finally in his cigarette case.

"Ah! Here it is. I put it in the cigarette case toprotect it." He produced a small square of white paper,and held it before her eyes with a smile of triumph."Ever see this before, kiddo?"

Hester's face went white, and all the strength seemedto go out of her body as she read the postscript of herown letter to Rosalie, the fateful letter that she had tornin two and thrown into the fireplace. By some whim offate the fluttering fragment that had sailed to Anton'sfeet, after the curate's well-meant scattering of thepieces, was a portion of this letter, and contained, inthe girl's own handwriting, the most damaging words ofthe epistle: "Please remember not to address me asJenny Regan, but as Hester Storm!"

"Rather jars you, don't it?" he said as he watched her."I suppose you'll say it isn't your writing? Want meto compare it with the note you sent me?"

"It is my writing," she admitted, "it's from a letter Iwrote to my sister, but that doesn't make me a thief."

"Ah, it's your writing! Then you go under two names?"

"I may have had a reason for—taking another name."

"I'll bet you had a reason! And you were in the railwaycarriage when this purse was stolen?"

"I—I didn't say so."

"Well, were you? I want to know."

She hesitated a moment, then flung him a look of defiance.

"Yes, I was. What of it? You read what the papersaid. I had nothing to do with the robbery."

Anton smiled. "Excuse me, girlie, the paper said yousucceeded in convincing the police that you had nothingto do with it. Which isn't the same thing. Now don'tget snappy." He patted her playfully on the knee.

The hot blood mounted to Hester's cheeks.

"Keep your hands off me," she warned him. "And,if you think yourself cleverer than the police you'd betteroffer them your services."

The words were hastily spoken and immediatelyregretted. If there was one thing in the world Hesterwished to avoid it was any entanglement with ScotlandYard. The very name made her shiver.

"Not a bad idea!" reflected the chauffeur. "I maytry it, if I can't fix up a deal with you." Here he lightedanother cigarette. "But don't you worry, we'll makea deal all right."

"What kind of a deal?"

"I'll help you out of the tangle you're in and we'llwhack up on the five thousand."

"You still think I took that purse?"

"Sure, you took it."

"If I had five thousand pounds would I be sewing ina place like this? Would I?"

He thought a moment, frowning. "I know, that's agood line of talk, but—I tell you there was a kink in thejob, and—see here, what was it? What ever broughtyou to this Godforsaken place?"

"What ever brought you here?"

"I have to earn my living."

"Well, are you the only one?"

"Besides, I was working for Baxter; I came with him,but you dropped down out of nowhere—with a fakename."

"That name seems to worry you, Mr. Anton."

"Jenny Regan? Just a little. I happen to know whothe lady is. One of the slickest thieves we've turnedout. And she don't have to do sewing for a living,either. I guess not. Come, kiddo, do we make thedeal?"

"No!" she answered fiercely.

"Little spitfire! I'll tame you yet."

"Try it," she said.

The chauffeur rose quietly and went to a shelf, wherehe took down a box of paper.

"Just to show you how easy it is," he continued,returning to the girl. "I take this sheet of paper—so,and this pencil—so, and I write to Scotland Yard thatJenny Regan, who was mixed up in the bishop's purseaffair, is not an American lady, the way they thought,but an American pickpocket, well known at PoliceHeadquarters in New York City."

"It's a lie!"

"You must be pretty well known for me to have heardof you. Then I tell 'em this dangerous crook is hidingin Ippingford under the name of Hester Storm. Howabout it? Think that will help your game any?"

"You—you wouldn't do that?" trembled the girl.

"I wouldn't?" He felt that her courage was breaking,and he pushed his advantage. "Let me tell you this,little one, that letter will be written and sent to-dayif you don't come off your haughty perch. Now, then?"

She saw herself beaten; this man was relentless, hewould stop at nothing, and—she must make the bestterms she could.

"How do I know you'll—play fair?" she hesitated."There's a reward offered for information about thatpurse and——"

"A reward of a hundred pounds! What's a hundredpounds with five thousand to divide? Do you take mefor a fool?"

"No."

"Well?"

Hester was accustomed to quick decisions. She hadlearned in a hard school to judge men, and she knewthis scoundrel was acting only in a spirit of greed.There was no danger of his betraying her.

"All right," she yielded in a low tone, "I—I'll comedown."

"Good girl!"

"I took the purse from the bishop but his nobssquealed before I could make my getaway, and when thecoppers came in I was very near caught with the goods,only——"

"Only what?"

"Only there was a lady in the carriage, a friend ofthe bishop's, and—she had a golf bag with her, and—say,boy, I worked a new stunt." Unconsciously Hesterwas dropping back into the Tenderloin vernacular.

Anton pulled excitedly at his short mustache, and hislips worked nervously.

"Say, kid, you don't mean——"

She nodded slowly. "It was all I could do. Theysearched me, and if I hadn't dropped the leather intothat golf bag——"

He looked at her sharply.

"You're telling me you hid this purse in a golf bagthat belonged to another party?"

"Sure I did. I'd have been pinched if I hadn't."

"Who was she—this lady?"

"Miss Thompson, Baxter's secretary."

"What?"

"That's right. That's why I'm here. Now you knowthe whole thing."

He stared at her in half suspicion.

"You young devil! Are you lying to me?" Then,suddenly, he remembered. "No, by Jimminy, you're not!You had her golf bag in your hands that day—by thelooking-glass!"

Hester nodded. "In two more minutes I'd have hadthe purse out, if you'd left me alone."

"Then—then you saw the purse?" he questionedeagerly. "It's there—in the bag?"

Hester nodded again. "It was there."

"Five thousand pounds knocking around in a golfbag!" His small eyes burned with covetous fire. "Andshe knows nothing about it—this secretary?"

"Nothing."

Anton sat silent, running his fingers back through hishair over the white lock.

"I've got him worrying now," reflected the girl.

"And—where is the golf bag—now?" he asked.

"Mrs. Baxter borrowed it and left it at the club house."

"You found that out?"

"Yes."

"Where—in the club house?"

"In one of the lockers—Mrs. Baxter's locker."

"I see." He was silent again. "That was four days ago?"

"Yes."

"How many times has the bag been used?"

"How do I know?"

"Haven't you watched it? Haven't you tried to getit?"

"You make me tired! How could I watch it—or getit—out in the club house?"

The chauffeur looked at her pityingly.

"It's just as well you've got a man in this game, girlie.It won't take me long to get that bag out of the clubhouse. See that clock?" He pointed to a timepieceticking noisily on the wall. "It's half-past ten. Bet youtwenty dollars against two smooth kisses that I havethe bag here within an hour."

Hester laughed, half coquettishly. "I don't bet mykisses."

"No?" He leaned forward eagerly and caught oneof her hands. "What do you do with them?"

"I—I keep them," she said with a teasing glance.

He held her hand a moment, her soft, warm hand,then pushed it from him roughly.

"We'll see about that later on. Now it's business.Come, kid!" He pointed to the car.

"You're not going to——?"

"We're going to the country club. Quick!"

"Suppose some one sees us?"

"There's nobody here that counts except Mr. Robert.We'll take a chance on him. If he says anything you tellhim Mrs. Baxter left orders for you to bring back MissThompson's golf bag from the club. Get me?"

"Good work!" she nodded.

"Didn't think of that, did you, girlie?" He openedthe polished door. "In you go—behind!"

Without further protest Hester seated herself on thecomfortable leather cushions, and a moment later theywere speeding down the drive.

"Oh! Stop at the lodge," she remembered. "I wantto get my cloak."

Anton halted the car at the big gate and amusedhimself for a few moments making faces at An Petroniawho was playing in the roadway. Then he asked herpreposterous questions about her dollies. Could theyswim? Did she let them go to moving picture shows?Were they allowed to smoke Turkish cigarettes? Oneof the chauffeur's favorite diversions was teasing AnPetronia.

"Say, you took your time!" he remarked presently,when Hester reappeared arrayed in her familiar scarletgarment.

"Go on! I'll tell you why," she said in a low toneThen, when they were on the main road, "I thought I'dmake sure there aren't any more letters lying around inmy room that might make trouble."

He nodded his approval of this precaution. And nowthey were silent for two or three minutes, while themachine flew over a smooth mile leading to the countryclub.

"Do you know how you're going to work this boy?"she questioned anxiously, as they swung into thebeautifully kept grounds of the Ippingford golf course.

"Sure! Mrs. Baxter has sent her maid, that's you,to get her golf bag. She wants the bag down atBrighton. And the bag's in Mrs. Baxter's locker."

"How about the key?"

"Mrs. Baxter has mislaid the key. The woman incharge of the locker room will open the locker for you.See?"

"I see," answered Hester, and as the car drew upunder the white columned porch of the club house shehopped out nimbly. "I won't be a minute." Then shestarted eagerly for the door.

"Wait!" called Anton, with a flash of distrust. "Comeback! I'll get the bag myself." And, passing her, hedisappeared within the house just as a party of smartlydressed ladies came out and stood chatting and laughingon the broad piazza.

Hester climbed back into the auto and waited, bitingher lips. And presently a hard-featured womanappeared, followed by the chauffeur carrying a golf bag.One glance showed the girl that it was the golfbag—there was no doubt about it.

"Are you Mrs. Baxter's maid?" demanded the womanin a shrill voice, while the ladies stared.

"Yes."

"Your chauffeur says Mrs. Baxter told him to get thisgolf bag?"

"That's right," smiled Hester pleasantly.

The locker woman still seemed dissatisfied. "It'squeer," she grumbled. "Mrs. Baxter told me to becareful of this bag because she had borrowed it."

"Exactly," smiled Hester, "and now Mrs. Baxterwants to return it. In here, please. Thank you." Sheplaced the bag on the seat beside her and handed thewoman a two-shilling piece. Then to Anton with a grandair, "Home, please. Mrs. Baxter is waiting."

Anton touched his cap respectfully, but did not move.

"I'll have to ask you to sit on the front seat, miss;one of the back springs is broken. Let me take thisfor you." And he placed the golf bag close to thesteering wheel. With a movement of annoyance Hesterfollowed the bag and seated herself next to the driver.Thus, side by side and mutually distrustful, they shotout of the grounds with Betty Thompson's much-covetedgolf bag between them.

"We've turned the trick—we've got the goods," Antonwhispered exultingly. Then, slowing up the machine, hepeered down among the golf clubs. "Can you see it,kid?"

"Lean the bag toward me. That's right." She pushedopen the clubs and gave a cry of satisfaction. "Ah!There! Way down at the bottom! Don't you see?"

The chauffeur looked again, and this time made outdistinctly the fat, brown wallet, clasped by its elasticband, that was still lying safe in its singular hiding-place.

"Holy spoons," he muttered. "We've got it! Yousee what a little nerve will do."

"Didn't I help you out with the cranky dame?"

"You sure did. You were great, girlie." He grippedthe wheel tighter as they passed an automobile. "We'dbetter turn off through the woods. Too many peoplehere—and—we've got to talk things over."

"Talk what over?" she asked innocently.

He looked at her and was silent, his eyes drinkingin the loveliness of her face and figure.

"Say, you certainly are a little beauty! You've got thereddest lips and the sweetest shape!" He slipped his leftarm around the girl's lithe waist and drew her towardhim. They were running slowly along the woodlandroad, through a grove of trees.

Hester only resisted slightly, but there was atremor of unhappiness in her voice as she said:"You must think a lot of me when you wouldn'teven trust me to go into the club house for the golfbag."

"Ah! You noticed that," he smiled complacently.

"Did I?" She nestled closer. "And you wouldn't letme have the bag on the back seat."

"Would you have left me alone with it—on the backseat? I'll bet you wouldn't. You're the sweetest kidI ever saw, Jenny, and I'm going to love you to death—yes,I am, but—wait!" He brought the car to a standstillin a deeply shaded spot by the road-side. Then,without further preliminaries, he caught her in his armsand tried to kiss her, while she struggled against him,turning away her face.

"No, I won't," she panted. "If you don't trust meenough to——"

"Trust you? Why should I trust you? You're acrook! And you're sore on me. Don't you suppose Iknow it? Hold on! Keep those two little hands whereI can see 'em."

She looked at him indignantly. "Do you think I'd besilly enough to—try any funny work—here?"

"Do I think so? Don't make me laugh. There's afortune in that golf bag and—come now! Put those twohands outside your cloak, one on top of the other. That'sright. Now leave 'em there. I'm not taking any chanceswith you."

"This is a fine way to win a girl," she protested, butas if frightened, she left her neatly gloved hands crossedobediently before her.

"Don't you worry about the winning part," he laughed.

She faced him angrily. "You'll never have a chanceto——"

But he did not let her finish. Clasping her again inhis arms, he held her, struggling desperately, and, as hesaw an opening, pressed his lips to her flaming cheeks,to her white forehead, and, finally, as his strengthconquered hers, to her unwilling red mouth.

"There! I told you I would," he triumphed. "A mandon't have to trust a girl to kiss her. We'll watcheach other, Jenny, when we're doing business, but,say, this is pleasure, and—once more—God, I like yourlips!"

He held her, unresisting now, his mouth crushed downupon hers, and, even as he feasted on her sweetness, hewas sufficiently master of himself to note that her twohands were still crossed before her on her cloak.

A moment later, the long, hoarse whistle of the newpaper mill in Ippingford warned him that time waspassing.

"What! Twelve o'clock!" He listened. "This won'tdo. We must get a move on. I'll just fish this out, andthen we'll hustle back."

He started to reach down into the golf bag, but Hesterstopped him.

"Wait!" she ordered. "You say we'll watch eachother. You're dead right, we will. And I want to knowwho's going to keep that purse if you take it out ofthe bag?"

"Don't be a fool! We'll divide the money and you cankeep the purse for a souvenir."

"When will we divide the money?"

"As soon as we get to the garage."

"Why not now?"

He shook his head impatiently. "Because I'm late.Didn't you hear that whistle? Do you want to get mein bad with Baxter?"

She hesitated, watching him keenly. "Don't try toget gay with me, boy, for I'll do you up, sure. Youknow I've got something on you now."

He turned with a movement of alarm. "What?"

"If there's any trouble and it comes to a show down,"she answered in a cold, even tone, "just remember thatyou're in this thing as deep as I am. You told thatlocker woman that Mrs. Baxter sent you for the golfbag, all those ladies heard it, and they saw you takethe bag!"

"That's all right," he answered carelessly. "Therewon't be any trouble, if you do what I say."

"Go ahead, take the purse, but, remember, boy, if youwait one minute at the garage before dividing thatmoney," she leaned close to him, and her black eyesblazed so fiercely that he started in alarm, "if you waitone minute, or try any flimflam game on me, Mr. Anton,you'll be sorry for it. That's all."

At this moment, just as Anton was about to brave herobjections and transfer the purse from the bag to hispocket, the course of events was changed by the appearanceof a barefooted small boy, who emerged unexpectedlyfrom the woods and stood staring at them with asort of dull impudence.

"That settles it," muttered the exasperated chauffeur."We'll wait till we get to the garage." Then, steppingout, he cranked up the machine, and in a moment theywere off at top speed.

Five minutes later they were back at Ipping House,and, as they passed the lodge, An Petronia called outshrilly to Anton that Mr. Robert Baxter was lookingfor him.

"I told you," frowned the chauffeur.

"Don't worry, boy. Get busy," urged Hester, as theystopped at the garage.

Leaving the car, they quickly entered the low buildingand closed the door behind them. Anton carried thegolf bag, and, without further parley, laid it down on awork bench, and, reaching in his arm, drew forth thepurse.

"Now I just want to say one thing, girlie, before wedivide this money."

"Wait!" she warned him, lifting a hand. There wasa quick step outside, then a click of the lock, and Antonhad barely time to thrust the purse into his coat pocketwhen the door opened and Robert Baxter entered.

"What's going on here? Where have you been withthe car?" the young man asked in sharp displeasure.

"Mrs. Baxter told Hester to get this golf bag, sir,"answered the chauffeur. "Mrs. Baxter borrowed itfrom Miss Thompson, and she left it at the countryclub."

"Oh!" He turned to Hester. "You'd better take thebag to Miss Thompson's room."

"Yes, sir."

Hester picked up the golf bag and moved slowlytoward the door, her eyes sending desperate messagesto Anton. To which, as she passed out, he answeredwith a reassuring nod.

"I've been wanting the car myself," said Robert.

"I'm sorry, sir. We were delayed by a loose bolt inthe rear frame. I must put in a new one."

"How long will it take?"

"I'll have to take the frame apart, sir. I'm afraid itwill take me an hour."

"Very well. Bring up the car in an hour."

Anton touched his cap as young Baxter strolled off,leaving the garage door open.

The chauffeur waited a minute or so, looked abouthim cautiously, and then went back into a small storeroomin the rear, where he was sure of being alone andunobserved. He closed the door of the storeroom, lockedit, and, at last, with a thrill of excitement, drew thebishop's purse from his pocket. He held it a moment indelicious expectation, then stripped off the elastic bandand looked inside.

"Damnation!" he cried, and his face, was black withrage.

Then, dashing the empty purse to the ground, he flungopen the door and strode angrily across the lawn inpursuit of Hester.

CHAPTER XXV

THE LOCKED DOOR

Meantime Hester had crossed the lawn andentered the conservatory. She carried the golfbag by its supporting strap and walked quickly.She knew that the conservatory opened directly into thelibrary where the Reverend Horatio Merle was readingthe morning paper and her idea was to go straight tothe curate and tell him the whole truth. In the absenceof Miss Thompson this was the only thing to do. IfAnton followed her, as might happen, Mr. Merle wouldbe a protection, for, in his presence, the chauffeur wouldnot dare make trouble. He would wait to get Hesteralone, never suspecting that she would be capable, in herwildest dreams, of giving back this great sum of money.The girl paused to enjoy the warm fragrance of thelilies. It reminded her of something way back—somethingsad and strange. What was it? Oh, yes! Nowshe knew. It was the funeral of Billy Connor—"DiamondBilly," the confidence man, over in Brooklyn. Shehad gone with Maggie Connor and Rosalie. Poor oldBilly. He drank himself to death after they shut downon horse-racing in New York State. How she criedwhen the organ played and they all knelt down! Thatwas the only time she had ever been in a church or triedto pray.

"To be honest, to be kind.... To make amends forany wrong act. To ask God for strength against temptation."

Now, in her need, these words that the curate hadtaught her came back to her mind and comforted her.This had been a hard fight with Anton and she had wonout. She had rescued the money and would give it back,as she had promised—that was something.

Hester smiled as she pictured Anton's face when heopened the purse. The nerve of the man to think hecould get the best of her at a game like that, her owngame! "Now put your two little hands outside yourcloak and keep 'em there!" Silly Anton! Didn't heknow that Hester Storm had worked that trick when shewas a twelve-year-old kid sneaking leathers from shoppingguys on Sixth avenue cars? Two little hands outsideyour cloak! Ha! Two little gloved hands—veryinnocent—and one of them a fake, joined onto a fakearm and the whole thing strapped from the shoulder!Then if the man gets gay and hugs you in the automobile,and pretty soon gets crazy and kisses you, whileyou wriggle and twist and keep him busy—and then getbusy yourself with your real arm down in the golf bag—why,it was too easy! It was a wonder Anton didn'tget wise when she stopped so long at the lodge. Thoseshoulder straps take time to fasten on.

With a thrill of professional pride and a sigh of halfregret, Hester pressed her hand to the bosom of herdress, where the bundle of crisp banknotes crackledalluringly. Five thousand pounds! Twenty-five thousanddollars! And it must be given back! No fiddlingaround, either! It was not good for a girl like her tohave twenty-five thousand dollars that belonged tosomebody else in her clothes. Not good at all!

She walked straight to the wide double doors withtheir green portieres that separated the conservatory fromthe library, and, bracing herself for this ordeal with theReverend Merle, she turned the knob.

"Rosalie will be glad," she thought, as she pressedagainst the door. To her surprise nothing moved oryielded, and the girl realized, with a sudden sinking ofthe heart, that the library door was locked.

Hester tapped lightly on the panel, then louder, butno one came. She listened, with her ear close to thedoor, but there was no sound from the adjoining room.Strange! Mr. Merle must have gone out. Ordinarilythere would have been nothing alarming in this, but nowto the agitated girl it assumed the proportions of adisaster. She had counted on giving this moneyimmediately to the clergyman, but, with the clergymanabsent——

Seized with alarm, Hester darted back to the door ofthe conservatory, the door, in the ground glass wall thatled in from the lawn. She opened this door just acrack and looked out, then instantly closed it and turnedthe key. Not a hundred yards distant, Anton was hurryingtoward this very spot.

In the presence of danger Hester's mind acted quickly.The essential thing now was to hide this money. Butwhere? She looked wildly about her. In the center ofthe conservatory stood a small, low table covered withpotted plants. There was a drawer in this table. Hesterput down the golf bag and pulled the drawer open.Lengths of twine and wire, some gardener's tools and alot of seed catalogues. She shook her head and pushedthe drawer shut. Anton would look there at once. Shemust find, some simple place that he would not think of.

Perhaps she could bury the money in one of these bigtubs that held the palm trees, but no, there wasn't time.It was maddening!

In this emergency the girl's eyes fell upon a smallstandard rose bush growing in a gilt basket. It was aplant that Lionel and the countess had purchased atthe Progressive Mothers' bazaar. Hester bent downeagerly to see if there was a space between the basketand the flower pot and, in trying to move the latter, shecaught the stem of the rose-bush, whereupon to hersurprise the bush itself, with the earth about its roots,detached itself from the flower pot so that she was ableto lift the plant and a cylinder of dry earth entirely outof the pot. Ah! This might do. And a moment latershe had laid the banknotes in the bottom of the pot andreplaced the cylinder of earth above them. To thecasual glance there was not the slightest indication thatthe rose-bush had been tampered with.

Now, in desperate haste, Hester flung off her scarletcloak and, with a few deft movements, loosened theshoulder straps that held the false arm in place. Antonmight search her and, if he found this—There! it wasoff! And none too soon, for at that very moment theloose-jointed figure of the chauffeur appeared, silhouettedin sinister black, against the ground glass wall ofthe conservatory. A moment later he was trying to openthe door, clicking savagely at the lock.

Where could she hide the false arm? Anton wouldbe here in a second. There was another door at the endof the conservatory where he could come in. She darednot lock this other door, for then he would know thatshe was guilty. But the false arm? High up along thewall, higher up than she could reach, ran a wide shelfranged with tin cans and packages of seed and coils ofrubber hose. It was the best she could do, and, with aquick movement, Hester flung the false member upwardso that it touched the ceiling and then fell out of sightbehind a rusty watering pot. As she did so she sawAnton's shadow nearing the other door. Well, she wasready for him. Wait! Her cloak! There!

And now, partly to hide her agitation, partly with afeminine idea of taking the aggressive in a bad cause,Hester stepped to a telephone fixed against the wall nearthe library door. What was the telephone number onthat card she had picked up in the garage? Ah, yes!And in the very last second before the chauffeurentered she took up the receiver, placing her hand so thatthe little finger, unperceived, held down the hook andthere was no communication.

Thus, when the chauffeur burst in, boiling with anger,Hester Storm, attired in her scarlet cloak and perfectlycalm, was talking in a natural and business-like way tothe unresponsive green-painted wall of the conservatory.

"Hello! Yes, Mr. Henderson," she was saying,apparently absorbed in her telephoning and quiteunconscious that Anton was present. "I understand. I'llreport to-morrow as usual. What? You don't want meto call up 724 Chelsea? Oh, I see."

As she pretended to listen, the girl held the transmitterso that she could watch her adversary's face in thenickel-plate surface. It was evident that his surpriseand alarm were genuine.

"Very well, Mr. Henderson," she concluded. "I willtelephone to the house. Good-by, sir." And, hangingup the receiver, she turned innocently toward Anton.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "When did you come?"

He strode toward her with an ugly look. "Who wereyou telephoning to?"

"No one in particular, a—a friend of mine," sheanswered with simulated embarrassment.

"A friend named Henderson?" he demanded.

She shook her head. "You've got your wires twisted.I don't know anyone by that name."

"You called up 724 Chelsea. I heard you."

"Well, what of it?"

"You said you were going to report there to-morrow?What do you mean by that?"

Hester looked him steadily in the eyes, then, goingclose to him, she spoke with a semblance of concentratedanger.

"If you think you can run me off on a side-track likethis, little chauffeur boy, let me tell you you've gotanother guess coming. I want to know where is my partof that money?"

He swore violently. "You know —— —— well whereit is."

"What?"

"You took the money, my share and yours."

"So that's your game! That's the kind of a cheapskate you are!" She seemed to tremble with rage."Remember what I told you. You can't flimflam me. I—Iwon't stand for it."

Her bosom heaved, her nostrils dilated and her Spanisheyes burned on him so fiercely that the chauffeurhesitated. Was it possible she was on the level? Hadsomeone else taken the money?

"There was nothing in that purse," he said sullenly.

"You mean there is nothing in it," she sneered. "Isuppose you'll show it to me—empty? Ha!"

"It is empty and it was empty. You got away withthe stuff and I know it."

"How did I get away with it? You wouldn't let metouch the bag or move my hands. I suppose I took itwith my feet?"

Anton scowled and was silent. "I don't know howyou got it, but——"

Suddenly he caught her arm and drew her sharply tohim.

"Leave me alone," she struggled.

He held her in his powerful grip and, with business-likethoroughness, proceeded to press his hands over hergarments until he had satisfied himself that thebanknotes were not concealed about her person.

"Little devil! You've hidden it somewhere," and hepushed her from him savagely, glaring at her.

"You—you——" she tried to brave him again, but herwords failed her. He had hurt her and shamed her withhis rough handling, and, frightened now, she shelteredherself in a woman's last defense, she burst into tears.Whereupon, Anton, man-like, began to weaken. Afterall, he did not know that she had taken the money fromthe purse. He had followed her quickly and found hertelephoning—telephoning to Henderson. That wasanother queer thing, but, anyway, it always took him threeor four minutes to get Henderson, so she wouldn't havehad time to hide the money. Besides, how did she get it?He had watched her like a hawk, even while he waskissing her. And it was true the golf bag had been fourdays at the club house. Many things may happen to agolf bag in four days.

"Say, kid, don't cry," he relented. "I'm sore aboutthe money, but—maybe you didn't take it."

Hester wept on inconsolable.

"Maybe somebody got away with it at the club house,"he continued.

"You—you don't believe anything I say," she sobbed.

"Well, you don't believe anything I say, do you? Youthink I took the stuff myself, don't you?" he retorted.

This seemed to Hester the moment for a moreconciliatory attitude and she agreed, still sniffing anddabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, that it was barelypossible someone at the club had stolen the money.

"But there's one thing I want to know, girlie, and Iwant it straight," the chauffeur insisted. "How did youhappen to be telephoning Henderson just now?"

Hester dried her tears and smiled faintly. Now shewas the victim of her own mystification. What plausiblereason could she invent for telephoning to a man aboutwhom she knew absolutely nothing?

"What do you care about Henderson?" she laughed.

"I care a good deal. Come, now!" It was plain thatAnton took this telephone incident very seriously.

"Henderson is a—a party I'm working for," she ventured.

"Then you do know someone by that name? Youjust said you didn't."

She looked at him reproachfully. "I don't have toknow him personally to work for him, do I?"

"What kind of work do you do?"

She hesitated, biting her lips, first the lower, then thefull upper one, until they were red like cherries, and allthe time trying to imagine what kind of work it could bethat she was doing for Henderson. If she only hadsome faint idea who Henderson was! What a fool shehad been to get herself into this tangle!

"You know what the work is, boy, or you can comepretty near to guessing," she answered, with a wisedropping of the eyelids.

"You're making reports to Henderson? Is that it?Don't lie. I heard you on the phone."

Hester clutched at this guiding straw. "Well, whatof it? When I came to Ippingford I—I didn't knowyou and—it was a—a chance to pick up some easymoney." She was feeling her way, wondering wherethis glib improvisation would lead her.

"You didn't know me?" he scowled. "What's thatgot to do with it?"

She leaned forward and patted his hand playfully."Now don't you be cross, Anton. You know the littlefat man with the brown derby hat?"

"No."

"Yes, you do. The one who does business forHenderson, the one who stutters."

"Never saw him."

"You didn't? Well, I saw him. The day after I camehere he got hold of me at the lodge and—we had a walkand—he said there was a party named Henderson whowanted to get a line on Baxter's chauffeur—that'syou—and—the end of it was I agreed to telephone 724 Chelseaevery day."

"The devil you did!" Anton was so disturbed by thisthat he thrust both hands into his mane of black hairand sat silent.

A moment later an electric bell echoed through thehouse.

"Someone at the front door, some caller," mutteredAnton. Then, looking at his watch. "I've got to getout of here. Young Baxter wants the car."

"And I must take this golf bag to Miss Thompson'sroom," she remembered.

"No hurry about that. Leave it in the library. Wedon't care what becomes of the old bag now." Antonwalked slowly toward the door, biting at his mustache.

"All right, boy."

He stepped out on the lawn, but turned back. "Oh!About Henderson! If it's all the same to you——"

"I know what you want," she anticipated. "I'll talkto you before I telephone him again, and—buck up, boy,I'll give him reports after this that'll boost your game.See?"

"Good girl!" And with a wave of his hand, thechauffeur disappeared.

Hester drew a long sigh of relief. Talk aboutexcitement! And now what should she do with the money?It was out of the question to leave five thousand poundsin the bottom of a flower pot without even a purse toprotect it. The golf bag was better than that, but—

She started at the sound of voices and footsteps inthe library. Presently there came a rattling at the doorand the turning of a key in the lock and a moment laterthe Reverend Horatio Merle appeared, followed byFerdinand Spooner, secretary of the Progressive Mothers'Society.

"My dear Mr. Spooner, I'm extremely sorry. Ithought they might be in the conservatory," said thecurate, peering about. "Ah, my child!" he beamed, ashe saw Hester, who, on the instant, had caught up thegolf bag.

"Mr. Robert Baxter told me to put this bag away," thegirl explained. "It belongs to Miss Thompson."

"Quite so," approved Mr. Merle. "And would yousee if you can find the Countess Clendennin andMr. Fitz-Brown. Say to them that Mr. Spooner has called."

"Mr. Ferdinand Spooner, secretary of the ProgressiveMothers' Society," put in the latter, puffing out his redcheeks and blowing himself up with stiff self-importance."You may add that I have called in regard to variousarticles purchased by Mr. Fitz-Brown and the CountessClendennin at the recent fair given by the ProgressiveMothers. Ah, there is one of the articles!" He pointedto the rose bush. "That beautiful rose bush in the giltbasket. Is it not exquisite, Mr. Merle?"

"Exquisite!" murmured Merle, rubbing his handsdevotionally. "Hurry, my child! Tell them Mr. FerdinandSpooner has called in regard to the rose bush andthe other articles."

Hester stared for a moment in dismay and then wentslowly from the room.

CHAPTER XXVI

UNDER THE ROSE

Never did Horatio Merle show more sweetlythe spirit of Christian humility than during thisbrief encounter with Ferdinand Spooner. Thevery sight of Spooner was abhorrent to the gentle curate,the name of Spooner he detested, and all memories ofSpooner filled the little man with inexpressible pain, forit was Spooner who was chiefly connected in his mindwith that lamentable afternoon at St. Timothy's whenHoratio had failed to put in an appearance. It wasSpooner who had made the opening address on thisoccasion and it was Spooner who afterward spread throughthe parish the pitiful story of the peppermint tree. Yetnow Horatio showed himself most friendly and listenedwith a flush of pink interest while Ferdinand dilated onhis own successful efforts in furthering the interests ofthe Progressive Mothers.

"Just to prove my point, Mr. Merle," concluded thepompous visitor, "I will mention a great and perhapsdeserved honor that the Progressive Mothers have recentlyextended to me in recognition of my services in theirbehalf."

"Horatio!" called a shrill feminine voice at this moment.

"Yes, love," answered Merle, hurrying to the librarydoor. "It is my wife. Will you excuse me, my dearMr. Spooner? I am sure Mr. Fitz-Brown and the Countesswill be here in a moment." And he almost ran fromthe room so eager was he not to hear about the honorthat had been extended to Ferdinand Spooner.

Left to himself, the distinguished representative of theProgressive Mothers walked about the conservatory forsome minutes, sniffing at the flowers, and finally,becoming impatient, looked out over the lawn.

"Very singular why no one comes!" he reflected; thenhis eyes fell on Lionel, who, at this moment, emergedfrom the shrubbery in a wide-brimmed straw hat andcarrying a watering-pot. His trousers were mud-stained,his hands were red and roughened with toil, but his faceradiated the shining brightness of one who is consciousof his own well-doing.

"One moment, please!" called Ferdinand Spooner, withan air of authority.

Lionel came forward slowly, still carrying hiswatering-pot. "Do you want to see me?" he asked.

"Well—er—not exactly, but—er—I am Mr. Spooner,Mr. Ferdinand Spooner, of the Progressive Mothers."

"Oh, I say, are you one of the Progressive Mothers?"

Spooner stared haughtily at this. "I am the secretaryof the Progressive Mothers' Society and I desireto see Mr. Lionel Fitz-Brown. Will you give him mycard, there's a good man?"

"Is it anything important?" drawled Lionel. "I don'tthink Mr. Fitz-Brown is up yet."

"Not up yet? Why, it's nearly one o'clock."

"I mean to say he's taking his afternoon bawth. He'svery particular about his afternoon bawth, Mr. LionelFitz-Brown is. Can't you tell me your business?" Then,very confidentially, "I'm the gardener, you know."

The newcomer thought a moment. "Could you saythat Mr. Ferdinand Spooner has called in regard tocertain articles purchased by Mr. Fitz-Brown at theProgressive Mothers' bazaar? It's a small matter, onlyfourteen pounds, but—tell Mr. Fitz-Brown that we wouldlike very much to have his check."

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Lionel. "Mr. Fitz-Brown'scheck won't help the Progressive Mothers very much."

"Why not?"

"Because his bank account is always overdrawn."

"Dear, dear!" murmured Spooner.

"In fact, if you want my opinion," here the gardenersurprised his listener by a burst of unseemly merriment,"if you really want my opinion, Mr. Lionel Fitz-Brownis—haw, haw, he's a regular piker."

At this moment the countess appeared in the conservatorydoor. Her skirts were pinned up, a handkerchiefwas tied around her head, and her eyes were dancingwith mischief. At the sight of her, Lionel's merrimentredoubled.

"I was just telling this gentleman," he chuckled, "thatLionel Fitz-Brown is a regular piker. Isn't he, Kate?Excuse me, this lady is—the cook, Mr. FerdinandSpooner."

Kate courtesied demurely.

"Thank you, I don't care for the opinion of the cook,"replied Spooner with dignity. "And I may add that itis most extraordinary for a gardener to speak in thisway of his employer. Will you please tell Mr. Fitz-Brownthat I am waiting?"

"Beg pardon, sir," put in Kate, "but I think it was theCountess Clendennin who purchased the articles from theProgressive Mothers. Isn't that so?" She winked ather confederate.

"You're right, it was the countess who bought thearticles," agreed Lionel.

Ferdinand frowned in perplexity. "In that case, mygirl, you will take a message to the countess."

"Couldn't do it, sir. The countess is having her hairdyed. Besides, you'll never get anything out of her.She never paid a bill in her life. Did she?" with anotherwink at Lionel.

"Not she," testified the gardener. "She uses her billsfor curl papers."

"I am shocked at these statements," grieved FerdinandSpooner, wiping his brow with a heavily scentedhandkerchief. "Perhaps, under the circ*mstances, I hadbetter take back the articles. Ah! An idea!" Hesearched in his trousers pocket and produced a silverpiece. "Don't mention this, but—if you can get thearticles for me, quietly, you understand, I shall be glad tocompensate you." He offered the coin to Lionel.

"Half a crown?" shrugged the gardener. "That's notmuch, is it, cook?"

"It's worth ten shillings," declared Kate.

"Very well," agreed Spooner with a pained look. "Getthe articles at once."

"I'll get them," said Lionel and he disappeared intothe library.

"I am astonished to hear that the Countess Clendennindyes her hair," reflected Ferdinand.

"That's nothing," giggled Kate. "You ought to hearher swear. And she smokes like a fish."

"Dear me! This is very sad. Did you say she smokeslike—a fish?"

"Like a fish," repeated the cook solemnly.

The visitor's reflections were interrupted here by thereturn of Lionel carrying a pink work basket, a yellowembroidered tea cosey, a green and red sofa pillow andan immense Jack Horner pie covered with white crinklypaper.

"Here are the articles," said the gardener, and heproceeded to load them, as best he could, upon the portlyperson of Ferdinand Spooner.

"It's fortunate I came in a carriage," puffed the latter.

"You're forgetting the rose bush," said Kate.

Spooner glanced dubiously at the rather dejectedflower in its tinsel basket.

"It isn't so very wonderful, is it? Ah! An idea! Willyou present this rose bush to the Countess Clendenninwith the compliments of Mr. Spooner, Mr. FerdinandSpooner. Don't forget." He moved awkwardly towardthe conservatory door. "Oh, I forgot the ten shillings." Helooked down helplessly at his bulky treasures. "It'srather difficult for me to—er——"

But Lionel cut him short with a patronizing wave ofthe hand.

"Don't bother about that, old top."

"Old top!" snorted Spooner.

By this time the countess was laughing hysterically."Please present the ten shillings to the ProgressiveMothers," she managed to say, "with the compliments ofthe gardener and the cook."

"The gardener and the cook!" stormed the disgustedvisitor.

"Haw, haw, haw!" roared Lionel, as FerdinandSpooner vanished across the lawn like a disgruntled SantaClaus.

CHAPTER XXVII

LIONEL AND KATE

"What an appalling little bounder!" Kate's facewas expressive as she fanned the air withher apron.

Lionel shut his eyes and sniffed. "I can smell hishandkerchief yet."

"Don't!" she implored. "I'm trying to forget it."

Fitz-Brown turned his attention to the rose bush. Theflowers hung their heads dejectedly, as if conscious oftheir guilty secret.

"How about the 'floral offering'?" he asked.

"I'll make you a present of it," said the countess.

"Thanks, awfully. I say, Kate," Lionel went on, "Idon't mind telling you I had all I could do to keep myhands off that half crown. I give you my word if thefellow had brought out a half sovereign I should havesnatched it before he knew where he was."

"Don't be too sure," laughed Kate. "I was nearerto him than you were, and I have a good long reach,too! See if I haven't."

She stretched out her arm, bare to the elbow, inbantering challenge. As they faced each other the creamycurve of her forearm lay close along his flanneled biceps,and her slender finger-tips pressed lightly against hisneck. Lionel's hand, like a bronze epaulette, closed overher shoulder, and she felt the heat of his palm throughthe thin muslin, as, with gentle strength, he held herimmovable.

Ever since that unforgettable night on the golf links,over a week ago, Lionel had kept his resolution to beno obstacle to Kate Clendennin's prospects. To hisidolatrous mind, Kate's ultimatum that she was going tomarry Robert Baxter settled the matter. To put heraltogether out of his thoughts, out of his dreams, was animpossibility, but he had kept away from her as muchas possible; he had even "funked" the morning andevening handshake whenever he could. And now thecurve of her warm shoulder in the hollow of his hand,the touch of her finger-tips, the white curve of her wristso near his lips, stirring a forbidden memory with itssubtle fragrance, this was more than Lionel hadbargained for. It brought to bear on his resolution apressure "beyond its guaranteed capacity." And, inasmuchas when a steam boiler explodes it is the engineer andnot the boiler that is held to blame, so Lionel must notbe censured for what was beyond his control.

Kate, with the supersentience of her sex, felt itcoming before Lionel had the least idea of it, and as shewaited second by second for the moment when her loverwould press his lips passionately to her wrist, all power todraw away left her. She felt his kisses on her bare arm,up and up, and still she did not move, and when atlast his lips came to hers, and for a moment he held herunresisting in his arms, Lionel had no disturbing delusion,as on a former occasion, that Kate Clendennin hadfainted.

When Kate, by the exercise of that mysterious powerof unreasoning possessed only by women, had madeLionel desperately ashamed of having done just what shehad wanted him to do, and when Lionel had sufficientlyhumbled himself, she lifted him to a second best heavenby allowing herself (much against her will) to bepersuaded not to renounce him forever. Then, discoveringthat the air was stifling in the conservatory, sheannounced her intention of taking a walk. No! On noaccount would she let Lionel accompany her. He mightgo anywhere in the world except with her. She wasgoing down by the lake, and she wanted to be alone.

Lionel watched her dejectedly as she crossed the lawnand disappeared through the firs. For ten minutes,fifteen minutes he waited, and then, unable to endure itany longer, and choosing to brave her displeasure ratherthan remain away from her another minute, Lionelfollowed the path Kate had taken, and found her sittingin the summer house at the end of the littlerustic pier.

"I say, Kate," he plunged right in, "I can't stand this.I'll have to clear out. I thought I could go throughwith it a week ago, but it's too much for me. When Iacted like a brute just now and—and kissed you it wasbecause I was such a beastly ass as to think a chap likeme could make you happy on nothing a year, love ina cottage and all that. But that's what I'm going to do,Kate, only without the love—just plain cottage."

"Yes?"

"The fact is," he floundered on, "I've begun to feeldifferently about things, about money and all that. OldBaxter's right. Work is the only thing, and—I've madeup my mind I'm going to take up farming. You knowthat place I told you of, Kate. I can get it for next tonothing. It belongs to that uncle I told you about atWormwood Scrubbs—the disgustingly rich one—youknow. You see I'm his favorite nephew—I mean to sayhis only nephew—which comes to the same thing, doesn'tit? At all events he's my favorite uncle, and he's boundto leave me his money sometime, as that's the only way Icould ever have enough to pay him back."

"Isn't he the aeroplane uncle?" asked Kate. Hervoice sounded listless, and her eyes were fixed on thefurther shore of the little lake.

"That's the one. He goes in for biplanes. I hadrather hoped he'd get a monoplane—not that I bear thedear old chap any ill will, don't you know." He pausedand then went on more cheerfully: "But, after all, anuncle is an uncle, isn't he, Kate?"

Lionel had a way of stating great truths that carriedhis hearers off their feet.

"I believe he is, now that you speak of it," Kateassented. There was a slight twinkle in her eye, but shelooked away before Lionel caught it, "What will you doon a farm?"

"Oh, I'm going in for vegetables, potatoes, you know,and all that sort of thing. You get the names out of acatalogue. I'm told the catalogues are free—that's oneof the things that decided me—and they contain photographsof all the vegetables—regular family album, don'tyou know." Lionel laughed for the first time since hisdownfall. "All you have to do is to compare thephotographs with the things, as soon as they come up, andthat's how you know which is which. It sounds hard,but really it's perfectly simple when you get the hangof it."

"What if you failed to recognize a vegetable from itsphotograph?" questioned Kate in a serious voice."Photographs are sometimes very flattering, you know,especially in catalogues. Suppose you mistook a lettuce fora cabbage?"

"Ah, there you have me. I believe it's almost impossibleto tell them apart, that is, until they are ripe, butthere's no use burning your bridge—I mean spoilingyour cabbage until you come to it—is there, Kate? Ofcourse," he continued, "I shall begin with potatoes. Ishall feel perfectly at home with a potato."

Kate turned her head away quickly.

"Did you see that swan?" she cried. "He turned aperfect somersault in the water."

Lionel adjusted his monocle and stared at theunruffled surface of the lake. "He must have divedand come up on the other side of the island," hesuggested.

"Please go on," she said. "What will be yourattitude toward a—toward a—po—po——" She was afraidto trust her voice.

"A potato? My dear girl, it's the simplest thing inthe world. Once plant the seeds and put the sticksin——"

"The sticks?" interrupted Kate.

Lionel permitted himself the smile of superior knowledge."Of course, for the little beggars to climb up.I say, Kate, didn't you know that the potato is a creeper?Some of the catalogues call it a vine, but that's confusing,because a vine, don't you know, bears grapes, and apotato only bears potatoes. A chap might easily gowrong on that, mightn't he? Gardening is full ofpitfalls, but so is every other profession when it comes tothat, and I fancy I'll muddle through somehow, and ifI don't, well, there you are!"

Lionel leaned back in the rustic seat and blew out atriumphant cloud of smoke. Kate watched him insilence.

Presently, in response to a pair of lifted eyebrows andan outstretched palm, Lionel fumbled for his cigarettecase. Kate selected one, and, poising it delicatelybetween her lips, tipped her face toward his for a light.Lionel hastily removed his cigarette and handed it toher. She took it silently, with a look that missed itsmark.

After lighting her cigarette the countess tossedLionel's into the lake with an exclamation that caused himto look round.

"How stupid of me!" she said. "Take mine."

He was feeling for the case. Kate wondered if hehad heard. She watched him with a curious expressionas he took a fresh one, then as he was feeling for amatch she quickly leaned her face toward his, steadyingher cigarette with her slender fingers. There was noevading it this time. To complicate matters, her handshook ever so slightly, but enough to necessitate Lionel'sholding it close against his.

"Thanks, awfully," said Lionel, puffing vigorouslyas he withdrew from the danger zone.

Kate watched the struggling spark with a look ofhalf-amused suspense.

"Thanks! I have it," he added, a moment later, ashe leaned back and exhaled an immense cloud of smoke.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet. "I must be gettingback to my 'chores,' as old Baxter calls them."

Kate remained seated. "How soon do you go?" sheasked in a tone of elaborate unconcern, made perfectby the preoccupation of dusting an imaginary cigaretteash from her knee.

"Go?" queried Lionel.

"To the farm?"

"Oh, yes, of course, the farm. I shall write toUncle Cyril to-night. By Jove, won't he be surprisedto hear I'm going in for farming and all that sort ofthing? I'm afraid the old boy'll think I'm pulling hisleg, but I'm not, Kate, upon my word, I'm in deadearnest. This working game has made another manof me. I never felt fitter in my life. I feel better everyway, physically and," he hesitated, "yes, by Jove,morally." He paused breathless on this pinnacle of thought.

"And how about me?" She had turned away andwas looking out over the lake, her chin resting on herhand. "I suppose you think it has made no differenceto me. You don't think I'm worth making over. If Iget up every morning at six and go to bed at nine,after working all day in the kitchen, it's just a joke.And as for my morals—whatever you mean bymorals——"

Lionel had tried several times to get in a word, butKate, never once taking her eyes off the lake, had kepton in a low voice, as if no one were there. It soundedto Lionel like some one talking in sleep. Now, as shepaused and turned toward him, he broke in.

"Kate!" he cried. "For God's sake don't talk likethat. How can you say those things? You know better.You know I don't mean that you—that you——"he stopped for want of words and went on disjointedly."There's not another woman on earth to compare withyou—physically or morally or any other way. If Ithought I was such a beastly ass as not to think so I'dkick myself into that lake there and lie down. Thebeastly lake isn't deep enough to drown standing up in.There isn't another woman like you anywhere—I don'tcare who she is. You're the best pal a chap ever had,and I'd back your say so on a polo pony againstanyone I know." He had reached another thoughtpinnacle, and again he paused for breath.

Kate got up and came to him. "It's all right, Lionel.I know you didn't mean to hurt me, but I want to tellyou something. It has made a difference to me—everyway, just as it has to you, Lionel—and I stand for everyword Cousin Hiram said—I didn't at the time, I admit." Shesmiled at the recollection. "A week ago yesterdayI went up to my room and packed my boxes, all bymyself, too. I just threw things in anyhow, higgletypigglety. You never saw such a job as I made of it."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Lionel. "I did the sameidentical thing."

"I made up my mind," continued Kate, "I would goright out of that house and never come back."

"So did I," said Lionel; "upon my word I did. Isay, Kate," he went on, "what made you change yourmind?"

"The best reason in the world. I didn't know whereto go."

"No more did I," admitted Lionel.

They both laughed, and the countess went on in aserious tone.

"I've learned a lot of things this last week, Lionel,"she said, "and I didn't get them all out of Mrs. Beeton'sFamily Cookery Book. One is that the best imitationof happiness consists in——"

"Oh, come, I say," interrupted Lionel.

"In self-forgetfulness," continued Kate. "And thebest receipt for forgetfulness is good, hard work."

Lionel gave her a stare of glassy bewilderment. "Imay be a silly ass, I've been told so often enough bychaps who ought to know, but I'm dashed if I see whatyou want with imitation happiness. There's noimitation about you, Kate." He looked down. There wassomething he had to say and every meeting of theireyes made it harder. "Either you'll be happy or youwon't be happy," he went on. "Whichever it is, itwon't be an imitation. It will be the real thing and Ihope—I hope——" He took a long breath, as if topull himself together, and hurried on, still withoutlooking at her. "It may sound a bit thick from a chapfeeling the way I do, but I mean it, upon my word, I do.I hope you'll be happy, Kate, I hope to God he'll makeyou happy."

The countess was leaning back against the rusticdoorway and her two bare arms made a glowing worshipful"V" as they flowed downward, with the gentleundulation of her body, to the slender link of herdrooping hands.

On the third finger of her left hand Lionel now sawfor the first time, what at first he took for a plain goldring, but a second look discovered a widening at oneside that betrayed a setting of some sort turned inwardfor concealment. As he looked up, Lionel knew bythe quick tightening of her mouth that Kate had beensmiling, yet, in her eyes, there was something very farfrom laughter.

"Why didn't you tell me, Kate?"

She put her hands behind her.

"Tell you what?"

"That it was all settled—your engagement, I mean."

"My engagement? But I'm not engaged—that is, Imean I haven't accepted him."

"You haven't accepted him?"

There was a tremendous knocking of Hope at thedoor of Lionel's heart.

"Not yet," she answered. "It is ten days since heasked me and I have given him no answer."

Lionel stared at her in blank amazement. Ten daysago! That was the day when he had met Kate on thegolf course and had held her in his arms and thoughtshe had fainted.

"That day? Kate, you don't mean it? You can'tmean—do you know what day that was?"

Suddenly she caught both of his hands in hers."Yes, of course I know, Lionel. It was there on thegolf links—under the chestnut tree—in the dark—thathe asked me to marry him—the man I love and—andI'm waiting to answer him here—now—this veryminute! Now do you understand?"

For a moment Lionel was quite dazed. It was as ifhe had bumped his head against a rainbow.

"I say, Kate," he faltered, "this isn't a joke, is it?Do you know what you're saying? Are you going tobe my wife?"

Kate pulled the ring off her third finger, the one andonly ring she had on, and placed it on Lionel's littlefinger. It was a signet ring with a small engraved sealof chrysophrase.

"It belonged to my grandmother, dear! Look," shesaid, pointing to the pale green stone. And there, cutin minute script were the words, "Qui me négligé, meperde."

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE THREAT

Following the adventure with the rose bushin its tinsel basket, there came three days oftortured conflict for Hester Storm, conflict withred-lipped, sinister-eyed Anton, who pursued herceaselessly; conflict also with herself, for now the imps ofgreed seemed to dance about her day and night, urgingher to take this hidden treasure and escape with it.In the zeal of her first repentant impulse it would havebeen easy for the girl to give back the money to MissThompson and then go; she was equal to that singleact of renunciation, but to stay here wearily throughdays of useless waiting, unable to do anything orconfide in anyone, and all the time to have, burning in herbreast, the knowledge of those wonderful banknotesthere in the bottom of the flower-pot, all unsuspected,and hers for the easy taking—this was too much forHester Storm.

Through sleepless night hours she sought some wayof deliverance. Should she take the money and carryit to Miss Thompson in Brighton? No, no! She darednot trust herself, she dared not touch the money, noteven to hide it in a securer place. The very sight ofthat fortune might be too strong a temptation for her;indeed, whenever her duties required her to pass throughthe conservatory, the troubled girl found herself hurryingaway with hands clenched and face averted from thatbeckoning rose bush. Once she stopped and almostyielded; she was actually reaching toward the basketwhen the words that Merle had taught her soundedin her ears. "To be honest, to be kind. To ask Godevery day to give me strength against temptation. ForJesus' sake. Amen." And she staggered on out of theroom.

To banish these wicked thoughts Hester threw herselfwith feverish zeal into her household duties. Shehelped the countess in the kitchen, she helped Lionelin the garden, she helped Merle in the dining room. Shemade the beds, she scrubbed the floors, she welcomedthe humblest drudgery, anything to fill her mind andfight back the devils that were tempting her.

On the evening of the third day she realized that thesituation was intolerable. Not only was she doubtfulof her own strength, but she lived in growing terror ofAnton, whose looks and whispered words made it alltoo clear what his intentions were. Thus far she hadavoided being alone with him, but she saw that hewould not be put off any longer.

"See here, kid," he had threatened that afternoon asHester passed him on the drive, "if you think you canplay tag with me any longer you've got another guesscoming. Either you come to the garage to-night aftersupper, or——" The leer on his evil face was so fullof menace that she shrank away trembling.

"I'll come to the garage," she said.

"At nine o'clock?"

She nodded slowly. "At nine o'clock."

Then she hurried to her room to think. She mustleave this place at once, that was certain. She couldhardly bear to wait another day. And as BettyThompson was the only person to whom she could give thismoney, the only person she could trust—yes, that wasit, as she could not go to Betty, Betty must come to her,Betty must come back from Brighton, she must comeback immediately. And straightway Hester sat downand wrote the following letter:

"MY DEAR MISS THOMPSON:

"Please start for Bainbridge Manor as soon as you getthis letter, which will be to-morrow morning. Take thefirst train and don't let anything stop you from coming.And don't tell anyone why you are coming. Say youmust get some clothes or make up any excuse. I amonly a poor girl, but take my word that there will bebig trouble if you don't come and nobody else will do.I never gave you the right reason why I came here, butyou will be glad to hear this secret and it will do a lotof good if you come at once. I'm absolutely on the levelnow, but I don't know if I can hold out another day,and then it will be too late.

"Respectfully yours,
"HESTER STORM."

Having addressed this urgent summons to the GrandHotel in Brighton, where the Baxters were stopping,Hester carefully stamped the envelope and gave itpersonally to the postman when he passed. Then, with along sigh, she came down to her supper, confident thatrelief would be there within twenty-four hours. Alas,how many things may happen within twenty-four hours!

At nine o'clock the girl went to the garage to keepher appointment with Anton. She longed to stay away,but dared not, feeling that he was capable of somedesperate act if she trifled with him further. Besides, shehad managed this man before and now she trusted toher wits to manage him again.

When Hester entered the garage she found the chauffeurbending over a table absorbed in something thatseemed to require close attention. As he heard herstep he rose and came forward with a sort of mockpoliteness that frightened her more than his usualrough aggressiveness.

"Ah, Miss Storm! It's good of you to keep yourlittle date with me—for a change. If you'll make yourselfcomfortable, Miss Storm, I'll tell you a few thingsthat may interest you."

Keenly watchful, the girl sat down. On the tablebefore Anton were a pair of shears, a paste pot and asheet of paper on which he had, apparently, beenpasting words and letters cut from a newspaper. Shenoticed also a bottle of whiskey and a thick glass.

"Go on," she said quietly.

"I have been attending to my correspondence, MissStorm," he continued in the same facetious way. "Hereis something that may amuse you." He handed her anenvelope on which she read, in large, black letters ofuneven size, cut from a printed page, the name in allthe world that she dreaded most:

SCotLAnd yARd
LOnDoN

"Not such a wonderful job of pasting, Miss Storm,but I guess it will get there."

With a great effort she fought back her weakness, herterror, and asked quietly. "What is it you—you want?"

"Ah!" he smiled, and his gold tooth gleamed. "Youhave a logical mind. You came straight to the point.What do I want?" He poured some whiskey into theglass and gulped it down. "What do you think I want?If you'll run your beautiful dark eyes over the letterinside that envelope you may get an idea of what I want,friend Hester."

She lifted the flap of the envelope and was about todraw forth the letter when he leaned forward andadded, with a queer, twisted smile, "and please get onething into your head, little lady: it ain't a question ofwhat I want, but of what I'm going to have. Nowread it."

With a sickening sense of helplessness Hester openedthe sheet and read the following message, also made upof ill-assorted words and letters cut from a newspaper:

"SCOTLAND YARD,
"LONDON.

"If you want a line on the party who stole five thousandpounds from the bishop of Bunchester, you can getit by sending a man to Ipping House, Ippingford,Surrey."

As the Storm girl read these words her cheeksblanched like the paper before her.

"You—you're going to send that?"

He nodded. "I'm going to send it to-night unless youdeliver the goods. Mind this, it isn't a case of 'perhaps'or 'meet me to-morrow in the summer house' or anyother fool fake excuse. I've had enough of that andI've waited all I'm going to. Either you deliver thegoods right now or——" He pointed in grim menaceto the letter.

"What goods are you talking about? What is it youwant delivered?" she asked.

"My share of that money, my half. Don't say youdidn't get it. I know you did. I've found out things,little Hester, since you played me for a sucker the otherday."

She faced him steadily now. If she could only drawhim into an argument. She didn't believe the man wasborn that she couldn't get the best of in a talking match.

"What have you found out? Go on, tell me."

"About Henderson, for one thing. You said youreported to him every day over the telephone."

"Well?"

"It was a lie. You never reported to Henderson. Andyou said there was a little man in a brown derbyhat—who stuttered. Remember?"

"What of it?"

"You said he employed you to spy on me. That wasanother lie. There wasn't any little man."

Hester's mind worked quickly. It was likely Antonhad discovered her deception, but she mustn'tacknowledge it.

"I suppose they told you that at Henderson's office?"she laughed. "Of course they wouldn't spy on you. Oh,no! Say, you're easy, boy."

"It wasn't at Henderson's they told me. It was atthe Ippingford telephone office. There are no recordsof any calls for 724 Chelsea except my calls."

The girl started to speak, but he cut her short. "Wait!If you'll let me finish you can get up a better lie. Justtake a look at this—Exhibit B." He opened the tabledrawer and produced the false arm that Hester had hiddenon the high shelf of the conservatory. "I found thiswhere you threw it on that very busy day. Ha! Now,then, what has the dear, innocent child got to say?"

Hester sat silent for a moment, looking him straightin the eyes; then, slowly, a smile began to play abouther mouth and presently she burst into a half mischievous,half impudent laugh.

"I tried to do you up, Anton," she acknowledged, "butI didn't get away with it."

"You went through the purse while I was kissing youin the car?"

"Sure I did, but the purse was empty."

"Was, eh? We'll see if it was. And you lied aboutHenderson?"

She shrugged her shoulders carelessly. "Oh, I wasstringing you about Henderson!"

Anton looked at her almost admiringly. "You're awonder, kid; but—you're in awful bad with me. It don'tmake any difference what you say—after this. I'llbelieve what I see. And I'm going to have what I toldyou, I'm going to have the goods—right now—the goodsor the girl—do you get me?"

The Storm girl sprang to her feet, eyes blazing, handsclenched.

"If you dare——" she defied him, but he waved asideher immediate alarm with a reassuring gesture.

"You can cork up the sky rockets, kid. I'm not goingto touch you or—kiss you or—anything, unless you wantme to."

"Want you to?" she stared at him. "Well, of all theconceited——"

"No, no," he interrupted, "I don't mean that you'restuck on me, girlie. I know how you feel, but if it's aquestion between going to jail and—er——" now heleered at her disgustingly, "giving me a sort of—er—halfinterest in your tender young beauty——"

"You beast! You coward!" she cried, her cheeks flaming.

He rose slowly and faced her with hard, narrowingeyes, but he kept his distance.

"It's that or the money," he answered, "you can takeyour choice."

"I tell you I haven't got the money."

"What you tell me doesn't cut any ice, kid; it's whatI tell you, and that is—now listen—this is your lastchance—either you give me what I want—you understand—orI walk straight out of here and put that letterin the postoffice. Now, then."

He stood before her, insolent, pitiless, holding theletter addressed to Scotland Yard.

Hester moistened her lips and began to speak in a lowvoice. She realized that the crisis had come. This was,perhaps, the most important moment of her life.

"I admit I've done wrong, Anton," she said. "I didn'tplay fair with you, but—I had a reason that——" shelooked at his cruel mouth and cynical eyes and turnedaway in despair. "I guess you wouldn't understand thereason."

"I understand the reason, all right," he sneered; "youthought you could get away with my share of the coinand you fell down."

"No, that wasn't the reason. I meant to keep straight,Anton. When I got on that train from Paris I hadcut out crooked work, I swear I had. I was going backto New York to see my sister Rosalie. She's sickand——"

"Never mind your sister Rosalie. You stole thatpurse." He poured out another drink of whiskey andtossed it down, while she pleaded dumbly with herbeautiful dark eyes. "And you've lied to me all along." Hewiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "You're asmooth article, Hester. You say you didn't land thatmoney. Maybe you didn't. The chances are you did,but suppose you didn't? Then where do I come in? Iget the grand laugh all around, is that it? No, no, girlie,if I don't get my half of that five thousand pounds, then,as sure as you're standing there, I get you."

"You'll never get me." She shrank away in disgustand defiance.

Anton walked slowly to the wall and took down hiscap from a nail.

"Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," she flung back.

With a look of grim purpose he moved to the door,opened it and turned, holding the letter.

"Is that your last word, kid?"

For a second she hesitated, then all the strength ofher nature, all the pride of her outraged youngwomanhood rose in fierce revolt.

"Yes," she cried. "You can post your letter; you cando what you please. You're a coward and a beast. Acoward and a beast. Now, go! Go!"

CHAPTER XXIX

ENTER GRIMES

In this crisis, as in many another, the decidinginfluence was a pale yellow liquid poured out of adark brown bottle—whiskey, in short—withoutwhich (several stiff drinks of it) Anton would neverhave posted that letter to Scotland Yard. He would haverealized that such an act could only destroy his chanceswith Hester, while it might easily react dangerouslyagainst himself, for, after all, so far as intention went,he was as deeply involved in the crime as she was. If adetective should come to Ippingford and discover thetruth it might be difficult for the chauffeur to explainhow he happened to be the person who removed MissThompson's golf bag from the country club.

"I have done a crazy thing," he muttered as he strodeaway from the postoffice through the darkness, breathingdeep the cool night air that calmed his passion andcleared his brain. "I have done a fool thing and it's toolate to change it."

Meantime Hester, tingling with wrath after this hardencounter, had gone back to her room with a new problemthat held her anxious thoughts far into the night.Had she made a mistake in defying this man? Shouldshe have controlled her anger and somehow gained alittle time? Perhaps a day would have been enough.If Miss Thompson came at once by the morning trainshe would be at Ipping House soon after luncheon, andan hour later Hester Storm might have been free, speedingtoward London and New York, with all this troubleleft behind.

Whereas, now what would happen? Suppose Antonhad carried out his threat and posted the letter toScotland Yard? He was just fool enough and drunk enoughto do it—perhaps. And perhaps not. It might have beenall a bluff, the letter and his talk. Anyway, she was gladshe had called him down. He was a beast, all right.

But suppose he had posted the letter? Suppose adetective came prowling around? Suppose it was Grimes,who had seen her in Charing Cross station that day ofthe robbery, and who knew all about the Storm girl'srecord? Then what?

In snatches of tortured sleep Hester dreamed that shewas trying to escape from a room with two doors, atone of which she met the cold gray eyes of Grimes, andat the other the twisted smile of Anton. She rose soonafter daybreak, unrefreshed, and, having dressed, shespent an hour packing her things, so that if the chancecame she could leave at a moment's notice. Then sheknelt down at her bedside and said the prayer that Merlehad taught her.

A few minutes later Hester's attention was caught bysounds from below, the unbolting of heavy doors, thenan echo of footsteps and low voices. She looked at herwatch and saw that it was a quarter past six. Antonwas opening the house. It was Friday morning. Thegreat day, with its promise of momentous happenings,had begun. And the sun was shining.

Lightly the Storm girl descended the stairs, and pausingat the first landing, listened to the chauffeur, whowas talking to a telegraph boy.

"Yes, this is Mr. Baxter's house. Let me have it,"he was saying.

Whereupon the boy searched in his cap and producedthe familiar yellow envelope of a telegram or acablegram.

"There!" grumbled the chauffeur as he signed theboy's book. "Here's a sixpence for you."

"Thanks, guv'nor," and the youth went off whistling,while Anton stared at the sealed message.

Hester leaned over the railing and watched heradversary, who evidently thought himself quite alone.With a few careful movements he opened the envelopeand drew forth a yellow sheet.

"In cipher!" she heard him mutter. Then he movedinto the library, while she, cautious and silent, followedhim.

Anton went directly to Betty Thompson's desk, and,taking from his pocket a bunch of keys, he proceededto unlock the upper left-hand drawer and drew outa small, red, leather-covered book, in which he searchedeagerly, consulting the cablegram from time to timeas he did so. It was Hiram Baxter's private cable codebook.

With absorbed interest the chauffeur continued hiswork of translation, writing down the words hastily ashe deciphered them. And, presently, Hester saw by hisface that the cablegram must contain news of the utmostimportance.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, frowning and lookingabout him doubtfully. He glanced at his watch, took afew steps toward the door, and listened intently, then hewent quickly to the telephone.

"Hello! Give me the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, London.In a great hurry—please." He spoke in a low tone anddrummed nervously on the desk while he waited.

"Hello! The Ritz-Carlton? I want Mr. Henderson,room 147. Yes, Henderson. Quick, please."

And presently, with a sort of unconscious cringing,"Hello! Is that you, Mr. Henderson? This is AntonBusch. I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but it's urgent. Acablegram has just come for Mr. B. It will pretty wellspoil everything if he gets it. I know he's in Brighton,sir, but Mr. Robert is here. Yes, it came in cipher. I'vejust translated it. Shall I read it, sir?"

He held before him the paper on which he had written,and was about to repeat it when the creaking of Hester'sshoe, as she leaned forward near the door, causedhim to turn suspiciously. "I'll have to be quick,Mr. Henderson. I'm in the library. Yes, I'm using thehouse telephone. If I'm interrupted, sir, you'll understand.Don't ring up. I'll call you later. All right, sir,here's the cablegram."

Slowly and distinctly he read into the telephone fromthe sheet before him:

"HIRAM BAXTER, Ippingford, Surrey: Have advancenews highest authority that Supreme Court decisioncopper suit will be announced to-morrow, Friday, andwill be unfavorable. Prices sure to break violently assoon as decision is known. This is our one chance tosave everything and close out with a profit. Ask yourauthority to sell fifty thousand shares IndependentCopper. Vital importance to act before exchange opens thismorning.

"GRAMERCY.

"Did you get that, sir?"

There was a long pause while the chauffeur listened,nodding respectfully and occasionally murmuring, "Yes,sir." Then he answered: "I understand, sir. Fivehours will do the trick. If Baxter hasn't acted bytwelve it's all off." He looked at his watch. "It isn'tseven yet. I'll see that Mr. Robert doesn't get thiscablegram until after luncheon. Good-by, sir."

With a gesture of relief he hung up the receiver, and,folding together the cablegram and the code translation,he put these carefully in his breast pocket.

Meantime Hester had been doing some quick thinking.Here was the haughty Anton caught in a piece of crookedwork. He was betraying his employer, he was keepingback a message that evidently involved a fortune andthat must be acted upon before twelve o'clock. Therewas no need of understanding Wall Street operations orSupreme Court decisions to see the importance of gettinghold of this cablegram that Anton had just stuffed intohis pocket. That was in her line, getting things out ofpeople's pockets, and—perhaps this piece of yellow papermight help her play her own game. Anyhow, she wasgoing after it.

Thus resolved, Hester flew back silently up the stairs,one flight, two flights, and, turning, came clattering downagain with deliberate noisiness, as if for her firstappearance, and, entering the library, greeted the chauffeurwith a look of well-acted surprise.

"Oh!" she said coldly.

Anton thrust his hands deep into his pockets andstared at her, biting his mustache nervously. Then,without speaking, he moved toward her slowly, until hestood about a yard away. She faced him steadily.

"You little devil!" he said hoarsely. "I've got anotion to—to——" He began to breathe quickly throughdilating nostrils, while his beady eyes burned on her.

"To what?" she challenged him.

He reached forward quickly and caught her by the arm.

"See here, now, I'm going to talk to you—straight." Hedrew her close to him, so close that he could feelevery line of her lithe, slim figure. "You know what Isaid last night, kid. Well, I meant it. I'm crazy aboutyou, and, by God, I'm going to get something out ofthis." He held her, struggling against him, and pressedhis mouth down upon her unwilling lips.

"Wait!" she panted. "Did you—did you post thatletter to Scotland Yard?"

"Why—er—no," he answered, and she knew that hewas lying by the way his eyes shifted.

Once more, mad with desire, the chauffeur tried tokiss her, but with a sudden effort Hester freed herselfand darted toward the door.

"I guess you've made trouble enough for one day,Mr. Anton," she laughed mockingly. "And remember, boy,if a Scotland Yard detective shows up here to-day it'syou he'll take away, not me."

It was an empty threat, but she made it bravely asshe tripped away, and, somehow, her words filled Antonwith a vague foreboding.

"Damn that girl!" he muttered as he strode towardthe garage. And presently his anger changed to blackrage when, on searching his pocket for Baxter'simportant cablegram, he found that it was gone. Littleliar! She had tricked him again. She had let him kissher with the deliberate purpose of stealing those papers,and then she had laughed at him. Very well; he wouldshow her. He was glad now he had notified ScotlandYard. He hoped they did send a man, and heswore this Storm girl should pay for what she had done.He would certainly make her pay.

Through the morning hours that followed Hester busiedherself, as usual, with the housework and the kitchenwork, trying to be diligent and good tempered, and puttingfrom her resolutely the temptation to flee from thisplace that might soon be full of peril for her. But asnoon approached she eyed the clock anxiously, and atevery sound of wheels hurried to the window. Therewas a train from London at twenty minutes to twelve.Would Betty Thompson be on it? Would a man fromScotland Yard be on it? Would one of these two arrivebefore the other, and, if so, which one?

Then she wondered what would happen if a detectivedid come. After all, Anton's letter gave only a vagueclue. No name was signed and no names werementioned. Robert Baxter could tell nothing about therobbery, because he knew nothing. And the Reverend Merlecould tell nothing for the same reason. There was onlyAnton to be feared, and Anton wasn't going to put himselfunder the cold, investigating eye of an officer of thelaw, not if the Storm girl sized him up right, and shethought she did. On the whole, the situation might beworse, still——

Twelve o'clock! Half past twelve! And no arrival!Perhaps Miss Thompson wasn't coming. Perhaps shedidn't believe the thing was important. And straight-waythe imps of darkness whispered that this was fate.Hester had done her best, she had written the letter toMiss Thompson, and now, if no one would help her, ifno one would take the money when she was trying togive it up—why she had better—she had better——

At this perilous moment a carriage came crunchingup the drive, and, glancing out, Hester recognized BettyThompson on the back seat.

Well, that settled it. The hour had come for thetesting of Hester Storm. She must go to Miss Thompsonnow and make her confession. She must tell this sweetyoung woman who had trusted her and befriended herthat she was a thief, that she had stolen the bishop'spurse. She had better go quickly, while she had thecourage.

It was twenty minutes later when the Storm girl,white-lipped, entered the library where the secretarywas arranging in a dull green vase some yellow rosesthat she had just picked in the conservatory. Shelooked up brightly and came forward with extendedhand.

"Well, Hester," she smiled, "you see that I believe inyou. Your letter came this morning at half-past eight,and at half-past nine I was on the train. Poor child, youlook—why, you look ill?"

"Do I? Well, I—I am not feeling any too good."

"What is it? What has happened? Come over here." Withkind concern Betty led her troubled friend to thedavenport. "You know I'll be glad to do whatever Ican to help you. Now then?"

Hester sighed wearily. "You can't help me, lady,except to—believe what I say—wish me luck when I'vegone."

"You're going away?"

The girl nodded. "Just as soon as I can—this afternoon."

"Oh! I'm sorry to hear that. I take a great interestin you. I—I like you, Hester."

The genuine friendliness of her tone went straight tothe heart of this poor wanderer. The Storm girl fixedher dark eyes yearningly on Betty.

"I'm in trouble, lady, and—say, on the level, doyou—like me?"

"Indeed I do. I liked you the first time I saw you."

"Why?"

"Why?" repeated Betty, disconcerted by the girl'sstrange earnestness. "Oh, I liked you because youare—different and—you're pretty and—I thought it was ashame when they accused you of stealing that purse."

There was a moment's silence while Hester bracedherself for the great ordeal.

"There's one thing about that purse that you don'tknow," she began in a low tone. But at that momentthe door opened and Horatio entered, carrying a cardon a tray. He wore a long, blue apron.

"A gentleman to see Mr. Robert Baxter," he saidquietly.

Betty looked at Horatio in surprise. "Why, Mr. Merle!How queer you look! Are you taking Parker'splace?"

Horatio bowed respectfully. "Yes, Miss Thompson,I am."

Betty laughed. It never occurred to her that Merlewas speaking seriously. She picked up the card andglanced at it. "Mr. Grimes," she read, and Hester's facewent white. "From Scotland Yard," she continued,studying the card. "Scotland Yard? Isn't that the placewhere they——"

"I think he's a detective," murmured Horatio, the brillianceof his eyes revealing his intense interest in thematter.

"A detective! Indeed! Is Mr. Robert Baxter out?"

Horatio inclined his head gravely. "Mr. Robert Baxteris out with the car. I told Mr. Grimes and he askedto see Mr. Baxter's secretary. He says it's important."

Miss Thompson frowned impatiently. "It's mostannoying. I'm engaged in a serious matter, and—— Oh!Very well! Show him in."

But now the tortured penitent broke out in an agonizedcry: "No! You mustn't see him. Let me speakto you—alone."

"'No! You mustn't see him. Let me speak to you—alone.'"

At the sight of Hester's pallid face and entreatingeyes Betty's heart softened.

"Please ask Mr. Grimes to wait," she said to Merle,as he withdrew discreetly, and then to the tremblinggirl: "My poor friend! You're all unstrung. Nowtell me, why don't you want me to see this detective?"

"Because I—I lied to you that day—about the purse."

"Lied to me?"

"Yes, I—I did steal the purse."

CHAPTER XXX

THE PENITENT

At Hester's startling avowal, Betty shrank away ininvoluntary aversion.

"Oh!" she cried, and her truthful eyes judgedthe girl sternly.

The culprit faced her in pleading appeal. She hadplayed her last card recklessly, impulsively, riskingeverything. She never understood afterward what hadimpelled her to this dangerous unnecessary confession.Was it fear or calculation? She knew that if Bettybetrayed her it was all up with little Hester, and she hadno reason to believe that Miss Thompson would condoneor tolerate an act of flagrant wickedness. Yet she hadtold her.

"A thief!" shivered Betty.

"Yes, a thief," flung out the other, in half defiance."You don't think I'm good enough to touch, do ye?Maybe I'm not, but—say, do you want to know whatmade me steal—the first time? Do you want toknow?" The words tumbled out in a fierce tumult, and Betty,fascinated, watched this strange girl as her dark eyesblazed and her nostrils quivered.

"Tell me," said Betty gently, "sit here—tell meeverything." And, leading the way to the davenport, sheplaced Hester beside her. "Now!"

"I was only a kid—about twelve," panted the penitent."We lived on Orchard street."

"New York?"

"Yes. In a rotten tenement and—my sister Rosalie—shewas seventeen—she took care of us, me and my littlebrother."

"Wait!" interposed Betty. "Is this true? Youmustn't try to work on my feelings. You must tell methe truth. You know you haven't—Hester—at othertimes."

The Storm girl sat biting her red lips and twisting herfingers nervously. "I've been crooked," she said,speaking low, "but, lady, I hope God will strike me deadif——"

"Hush! Don't say that."

"I do say it. I mean it. I want you to believe me.Nobody's ever believed me or—been kind to me—exceptyou and——" she was sobbing now, "if you're goingback on me—I don't care—for anything." She sprangup suddenly with a fierce gesture, and pointed to thedoor. "Go on! Call in Grimes! Give me up!"

"I don't want to give you up," soothed Betty; "but—Imust do what is right. Sit down! Tell me the rest.What about Rosalie?"

At the mention of her sister, Hester's face softened.

"Say, she was the finest girl, the prettiest girl, youever saw. That's why I liked you, because you—honestyou did—you made me think of Rosalie."

"Yes?"

"But she wasn't strong. She worked thirteen hoursa day at a sewing machine, a damned heavy thing that'dbreak your back and—she never went to the countryand—she never had a pretty dress."

"What a wicked shame!"

"Every cent she made she spent on us. Then she gotsick and—she coughed a lot and—she couldn't work themachine. There she'd lie on the bed, in a little backroom, with her face all flushed and I'd hear her say,'Please, God, take care of Hester and Jamie, and let mesee the green fields—just once.' Say, lady, what wouldyou have done, if you'd been me?"

"I—I don't know," murmured Betty, wiping her eyes.

"S'pose ye didn't have a dollar in the world?" pursuedHester eagerly, "and the agent came for the rent,a red-faced devil with a big diamond pin, and s'pose hetried to kiss ye and ye knew that pin might save Rosalie,say, would ye have pinched the pin?"

"You mustn't ask a—question like that," replied theother, trying vainly to keep back her tears.

"Yer cryin'! Then—then ye don't despise me?"

"I'm sorry for you, so sorry, but—Hester, you mustmake amends for what you've done, you must give backthe purse."

"I will."

"Where is it?"

"You'll stand by me? You won't let them take me?"

"I'll do the best I can for you. Where is it?"

"You won't tell Grimes that you were in the railwaycarriage?"

"I must tell him, if he asks me. I can't remain in afalse position."

Hester's eyes filled with tears. "Then that settles me.He'll get the truth out of you; he'll twist you around hisfingers. My God! They'll send me away for ten years!"

"Be quiet. Let me think."

Distressed and perplexed, Miss Thompson walked backand forth trying to decide what she should do. AndHester in wide-eyed supplication watched her, knowingwell that her fate was trembling in the balance. If shecould only think of something—something that wouldinfluence this fine, high-toned girl, whose soul could notbe reached by any base appeal, she realized that.

At this moment there sounded beyond the conservatorythe sharp call of a whistle, low and sinister.

"What's that?" started Betty.

Hester listened in tense alarm. "It's Grimes. He'sgot a man outside. Say," she quivered, "what are yegoin' to do with me?"

"What can I do?"

"Hide me somewhere until Grimes has gone. Willye?" she begged.

As Miss Thompson studied the wretched girl she feltlike an avenging angel who, without quite understandinghow, had been changing into a benevolent fairy. Here,cowering before her, was a fugitive from justice whoshould, no doubt, be given up, but somehow, Betty couldnot do it.

"Hester," she said. "I'm doing wrong, but I can'thelp believing there is good in you and—I can't send youto prison. You can stay in my little room—there!" Shepointed to the mezzanine door.

"Oh, lady, ye'll do that for me?" Hester seizedBetty's two hands and pressed them to her lips.

"Wait! It's understood that you give back themoney—the stolen money."

"Sure! I'll tell ye where it is and you can give itback yourself."

"I'll give it to the bishop. He's on his way here now."

"The bishop? He don't know I'm here?"

"He knows nothing. I'll tell him that—I'll say thatthe person who took the money is sorry and—I'll saveyou somehow."

"You give me your promise—your promise true?"

"I give you my promise—true," repeated Betty firmly."Where is it—the money?"

Now, briefly and humbly, Hester told the truth aboutthe bishop's purse, acknowledging her own wrongdoing,and tracing the treasure from her capture of it on thetrain up to the moment of its hiding under the rosebush.

"I see," said Betty. "You dropped the purse in mygolf bag when they came to search you on the train?"

"Yes," confessed the other.

"And—and—oh, it's all clear! It was to get themoney out of my golf bag that you came here. Wasit?" she demanded.

"Yes."

"And now this five thousand pounds is there in theconservatory—hidden in a flower pot?"

"Yes. You'll find it there. I wouldn't touch it. Ihate it. But, lady," she pleaded, "don't take the moneyout until Grimes has gone. He's watching everywhere,and—he's liable to see you and—that would queer me.Promise ye won't take the money until Grimes has gone?"

This seemed reasonable. "Very well, I won't takethe money until Grimes has gone," agreed MissThompson. "Now come! I'll show you the way."

Betty started for the winding stair, but Hester caughther arm with an eager movement.

"See here!" she said and her eyes were warm withgratitude. "You've been good to me and—I knowsomething that'll make a lot of difference to Mr. Baxter. Acablegram came for him this morning."

"A cablegram?"

"Yes. And if he don't get it before twelve o'clock,it's all up with him."

"Before twelve o'clock? How do you know that?"

"I stood at that door while Anton was on the phonetalking to a man named Henderson."

"Mr. Baxter's enemy!"

"That's what. Anton's a crook in Henderson's pay.He got this cablegram and held it back. If you don'tbelieve me"—swiftly she drew the paper from herdress—"there!"

"Heavens! When did this come?"

Hester studied the yellow form. "Must have leftNew York at ten o'clock last night. See? Must havegot here before anybody was up—except Anton."

"The scoundrel!" Betty hurried to her desk and rapidlydeciphered the message. "This is terrible! Thereisn't a moment to lose. If something isn't done beforetwelve o'clock, Mr. Baxter will be ruined. I must think.Come to my room."

A moment later the two women disappeared into Betty'schamber, and, scarcely had the door closed softlyafter them, when Grimes entered. He had a round, redface, a stubbly, reddish mustache, and small, peeringeyes. He wore a checked suit and was smoking a largeblack cigar. Altogether he looked the typical Americandetective familiar in farce; but Grimes was not a farcicalperson; on the contrary, he was one of the mostformidable men connected with Scotland Yard, a silent man,and it was considered bad business for the criminal whohad Grimes on his track.

The detective glanced carelessly about the big room,moved here and there, picked up the red-covered codebook that Betty had left on her desk and was frowningat its mysteries when Betty herself appeared on thelanding above the winding stair.

"I beg your pardon," she said with challengingdirectness. "May I ask what you are doing there?"

"I was going to ask you the same question," answeredGrimes quietly. "What are you doing—there?"

"I'm attending to my duties as Mr. Baxter's secretary,"she said coming down the stair and trying notto seem ruffled.

"I see. That's an interesting little door." He pointedto the mezzanine chamber.

"Yes. Are you an architect?"

"No. I'm an officer from Scotland Yard—Mr. Grimes.Just looking around a little while I wait forMr. Baxter. Don't let me disturb you."

He strolled off toward the conservatory, but turned atone of the French windows. "Oh! May I ask yourname?"

Betty glanced up from the code book which she wasconsulting in nervous haste.

"I told you I am Mr. Baxter's secretary."

"Yes, but—your name?"

The girl drew herself up to her full height and,looking the man straight in the eyes, said simply, "MissThompson. Really, Mr. Grimes, you must excuse menow."

The detective gave her a keen glance that seemed totake in every detail of her face and person. "Certainly,"he said, then, bowing politely, "I'll see you later, MissThompson."

CHAPTER XXXI

LIONEL TO THE RESCUE

Without losing an instant Betty flew to thetelephone.

"Hello! Hello!" she called impatiently, butthere was no response. She worked the lever, shookthe receiver, tapped her foot, and winked her longeyelashes rapidly, all to no avail. The instrument seemeddead, there was no familiar buzzing of the wires and itpresently occurred to her that this was no ordinarydelay of a heedless operator; there was something wrongwith the telephone itself.

"Oh, dear!" she cried. "What shall I do?" And,hurrying to the conservatory window, she looked outdespairingly among the palms and lilies. Then her facelighted as she saw Lionel coming slowly across the lawn.In one hand he carried his inevitable watering pot andin the other he held an open book that he seemed to bestudying.

"Mr. Fitz-Brown! Come here—please—quick," she called.

"Right-o!" answered the amateur gardener and blissfullover, and leaving his watering pot, but clinging tohis book, Lionel presently joined the young lady in thelibrary.

"I say, I'm awfully pleased you called me," he beamed."You know you're an awfully intelligent girl, MissThompson, and all that sort of thing and—do youhappen to know anything about—er—bugs?"

"Bugs?" gasped Betty.

"Isn't that what you Americans call them? We callthe little beggars beetles. This is an American book,'Brown's Compendium of Familiar Bugs.' Rather good,that? They are familiar. Er, what?"

"Please, Mr. Fitz-Brown," she protested, but therewas no stopping him.

"Potato bugs and spinach bugs and cauliflower bugs,"he rattled on. "I say, do you know how to tell a spinachbug, Miss Thompson?"

"No, but——"

"Ah, I was sure you wouldn't," continued the delightedagriculturist. "Spinach bugs have red backs andgreen whiskers. Say it over to yourself—red backs andgreen whiskers."

"My dear Mr. Fitz-Brown, I really can't——"

"Oh, yes, you can," insisted Lionel. "It's perfectlyeasy except cauliflower bugs. Let me see! Cauliflowerbugs," he paused to consult the book.

"You must put the book away and help me. I've gotto send a cablegram. There isn't a minute to lose."

The gardener's face clouded with visions of charges ata shilling a word. "A cablegram! By Jove! I'll see,but——" he began to search through his pockets.

"It isn't that," said Betty. "I have the money. It'sto get it there in time. The cable office is a mile awayand we've only twenty minutes. I tried to telephone it,but the thing doesn't work. I'm afraid Anton hastampered with the wires."

"Oh, I say!"

"And, knowing what I do of Anton, I daren't sendhim with the car. Oh, it's maddening!"

"I can drive a car, Miss Thompson, if that's all youwant."

"Really? Oh, splendid! Just a second while I writethe cablegram."

She started for the desk, but stopped midway with alook of despair.

"It's no use! I had forgotten. Mr. Robert Baxter isout with the car; there's nothing to be done." Shesank hopelessly into a chair.

Lionel Fitz-Brown stroked his mustache, adjusted hiseyeglass and then, with a flutter of the ancestral spirit,rose to the situation.

"But, my dear Miss Thompson," he drawled, "if wehave twenty minutes, I don't mind telling you that I cando my mile in ten."

Betty sprang to her feet. "You can?"

The gardener screwed up his eyeglass and nodded."Sprinting is one of the things I do rather well."

"Then sprint—for your life," cried the girl excitedly."If you get this message off before twelveo'clock—wait—where are those cable forms? Ah, here!"

And, snatching up one of the yellow blanks, she beganto write with feverish haste. "Pontifex, New York.Can you read that?"

"Pontifex? I say, it sounds like a potato bug,"chuckled Lionel, peering over her shoulder.

"That's the cable address. Now, the rest of it—notime to put it into the code."

Then she wrote rapidly: "Authorize you to sell for myaccount 50,000 shares Independent Copper. Actimmediately. Gramercy."

"Gramercy?" questioned Fitz-Brown.

"That's Mr. Baxter's code signature. Here! Andhere's the money." She handed him the cablegram andsome gold pieces, then anxiously looked at her watch."Sixteen minutes. Can you make it?"

"Four to one I can make it, but, Miss Thompson, don'tyou think we ought to—er—I know you're a deucedlyclever girl and all that sort of thing, but I reallythink——"

"Don't think! Run as you never ran before."

"Right-o! I'm going. Now watch me," and, droppinghis precious book on bugs, Lionel Fitz-Browndarted out through the conservatory and a moment laterthis amiable descendant of the crusaders might havebeen seen, in gardener's costume, his eyeglass firmly inplace, rushing madly along the dusty highway in a mannerthat would certainly have astonished his exquisitefriends in Mayfair.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE STORM

Long after the luncheon gong had sounded BettyThompson sat at her desk in the library, tooagitated to think of eating, too anxious aboutthe outcome of things to take her mind off the tensesituation. Whichever way she turned perplexitiesconfronted her. There in the conservatory was the stolenmoney, but she had promised not to touch it until thiswretched detective had gone. When would he go? Andthere in her little chamber was this unfortunate girl,Hester Storm, whom she must save somehow, but how?And, wandering about the village of Ippingford—whatcould be keeping him?—was Lionel Fitz-Brown, bearerof that desperate cable message that might save HiramBaxter or—or it might ruin him. Oh, dear, why didn'tLionel come back?

When Horatio entered presently with some food on atray, a little cold meat and a salad, Betty shook her headsadly. She had no appetite, she really could not eat.

"You seem troubled, my dear," said Merle with kindlyconcern. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, thank you," she answered wearily.

The clergyman put down the tray, looked about himcautiously, and then, tiptoeing close to Betty, hewhispered: "Miss Thompson—that man—the detective?"

"Yes?"

Horatio lifted his chin wisely, and, with a tragicthumb, pointed to the library door.

"He's still waiting. He seems to be everywhere atonce. In the words of King Solomon, he lieth in waitat every corner. I wish he would go away."

"I wish he would," she sighed.

"He acts as if he thought we were sheltering a fugitivein this house."

Betty started. "Is that such a dreadful thing to—sheltera fugitive?"

"My dear," said the curate earnestly, "I am speakingof a fugitive from justice, a malefactor, and to sheltersuch a person is tantamount to becoming a partner in hiscrime. It is a grave offense in the eyes of the law; itmeans imprisonment; it means——"

"Mr. Merle," interrupted the girl indignantly, "do youmean to tell me that if a repentant sinner came to youfor help and protection you, as a Christian, would refuseto shelter him?"

Horatio stroked his side whiskers and opened andclosed his mouth several times with clerical deliberation.

"This is one of those delicate questions, Miss Thompson,one of those delicate questions that—that——"

But Betty would not be put aside with pompousgeneralities.

"Mr. Merle," she asked earnestly, "suppose you hadmade a promise to shield some one, to save her from aterrible disgrace?"

"Some one who had done wrong?"

"Yes, she has done wrong, but—she is sorry for it—shehas made amends."

"Then, my dear, your duty is plain. If she trulyrepents of her sin, and if you have given yourpromise——"

"But suppose keeping my promise to save thisperson—suppose it means—telling a lie?"

"Ah," replied the clergyman, solemnly lifting twoscandalized palms, "it is my duty to forbid you, my child,under any circ*mstances to tell an untruth—even to saveanother from destruction."

As he uttered these words he blinked uneasily behindhis powerful glasses, and immediately added with nervoushaste: "I say that as a minister of the church,but—er—as a man——"

"Yes? As a man?" she questioned eagerly.

It is impossible to know how Horatio would haveextricated himself from this dilemma, for, just as hewas searching for some theological barrier against thegirl's persistence, the telephone rang sharply.

Betty took up the receiver. "Yes?" she answered,while the curate wiped his brow and observed this fairAmerican with wondering interest. What a countryAmerica must be, he reflected, if so charming and clevera young lady was a specimen of its secretaries! Whatmust its leisure class be? Then he remembered thatHiram Baxter had once assured him that plumbers andgasfitters were the only leisure class in America. Hehad asked Harriet to make a note of the fact. Extraordinary,this American aristocracy of plumbers and gas-fitters!

The secretary, meantime, was listening, with brighteningeyes and a flush of pleasure, to the telephone message.

"Don't you know who it is?" she smiled. "MissThompson. Yes, I was in Brighton, but I came up herethis morning for—for some things."

Then there was a pause of listening, while the girl'sface took on a startled expression. "The Bishop ofBunchester? Oh! I see. Very well, I'll tellMr. Merle." And she hung up the instrument.

"It was Mr. Robert Baxter," she explained to Merle."He is on his way here in the motor with a friend ofyours."

"A friend of mine?"

"I suppose he's a friend of yours—the Bishop of Bunchester."

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the curate. "The Bishopof Bunchester!" He took off his glasses and rubbedthem nervously.

"They will be here shortly and Mr. Robert wantedme to ask you," her eyes twinkled mischievously, "Idon't understand what you have to do with it, Mr. Merle,perhaps he meant Mrs. Merle, but he asked if you wouldplease see about one of the guest rooms."

"Quite right, my child," answered the clergymangravely. "I will take great pleasure in arrangingeverything for his lordship. You see, I am—I am one of theservants in the house."

With a sort of humble dignity Horatio took up thetray while Betty stared at him in puzzled interest.

"Oh, Mr. Merle!" she said. "If you don't mind leavingthat tray, perhaps I might eat a little—later."

"Certainly. I'll leave it here. By the way, my dear,"he paused at the door, "the difficult question—that wastroubling you?"

"Yes?"

"Why don't you put it to the bishop?"

"Perhaps I will," said Betty, and, long after the curatehad gone, she sat still at her desk, thinking. Nor couldall her worries and perplexities silence the glad thoughtthat very soon she would see the man whose voice hadjust thrilled her over the telephone, the man who,without knowing it, had made her suffer, and who now,without knowing it, had made her happy.

Following a sudden joyous impulse, Betty took a keyfrom her bag and, opening the top drawer of her desk,drew out, with loving touch, a small book beautifullybound in dark green leather. It was a little volume ofthe thoughts of Marcus Aurelius. And her eyes fellupon one of her favorite marked passages:

"It is in thy power, whenever thou shalt choose, toretire into thyself. For nowhere, either with more quietor freedom from trouble, does a man retire than into hisown soul, particularly when he has within him suchthoughts that, by looking into them, he is immediatelyin perfect tranquillity; and I affirm that tranquillity isnothing else than the good ordering of the mind."

She pondered these comforting words, then, shyly,with a little gasp of pleasure, turned back to the flexiblecover, where a flap of silk formed a thin pocket for somefew sacred things, a picture of her mother, a faded andflat-pressed flower and four-leaf clover that once hadbeen important, and, with these, the typewritten letterthat Bob Baxter had dictated to her in this very room,the letter beginning "My dearest Betty" that she hadshamefacedly saved from rumpled oblivion in the scrapbasket, and ever since had treasured among her preciouspossessions.

Once again Betty read over this wonderful epistle, andshe recalled all the nice loyal things Bob Baxter hadsaid that day about his little pal of olden times. Didhe mean them then? Had he forgotten them now? Shesighed. He couldn't have meant them very much andbe carrying on as he was with Kate Clendennin. Poorlittle pal of olden times!

And now a singular thing happened. As Betty lookedfondly at the typewritten words she suddenly had anuncomfortable feeling that some one had entered theroom and was looking at her. There had been neithersound nor word, but she knew that a person was standingthere. And, glancing up, she saw Hester Storm atthe half-open door of the mezzanine chamber, her darkeyes fixed on her benefactress in silent supplication.

"Oh!" cried Betty, in quick self-reproach.

Hester touched a warning finger to her lips anddisappeared into the chamber. Whereupon Miss Thompson,dreading some new development, moved swiftlytoward the little stair. On the way she stopped, in animpulse of kindness, and took up the tray of food.

"Poor girl! She's had nothing to eat," she thought,and, a moment later, she joined Hester in the bedroom.

Thus it came about that when Robert Baxter, in brilliantcolor and fine spirit, burst into the library a fewminutes later, eager to see Betty Thompson, he foundthe big room empty. But there on the davenport weresigns of a recent feminine occupation, suede gloves, asmart traveling hat and veil, and a lizard skin bag withsilver monogram. Betty was evidently somewhere about,and the young fellow settled himself down to wait. Hemust talk to Betty, he must explain that he hadn't meantto hurt her feelings the other day at Brighton. He wasonly having a joke with her—why, he wouldn't hurt herfeelings for the world.

As the young man glanced about the library his eyesfell on the little volume of Marcus Aurelius, and, takingit up carelessly, he came upon the letter shut within itspages. He had no thought of prying, indeed, he had noidea to whom the book belonged, and, before he realizedwhat he was doing, he had read his own letter.

"By the Lord Harry!" he muttered, and the hot bloodrushed to his face as he understood what this meant.That dear girl! His Betty! To think that she had keptthat letter! He remembered seeing her crumple it upand throw it in the waste basket. She must have stoopeddown and picked it out again—and smoothed it—andfolded it—and kept it. His plucky little pal! HisBetty!

Bob rose and strode unhappily about the room. Whata fool he had been not to recognize Betty! Couldn't hehave seen that she was no ordinary secretary? My God!A child would have understood. And the worst of itwas he had liked her all the time, he had looked ather and wondered about her, and—and then he had goneand made a silly idiot of himself with Kate Clendennin.It was sickening.

Bob had just brought himself to this state of righteouspenitence and self-abasem*nt when the door from Betty'schamber opened, and Betty herself appeared. She wasstronger and happier now from having cheered andstrengthened a disheartened sister woman. She wasresolved to give Hester Storm this one last chance that shebegged for to make good. She would try to save thegirl from prison. She would hide her for a few hours,until Grimes had gone. This much she had promisedsacredly to the pleading penitent, and she would keep herword.

At the sight of Betty, Bob went toward her eagerly,holding out his hands.

"Betty! Betty!" was all he could say.

"There!" she said, smiling happily and giving himher hand. "It's all right, Bob; it's all right."

"No, no, it's all wrong," he insisted.

She loved his nice naughty child penitence. Nor didshe object to his masterful way as he drew up chairs.

"I've a lot to tell you," he went on, "but——"

Her dimple deepened at his embarrassment, and shereflected that he certainly needed a woman to help himpick out his cravats.

"I'm listening," she said demurely.

"This is the first chance I've had to speak to you sincethat day at Brighton—when you—

"I'm sorry I—I lost my temper, Bob," she whispered.

"Sorry," he burst out. "Why should you be sorry?You did the right thing. You called me down,but—you didn't say enough—not half enough."

"I didn't?"

He caught the mischief of her eyes, and, suddenly, asthey remembered Betty's slashing outburst, they bothwere seized with a wild desire to laugh.

"My little pal! Betty Thompson!" he exclaimed in theold cordial way. "Say, why didn't you tell me aboutthis—secretary business?" He tried to take one of herhands in his, but she drew it away gently. "Why didn'tyou, Betty?"

"I—I didn't want to," she answered in a low tone.

"That's no answer. I don't see why you did it."

"You don't? Bob, you must see why I wanted tohelp Guardy when he's been so good to me, and—he hadno secretary, and—I've been so extravagant. Think ofall the money Guardy has given me, and I—I supposedit was mine, I thought it was money father left me,but—he really left nothing. He—he left nothing."

"Nothing? He left the finest, pluckiest girl in theworld. And, anyway, I don't see why you had to hideyour name. Why didn't you say you were Betty Thompsonand not just any old Miss Thompson? I mean anyyoung Miss Thompson," he added, laughing.

She hesitated before answering.

"Bob, you may not believe me, you think musicians arecrazy people—yes, you do, you said so, but—I've workedhard at my singing, and—I have a voice, a fine voice.I've sung in concerts, and—I'm going to make a namefor myself, not like Melba or Emma Eames, but—well,you'll hear of Elizabeth Thompson some day, and itwon't be as a secretary pounding on a typewriter, either;it will be as a singer. So there!" She drew herself upwith a flash of the eye and a lift of the chin that madeBob thrill as he watched her. "Now you see why I'mjust plain Miss Thompson."

"Betty, you know you've been talking nonsense; youknow you've not given me the right reason."

Betty dropped her eyes in confusion. "If there wasanother reason it was a—foolish reason, and——"suddenly she drew back, and, with a start of remembrance,changed the subject. "How stupid! We're forgettingthe bishop."

"Hang the bishop! He's lying down. He says we'regoing to have a storm—says he aches all over—that'show he knows."

"How interesting! I believe we are going to havea storm. Look, Bob." She pointed to a line of heavyclouds advancing formidably in purple black masses.

He shook his head. "I don't want to talk about thestorm, Betty, or about the bishop or about any other oldthing. I want to talk about you. Tell me about thatfoolish reason. I love foolish reasons."

"Well, I—I thought it would be—amusing to—seeif—you would know me." She doled the words out teasingly,then, with a laugh of half triumph, half reproach:"And you didn't, you didn't!"

"How do you know I didn't? I knew you all rightthe other day at Brighton."

"Yes, but your mother told you. Oh, you needn'tlook so innocent. I'm sure she did. Why, you didn'teven remember the little keepsake you gave me."

"What keepsake?"

"Ah! I told you! And I've kept it all these years."

She opened her lizard skin bag and produced a silverpencil with a whistle at the end.

"There! I suppose you've even forgotten the whistle." Sheblew shrilly on the little plaything.

Bob looked at her out of straightforward loyal eyes."I own up, Betty, I had forgotten. I didn't know youuntil Mother gave the thing away, but I'll say this, youmade me think of Betty. I never knew how it was,but—now I know." He leaned toward her eagerly."There's only one Betty in the world; there couldn'tbe two and——"

"It really is going to storm, Bob," she said, risingnervously. "Just hear that wind. And see how darkit's getting."

She felt caressing shivers running up and down herback as she caught the unsteadiness of his voice.

"Sit down, Bob. I'm going to sing for you. I'mgoing to sing my favorite song."

He tossed his big shoulders impatiently, and she flunghim a pouting reproof.

"Oh, well, if you don't care to hear my favorite song."

"I do care, Betty. I'm crazy to hear it, but—hello!" Hepaused as a pompous cough and ponderous treadresounded through the hall.

"It's the bishop," said Betty, and the words werescarcely spoken when his lordship entered, his benignantsmile relieving the formidable impressiveness of hisecclesiastical coat and buckled knee breeches.

"Ah, my young friends," was his sonorous greeting ashe peered among the shadowed spaces of the great room."Ah, here you are! Quite a charming twilight picture!" Hetook their hands in a hearty grasp, then, turningslyly to Bob, "I don't think I need apologize for keepingyou waiting."

Young Baxter gave a little self-conscious laugh, butBetty immediately became dignified.

"We were talking about—about music."

"Yes," added Bob. "You know Betty has been studyingsinging in Paris—she has a splendid voice."

"I should very much enjoy hearing Miss Thompsonsing." The bishop bowed gallantly.

"You're just in time. Miss Thompson has promisedto sing her favorite song, and—er—I was saying it wouldbe rather nice to have it in the dark with—er—the organaccompaniment."

Betty opened her eyes at the glibness of Bob's invention.

"To be sure," approved his lordship. "In the dark,by all means, with the storm raging outside. Bless mysoul! Look at that rain!"

The water was coming down in sheets and torrents,lashing the library windows and seething over the glassroof of the conservatory.

"It sounds like a Belasco melodrama," laughed Bob.

"Yes, yes, quite so," murmured the bishop, notunderstanding in the least this allusion. "And what is yourfavorite song, my dear?" he asked Betty.

"Oh, I would never have the courage to sing beforeyou," she declared.

"Besides, it's so much more interesting to talk. We'llhave some lights and some tea, and—you must tell uswhat brings you to this part of the world?"

"Why, don't you know? Didn't you tell her?" Thechurchman turned to Bob in surprise.

"I—er—I thought I did," stammered the latter, butBetty shook her head.

"It's quite a mystery, my dear," the prelate explained."It's in connection with that unfortunate affair in thetrain—you remember?"

"The purse?"

"Exactly. I received a telegram this morning fromScotland Yard—the police headquarters."

"Yes?"

"Perhaps you don't know it, but they have sent adetective here, a man named Grimes."

Betty could feel her lips getting white, but she kepther self-possession.

"I know," she said quietly, "I saw him."

"I had a few words with him myself just now. Heseems like a straightforward fellow—says he has a clew,but—he isn't quite ready to make his report."

"How can he have a clew in this house?" objectedBob. "The servants have all left, and—I guess it's afalse alarm."

"I'm afraid so," sighed the prelate. "We have had somany false alarms. You remember those Germanmusicians, Miss Thompson?"

"I remember."

"They were innocent, it appears, quite innocent. Ah,well, I suppose we must be patient," the prelatecontinued in a tone of resignation, "and, for the moment,my dear, nothing could be more delightful than the songyou were speaking of—in the dark, please."

Betty looked out into the park, where the swayingpines, tortured in the strength of the tempest, werehurling their branches to and fro like huge black hands.She listened to the shrieking of the gale as it rose andfell, then, without speaking, she went to the old organ,and, seating herself at its yellow keyboard, in thepaneled recess, began to play softly a tender preludeof minor chords. As her courage grew she swelled intoa braver ascending movement with danger notes soundinghere and there, and, finally, improvising through arapid procession of major chords, she swung into atriumphant crashing finale with the full strength of theorgan, a storm within and a storm without that stirredold Bunchester to the depths of his tired soul and gaveBetty Thompson new courage for the task that wasbefore her.

Suddenly she stopped. There was a moment of tensesilence, then her sweet voice lifted in an inspired melody,and, with all the tenderness of her nature, she sang"Annie Laurie."

"Wonderful! Admirable!" exclaimed the bishop whenthe last note of the haunting words had died away. "Youhave an exquisite voice, my dear. Really, I—I don'tknow when I have been more genuinely touched."

Betty herself was so deeply moved that she couldscarcely trust herself to speak.

"Bob," she called softly, "will you get my handkerchief?It's there by you—in my desk—the top drawer."

She spoke as if she thought Bob was sitting near herdesk, but he rose from the opposite corner of the room.

"Certainly," he said, crossing over. "Wait, I'll turnup the lights," and he did so, touching a button in thewall.

As the electrics flashed out Betty looked about her insurprise.

"Why, how strange!" she cried.

"What?" asked the bishop.

"Surely you—you haven't been sitting there all thetime—while I was singing?"

"My dear young lady, I haven't moved from thischair," declared his lordship.

"But you must have moved. Some one moved acrossthis room," she insisted. Then she turned earnestly toBaxter.

"Bob, was it you? Did you move? I couldn't see inthe dark, but—I thought it was you."

Her voice was almost pleading now.

"Nobody moved," Bob assured her. "We were toomuch taken up with your singing. Say, Betty, it wasgreat. I never heard anything like it, never. I knewyou could sing, but—by George, I didn't know you werean artist."

The girl's eyes were still troubled.

"You'll think me silly," she said with a strangeimpressiveness, "but—I know some one passed through thisroom while I was singing."

CHAPTER XXXIII

"HER PROMISE TRUE"

Half an hour before this, in the little mezzaninechamber, Hester Storm, with a sigh of relief,had sat down to the tray of food that Bettyhad left for her. At any rate, the worst was over. Shehad confessed her sin and had renounced all interest inthe stolen money except to give it back. Miss Thompsonwould intercede for her with the bishop, and he, havingthe funds once more, would see that the police investigationwas dropped. So she need not worry about Grimes.He would be taken off the case within twenty-four hoursand—— What was that?

Above the tumult of the storm she had heard distinctlythe click of a latch and, glancing up from her place,Hester fixed her eyes on the green door at the otherend of the room and, presently she saw this open slowlyand noiselessly, as she had seen it open once before. Amoment later Anton entered, his eyes cruel, his face setwith wicked determination.

The chauffeur closed the door behind him and lockedit. Then, without a word, he went to the other doorthat opened on the library stairs and, putting this aninch or two ajar, he stood listening. Hester listened alsoand could hear Bob Baxter speaking tenderly to Betty.

"Spooning!" nodded the intruder. "Good business!He'll keep her for a while, but——" he turned the key inthe lock, "I'll make sure just the same."

Hester started to her feet.

"Why do you lock that door?" Her bent shouldersand staring eyes betrayed her sudden terror.

"You'll find out," he whispered hoarsely.

She cowered away as the man strode toward her.

"Worked your little game all right this morning, eh,kid?" he sneered. "Got the cablegram out of mypocket?"

She half shut her eyes, watching him keenly.

"Yes, I got it."

"What'd'ye do with it?" he demanded.

She tossed her head with a flash of impudence.

"That's my business. See here, you keep your handsoff me or——"

"Or what?"

With a scowl of anger he caught her in his powerfularms, and held her helpless. "Little fool! I had youthis morning—in the library and I—let you go." Hisvoice was thick with passion. "But if you get awaynow—— Good Lord, hear that!"

He turned to the window as the shrieking tempestmade the whole house tremble.

Like a desperate hunted thing Hester drew backstealthily. It was in her mind to make a dash for one ofthe doors and escape before Anton could seize her again.He had left the keys in the locks and—the room wasalmost dark, but——

The chauffeur turned as if anticipating her thoughts."Come here," he ordered and slowly she obeyed."Why should I keep my hands off you?"

She stood white-faced before him, searching vainly;for some way of escape.

"You're a crook—wanted by the police. There's aman in this house from Scotland Yard. Did you knowthat?"

"Yes, I know it."

Anton caught her by the wrist and drew her to himroughly.

"You're hurting me," she cried.

"He'll hurt you more than that, if he gets you—he'llhurt you with irons."

The chauffeur leaned closer, leering horribly and itseemed to Hester that all the strength was going out ofher body.

"Let me go!" she panted.

"Ha! Let you go!"

Again he caught her in his arms and pressed herfiercely against him. She felt his hot breath. She sawthe veins swelling in his red neck. She struggled andturned her head from side to side, but he buried his facein her neck, in her hair, with little snorts and cries likean animal; then he kissed her furiously on the cheeks, onthe forehead and at last full and long on the mouth!

"Ha! Let you go!" he breathed with smothered violence."I'll let you go when—stop that!" he cried. "Youwill! You'll bite me?"

With a twinge of pain he drew back for a second, butinstantly rushed after her as she sprang away.

And now, in her extreme and imminent peril, Hestertook the last chance that remained. Before the madmancould get his hands on her again, she screamed with allthe power of her lungs—then screamed again.

Anton stood still, his eyes filled with sudden fear, hisnostrils dilated. That wild cry had stirred the cowardwithin the beast. And, while he waited, stunned andstupid, Hester's quick wits took control of the situation.

"Listen! I hear a step," she warned him, but, in hersinking heart, she knew that there was no step. No onehad heard her. The shrieking of the storm had coveredeverything. She was as helpless as before.

And while Anton listened in alarm, not yet realizinghis advantage, the Storm girl's mind leaped forward tostudy the next move in the desperate game she was playing.In a moment he would see that there was nodanger—no one was coming, no one would come. And then,in gloating reaction, he would come back to his infernalpurpose and—God! she must turn him from that beforethe beast was roused again.

"Anton," she said with swift decision, "I—I did takethe money out of the purse."

He stared at her doubtfully.

"You did?"

"Yes—I—I hid it."

"Where?"

"In the conservatory. Don't look at me like that. I'mnot lying. You've played me to a standstill and—Iquit."

"You mean you'll give me my share of the money?"

"Yes."

"Five thousand pounds? I get half of it?"

"Yes."

Anton moistened his red lips with the tip of histongue. He ran his fingers back through his thick hair.This was a new problem.

"You little devil!" he said almost admiringly. Thenwith suspicion, "You say you hid this money in theconservatory. Where in the conservatory? Where? Andno more funny business—— I won't stand for it," hethreatened, as he saw her hesitate.

"If I tell you where it is will you let me get it?" sheasked.

"Let you get it? And then get away with it? Ishould say not. I'll get it myself."

She shook her head stubbornly.

"No. We'll get it together. You can stand over me,you can watch every move I make, but——I take thebills out and divide 'em. Don't make any mistake aboutthat."

He frowned at this ultimatum, but she saw the spiritof greed shining in his eyes. Thank God, the otherdanger was past.

"You can divide the bills. Come on."

Anton went to the green door and turned the key.

"You go first. And remember, kid, if you try anycrafty work, I'm right at your back and—if I don't getthat money, the police get you."

She nodded indifferently and led the way along adark passage, then down a narrow servants' staircasethat ended in a door opening into the conservatory. Asthey moved on cautiously Anton kept his hand firmly onthe girl's shoulder and, somehow, Hester was glad ofthis, for the half-darkness and the violence of the stormfrightened her. She had no thought any longer of escaping.She had done her best and failed. She had playedher last card and lost.

This man had forced her to choose between being athief and a wanton and—well, she had been a thiefbefore. To save her body from prison and—a worse fate,she was ready to give Anton half of this stolen money,she must give it to him, she had no choice, and the otherhalf, her half, she would return this to the bishop. Thatwas all she could do.

Hester opened the door at the foot of the stairs andstepped forward into the fragrant atmosphere of theplants and blooms. Anton was close behind her. Shecould feel his clutching hand. It was very dark withinthe conservatory and outside the storm was ragingfearfully.

Suddenly the organ in the library began to play softly.Hester Storm stood still, listening at first in fear, andthen, as the music wove its spell about her, with a kindof strange pleasure. Who could be playing so beautifullyand tenderly there in the dark while she was here insuch trouble?

A menacing pressure from the hand on her shoulderurged the girl to action. Stepping forward, Hester cameto the rose bush in its gilded basket. A quick movementwith one hand lifted the cylinder from its pot, then asearch with the other brought her fingers in contact withthe banknotes. There! She had them! Fifty hundred-poundnotes! She had only to count off twenty-five andgive them to Anton. That would silence him, but—wouldhe take her word, in the darkness, that the countwas straight?

She turned toward the chauffeur and, at this moment,became conscious that there was no longer any pressureon her shoulder. Anton had taken away his hand. Shepeered through the shadows, but could discern nothingsave the vague outlines of a giant palm. She stretchedforth her hand, but could feel nothing. The man hadgone. At the moment of grasping a fortune he hadgone. Why? What had happened?

In her concentration on the rose bush Hester had notseen the dull glow of a cigar burning in sinisterwatchfulness, there, in the far corner of the conservatory; butAnton had seen it and had drawn back stealthily, hisheart pounding. It was Grimes lurking in the darkness,Grimes waiting for his prey.

And now, as Hester wondered at this strange disappearanceof her persecutor, the organ stopped and abeautiful voice sounded from the library in a song thatnone can resist.

Gave me her promise true,
Which ne'er forgot shall he,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie,
I'd lay down and dee.

"Her promise true!" These words went straight tothe soul of this poor transgressor. It was like a voicespeaking to her, a voice singing to her, a wonderfulvoice through the shadows of fear carrying its messageof steadfastness and hope.

"Her promise true!" What had she promised? Tobe honest, to be kind. That meant giving back themoney—and letting Anton hand her over to Grimes.Anton would do it, too, the cur. Then Grimes wouldsend her up and—she'd never see Rosalie againand—she'd never be able to do anything for Rosalie.

Strange how this thought of Rosalie gave Hesterstrength to do the thing that would surely separate herfrom Rosalie, to do the thing that was right, whateverthe cost! As she listened, breathless and motionless,reveling in that enthralling melody, it seemed as if shesaw her sister's loving eyes, gazing at her tenderly.

It was Rosalie, the pure soul of Rosalie, speaking toher, pleading with her in golden song, bidding her bebrave and—keep her promise and—give the moneyback—not half of it, but all of it.

Inspired with this simple faith, the girl moved swiftlytoward the wide glass door that led into the library. Inher hand she held the banknotes. She was going to givethem back. Anton and Grimes might do what theypleased. If punishment and shame must come, then letthem come. She was going to return the money shehad stolen and—do what her dear sister Rosalie wouldwish and—keep "her promise true."

With her hand on the door Hester paused. She rememberedthat Miss Thompson's desk stood at this sideof the room, not more than ten feet distant. It waspossible that, under cover of darkness and the music, shecould reach this desk without attracting attention. Ifshe could, then—then she might slip the money into oneof the drawers and—and make her getaway through thepark before Anton could be sure that she had thrownhim down. He wouldn't tell Grimes until he wasabsolutely sure. She might have time to stop at the lodgefor her things and—she could square old Mrs. Pottlesomehow. There was just a chance, in this storm, thatshe could be off on a train to London before Antonwould even tumble that she had started. He was a gooddeal of a fool, Anton, and a coward besides.

Well, she would take the chance. It meant liberty,everything and—this was playing fair. She had promisedto give the money back, but—that didn't mean walkingmeekly into jail. To be honest, to be kind—therewas nothing else to it. She had a perfect right to keepout of jail, if she could.

Lightly and swiftly Hester entered the library andglided across the room toward Miss Thompson's desk.Betty was still singing, but the Storm girl listened nolonger. All her faculties were centered on the lastdesperate adventure. If she could only get away with this!If the kind God—Merle's God—Rosalie's God—wouldonly let her get away with this!

Groping before her in the obscurity of the room, herhand touched the desk and, running her fingers over it,she came upon a partly open drawer. There wassomething white in it. A handkerchief! It was the topdrawer on the left-hand side. She would remember thatand wire Betty to-night—no, write her. The top draweron the left-hand side, under the handkerchief. There!She crowded the banknotes back into the drawer with afarewell tap and cautiously pressed the drawer shut.The spring-lock clicked. She had kept her promise.She had returned the Bishop of Bunchester's five thousandpounds, while the bishop himself, all unconscious ofthis, sat, lost in pleasant reverie, not three yards away.

Swiftly and silently, as before, Hester left the room.Thus far fortune and the darkness and the music hadfavored her. It only remained to cross the conservatory,to open the outside door and then venture forth into thestorm. Where was Anton? Where was Grimes?

With a supreme effort the girl conquered her fearsand crossed the few feet that separated her from thetumult inside. And, close behind her in a dull red line,came the watchful cigar—and Grimes.

The Storm girl grasped the latch of the outside doorand, at the same moment, a heavy hand descended onher shoulder.

"Anton!" she started.

"Guess again, little one," answered a voice that madeher knees sink under her. "We've got you with thegoods this time. Eh, Jenny Regan?"

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE FIVE-BAR GATE

"It may interest you young people to know," thebishop was saying in the library, "that AnnieLaurie—you know she was the daughter of SirRobert Laurie of Maxwellton, and—er—she married anancestor of mine."

"Really! Tell us about her," exclaimed Betty, leaningforward eagerly.

"I'm afraid there isn't much to tell except that shedid not marry the poor young man—what was hisname?—who wrote those tender verses about her?"

"She didn't?" frowned Bob, while Miss Thompsonwatched him with a roguish smile.

"No. She married my ancestor. I have always hadthe deepest sympathy for that unappreciated poet."

Young Baxter nodded wisely.

"Perhaps he'd have been more appreciated if he hadn'tbeen so much of a poet. While he was making rhymesto Annie your ancestor got busy with the girl, and thefirst thing Mr. Poet knew the other fellow had landedher."

"Ha, ha, ha!" chuckled the prelate. "That soundslike one of your father's remarks."

"Speaking of Father," Bob glanced at his watch, "I'mexpecting him up from town on this next train. I hopenothing detains him."

"I hope not," said the churchman earnestly. "I havebeen looking forward to seeing my dear old friendand—er—I wanted him to be present in case this detectivereports anything that seems—er—important."

"Exactly," agreed the young man.

At this moment Merle entered, looking pale andanxious, and, bowing respectfully to the bishop, hewent close to Baxter and said something in alow tone.

"Oh! All right. I'll see him," nodded Bob. Thento Betty and his lordship: "If you'll excuse me,I—er—there's a little matter I must attend to." And hehurried off, followed by Horatio.

"Oh, Mr. Merle! May I speak to you a moment?"called the bishop.

Horatio turned and a faint flush spread over the ashengray of his thin face.

"Yes, your lordship."

Bunchester's eyes rested on the curate in kindlysolicitude, then with a ruddy smile he turned to Betty.

"I must tell you, Miss Thompson, that Horatio Merleand I are friends of long standing, and naturally, whenhe came to my bedroom this afternoon with a tray oftea and toast—exquisitely served, I must say—I wassomewhat surprised and—er—after a little talk, I becameacquainted with the unusual and—er—interestingposition that Mr. Merle has chosen to occupy in thishousehold."

As the prelate went on his manner became more andmore serious until now, turning to the astonished andabashed Horatio, he addressed him with all theimpressiveness of his sonorous voice and his full episcopaldignity.

"Mr. Merle, you probably do not realize how deeplyI was affected by what you told me this afternoon. Iwish to shake hands with you, sir, and say, both as yourbishop and as a fellow man, that I respect you andhonor you for the fine simplicity and manliness you haveshown here at Ipping House in accepting, I may say inseeking, a rather—er—humiliating position. I doubt,sir, if there is another clergyman in my diocese whowould be capable of such an act of Christian self-effacement."

"I—I thank your lordship," murmured Horatio,retreating awkwardly toward the door.

"Wait! I haven't finished. Mr. Merle, you havebuilded better than you knew. It happens that my oldfriend, Dr. Dibble, the rector of St. Timothy's inIppingford, has become so infirm that we are about to retirehim on a pension. The living is in my hands and it ismy intention, sir, in fact, it is my absolute decision, tooffer it to you."

Horatio was so overcome by this extraordinary goodnews that for some moments he could not speak a word.Was it possible? He, a poor curate, who had made afailure of everything, suddenly lifted to this splendidheight? He, the rector of St. Timothy's? He, HoratioMerle?

"Oh, your lordship!" he stammered.

"There is a fine old rectory with five or six acres ofland and the prettiest rose garden in Kent. I am sureyou and your wife will be happy there."

"Your lordship, I—I thank your lordship. I—I wouldadd——"

Horatio stood quite still, holding a few strands of hisside whiskers between an agitated thumb and forefinger.He opened and closed his mouth several times and then,in a tumult of suppressed feeling, he hurried from theroom.

Just as he was closing the door Betty flew after him.

"Oh, Mr. Merle, I am so happy! I congratulate youwith all my heart."

She clasped his hand impulsively with such sweetnessand genuineness that the good man's confusion wasmade more complete, if that were possible.

"Thank you, Miss Thompson—thank you. Pleasedon't say any more. I—I must go. I—must tell mywife."

Horatio hastened away, his eyes shining with tearsof joy.

And now there came a bad quarter of an hour forElizabeth Thompson. It was evidently her duty totell the bishop immediately, without losing a moment,about the stolen money. This was her opportunity totell him; she was alone with him and—she must tell him.And yet she could not speak. She had promised HesterStorm to say nothing until after Grimes had gone. Shehad promised faithfully, and—for the moment her lipswere sealed.

"Bishop," she began, and in her eyes there was theshadow of impending trouble.

"Yes, my dear. Sit down." He made room for herbeside him on the davenport.

"There's something I've wanted to speak to youabout—that is——"

"I understand, my dear," he anticipated. "You havereference to that unfortunate affair on the train? Youknow I came here to-day for the express purpose of—er—thatis to say, I shall be glad to obtain, in fact, thedetective urged me to get from you, any informationyou can give regarding that painful occurrence."

"But—I wanted to ask you——"

She paused, biting her lips, and the prelate went onserenely.

"I have been told of your very great kindness to thesuspected young woman who was in the carriage withus. I feel sure you acted in a sweet, pitying spirit, butyou can hardly realize, my child, as one in my positiondoes, the unwisdom of accepting too readily the unconfirmedstatements of—er—shall I say plausible strangers.By the way do you happen to know what has become ofthis Jenny Regan?"

"Why—she told me—she spoke of living in NewYork, and—I think she was—going back there."

Betty's distress of mind was so evident that the bishopmust surely have noticed it had it not been for thesudden entrance of Bob Baxter, whose pale face anddisturbed manner showed that something serious hadhappened.

"I've been talking to the detective," he explained,"and—I want to apologize to both of you in advance, andespecially to you, Betty, for what the man is going tosay. He insists on coming in here, and—if I had myway I'd chuck him out of the house, but—he comes asan officer of the law, and I suppose I have no choice butto let him do what he considers his duty."

"Quite right," nodded the bishop. "We must respectthe law."

Betty stared, white faced, before her while youngBaxter went to the door and showed in the detective.Grimes had left his cigar outside.

"All right. Go ahead," said Bob with a contemptuousglance at the newcomer. "Only, please make it as shortas possible."

"I'm not in the habit of wasting words, Mr. Baxter,"answered Grimes curtly.

"You mustn't mind, Betty," continued the young fellow,"if he asks you some rather impertinent questions.It's only a formality, and it's part of his business. Now,sir!"

Quietly ignoring this high-handed manner, the detectiveseated himself, and, facing the troubled secretary,went straight at the business in hand.

"You remember Jenny Regan, the girl who was inthe railway carriage when the Bishop of Bunchesterdiscovered that his purse had been stolen?"

"Yes, I remember her," answered Betty.

"You took a great interest in this young woman, didyou not? You offered her money, gave her your card,although she was a stranger. How was that?"

"I was sorry for her. She had had a hard struggle,and I wanted to help her."

"Fine!" exclaimed Bob, and Grimes flashed him asharp glance from under his thick eyebrows.

"You had no idea she was a professional pickpocket?"

"No."

"No idea that she stole the bishop's purse?"

"Certainly not."

"You believed her to be an innocent and deservingperson?"

"I did."

"Miss Thompson, are you still of that opinion?"

"I am sure she is a deserving person," was the firmreply.

"Who is?" asked Grimes quickly.

"Why, Hest—Jenny Regan," stammered Betty, andthe detective smiled, but he paid no attention to this slip.

"You say deserving, but not innocent. Do you stillthink Jenny Regan innocent of stealing the bishop'spurse?"

The crisis had come. Should Betty speak or keepsilent? To speak would bring inevitable ruin upon thisunfortunate girl, who had trusted her. Yet how couldshe not speak?

While she hesitated Bob spoke for her. "How canMiss Thompson possibly know whether Jenny Reganstole the bishop's purse or not?" he demanded.

"Miss Thompson has the best reason in the world forknowing that," Grimes answered, and there was a noteof cold menace in his voice.

"See here," retorted the young fellow. "I won't standfor this. Either you make good your words or——"

"Keep still, my friend. I'll make my words good." Then,turning to the bishop, "I beg your lordship tobelieve that I am not speaking lightly." He drew fromhis pocket a brown leather purse clasped by an elasticband. "Does your lordship recognize this?"

"Bless my soul! My purse!" exclaimed the bishop."Where did you find it?"

"With your lordship's permission I'll explain that—alittle later."

Old Bunchester coughed impressively. "And themoney?" he asked. "The five thousand pounds? Isit—in the purse?"

The detective shook his head. "Not a penny of it.The purse is empty. There!" He handed the leanwallet to its owner.

"Quite true," sighed the bishop. "It is empty."

"Do I understand that you found this purse somewhereabout here—I mean about this house?" demandedBob.

"Yes," said the detective.

"And you have no idea where the money is?" inquiredBunchester anxiously.

"I have a very distinct idea where the money is,"answered Grimes slowly, "and this young lady——" hefaced Betty accusingly, "she also has a very distinct ideawhere the money is."

At this Baxter's eyes blazed fiercely. "You dareto——"

"Wait, Bob!" The girl laid a restraining hand uponhis arm. Then, lifting her head proudly, she challengedGrimes. "You mean to insinuate that I took the moneyfrom this purse?"

"Impossible!" murmured the bishop.

A hard smile played about the detective's mouth.

"You mean to deny that you know where the money is?"

She hesitated. "Why—er——"

"Where is it?" he demanded.

"I—I can't tell you."

"You refuse to answer?"

"I—must refuse." She thought of her promise toHester.

"My dear child," interposed Bunchester kindly. "I'msure you are actuated by the most honorable motives,but this is a case where the whole truth must be told."

"Go ahead, Betty; tell what you know," urged Bob.

"I—I——" she began weakly, but rallied with a flashof anger. "I'll not be questioned like this." Her prideand fighting spirit were stirred now. The idea that shewas actually accused of stealing this money or of beingan accomplice in the theft—it was outrageous, preposterous.Very well, if they thought her guilty they couldkeep on thinking so.

"I have made a serious charge here," Grimes proceededquietly, "and I propose to prove it." He turnedsharply to the girl. "Whose desk is that?"

"My desk," she answered.

The detective examined the drawers carefully. Theywere all unlocked except the top one on the left-handside.

"You keep this drawer locked?"

"Usually."

"You have the key?"

"Yes. It's in my bag." She opened her bag andproduced a flat key. "Here it is."

"Has anyone else a key to this drawer?"

"No."

Grimes looked at the key critically. "H'm! A springlock. Do you mind opening this drawer?"

"Why should I open it? It's my private drawer." Bettythought of her Marcus Aurelius and Bob's preciousletter. Why should these sacred things be dragged outby this vulgar detective?

"Oh, it's your private drawer, is it? Just the same,I must ask you to open it, Miss Thompson."

"Very well," yielded the girl. "There!" She put thekey in the lock and turned it while Grimes watched herkeenly.

"Now if your lordship will look in this drawer?" hesaid.

"Certainly," bowed the prelate, and he pulled out thedrawer to its full length, then started back with a cryof amazement. "Good heavens!" He drew forth abundle of folded banknotes. "It's the stolen money," hedeclared. "The exact amount! The identical notes!Five thousand pounds!"

Betty started in bewilderment. "But—I don'tunderstand," she said.

Old Bunchester turned to the girl in deep concern."My dear Miss Thompson, this is exceedingly painful,exceedingly compromising. I beg you most earnestly, inthe interest of everyone, in your own interest, to tell ushow it comes that this money is found in your desk.You must explain this mystery, indeed you must."

"Hold on!" cried Bob, springing forward, his wholeface transfigured, and here it was, in the words ofHiram Baxter, that the boy showed himself a thoroughbredand took the five-bar gate in one clean leap. "Don'tsay a word, Betty. Don't explain anything. You're thefinest, pluckiest girl I ever knew, and right now,without any explanation, I ask you to be my wife."

"Bob!" she cried, and her whole soul was in her eyes.

"It's all right, dear." He stood close beside her anddrew her to him protectingly. "There are two of usnow." Then, turning to Grimes: "Go ahead with yoursilly little game."

"All very pretty," sniffed the detective, while thebishop looked on in purple amazement, "but, before weget through with our silly little game you may not findit as silly as you think."

He strode across the library to the foot of the littlestair and pointed to the mezzanine door. "If MissThompson was so confident that Jenny Regan was adeserving person why did she hide her in that room thismorning?"

"What?" cried Bob.

Grimes fixed his hard gaze on Betty. "Do you denythat you hid Hester Storm, otherwise known as JennyRegan, in that room?"

The girl eyed him steadily. "It's true," she said;"but—I can explain it."

Young Baxter started to his feet. "It isn't possiblethis Storm girl who's been working here is—Jenny Regan?"

Grimes nodded. "Jenny Regan is one of her aliases.It's a matter of police record. You knew this, didn'tyou?" He turned to Betty, whose cheeks were aflamewith anger.

"Yes, I knew it," she flung back, "and what ismore——"

"You knew she was a thief and a pickpocket?" headded.

With an effort the girl checked herself and stoodpanting.

"If your lordship will give me a few moments," shesaid in a low tone, "I can make everything clear. Youdon't mind, Bob? Just a few moments?"

Baxter bowed to her wish. "Of course I don't mind.Come on," he said to Grimes.

"Not I," refused the latter. "Miss Thompson says shecan make things clear to his lordship. So can I. Hislordship's purse was stolen by Hester Storm, alias JennyRegan, but this young woman," he swept Betty with acruel look, "was an accessory after the fact."

"You miserable hound!" roared Bob.

And the bishop said solemnly: "My dear sir, you aremaking an incredible accusation. Miss Thompson is alady—a friend of mine. I knew her estimable father."

"I can only lay the facts before your lordship,"shrugged the detective. He went to the library door,and, motioning quickly, returned followed by HesterStorm, who looked neither to the right nor the left, butheld her eyes straight down before her, as if studyingthe yellowish pattern in the carpet. Betty watched herin surprise.

"There," Grimes pointed to Hester, "is my answer toyour lordship's doubts. What is this woman doing here?She is a notorious thief and a pickpocket. Why didshe come to Ipping House? Why did your lordship'sfriend, Miss Thompson, shelter her in that bedroomand try to prevent me from arresting her? Theanswer is easy. It was because Miss Thompsonproposed to share the money this Storm girl had stolenfrom your lordship."

"That's a lie!" rang out Betty's swift denial. "Tellthem it's a lie. You must tell them," she appealedfrantically to Hester.

But the Storm girl never moved; she never spoke; shenever lifted her eyes from the carpet.

And Grimes went on relentlessly: "If Miss Thompsonwas innocent of this crime why did she not tell thewhole truth about it when she was alone with yourlordship not half an hour ago?"

"I wanted to tell the truth," insisted Betty, "but Ihad promised this poor girl that I would do nothinguntil—until the detective had gone." Again sheappealed to Hester. "You know that is true. Tell themit's true."

But the Storm girl stood there like a frozen image,her lips closed, her eyes cast down. And a sickeningterror filled Betty's breast.

"Your lordship must see that there is a strong caseagainst this young woman." Grimes moved towardBetty with a grim tightening of the lips. "You'll haveto come with me." He laid a hand on her arm.

Instantly Bob Baxter stepped forward, his face aswhite as Betty's.

"Take your hands off that lady."

"Oh, I don't know," retorted Grimes. "I'm an officerof the law and——"

"My dear Mr. Baxter," reasoned the bishop, interposinghis portly and venerable presence between the excitedadversaries, "believe me, we must respect themajesty of the law."

"Majesty nothing," stormed Bob. "I tell you——"

"I tell you to step back," ordered the detective. "Andyou——" he faced Miss Thompson, "consider yourselfunder arrest. If you have anything to get ready you'dbetter do it. We start in——" he glanced at his watch,"in ten minutes."

"Start?" cried Baxter, aghast.

The seriousness of the situation was now clear toeveryone.

"See here," the young man appealed to Grimes aftera moment's thought, "there's some horrible mistake.Miss Thompson had nothing to do with stealing thatmoney. She couldn't steal. Look at her, man! Youknow she couldn't. I'll be responsible anyway, or myfather will, for the money and everything else. Youcan't drag her off like this and disgrace her. By God, Iwon't let you."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I've no choice. A crime has beencommitted, and—there's evidence enough to hold her onif she was a cousin of the queen."

"Under arrest!" murmured Betty twining her fingerstogether piteously and fixing her eyes on Hester.

At this moment the sound of carriage wheels washeard outside. Bob went quickly to the window.

"It's Father," he said with a movement of relief."Cheer up, Betty. Dad will think of something."

A moment later Hiram Baxter entered the room. Hisface was ashen gray. He looked broken and ill, but aflicker of the old bright smile spread over his ruggedface as he glanced about the room.

"Hello, everybody! Why, hello, Bish!" He tappedBunchester playfully on the shoulder. "I'm awful gladto see you, Bish." Then, as he noticed the universalgloom, "Say, it strikes me you folks are a little frappay.What's wrong? What are you doing here?" he askedGrimes.

The detective started to explain, but Bob cut ineagerly.

"One moment! Father, did you leave twenty-fivethousand dollars in the drawer of that desk?"

"Twenty-five thousand dollars! Say, boy, is this ajoke? If it is, I tell ye straight I don't like it."

"No, Father, it's not a joke; it's very far from a joke.Did you leave it there?"

"Twenty-five thousand dollars in that desk? Say, ifyou knew what I've been through to-day! I've beenscratchin' around down where the avenues are pavedwith red-hot bricks, lookin' for twenty-five thousanddollars. And I didn't find it, either. No, sir, I left nomoney in that desk. It ain't my desk, anyway; it'sBetty's desk."

"Ah!" smiled Grimes.

"Say, who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Grimes from Scotland Yard."

"Let me explain," put in Betty. "I—I'm in greattrouble, Guardy."

"I'll tell him, dear," said Bob. "Father, I—I've askedBetty to be my wife."

"Well, it ain't that that's makin' ye look like a funeral,is it?" drawled Hiram. "Go on, now; let me have it."

Betty and Bob spoke at the same time, both pointingscornful fingers at Grimes.

"He says that I——"

"He dares to say that Betty——"

"Easy now! Not all at once. Say, Bish, you'd bettertell it."

Bunchester coughed impressively. "My dear friend,it seems incredible, but the fact is Mr. Grimes thinksthat Miss Thompson was concerned in the—er—misappropriationof that five thousand pounds."

"That was stolen from you? Betty Thompson? No,no, no!" thundered the old man.

"That is how we all feel, but, with the utmost regretI am forced to bear witness that this exact sum and, Ibelieve, the identical banknotes were found in MissThompson's desk—there."

"Five thousand pounds? What does this mean, Betty?How did that money get in your desk?"

"I—I don't know," the unhappy girl answered.Grimes looked at his watch again. "No use of anymore talk," he said gruffly. "It's time to startand——" motioning to Betty, "you'll have to come with me."

"You don't mean——" Hiram's eyes burned savagely.

"I mean that these two women are under arrest, sir,charged with grand larceny, and I'm going to take 'emto London by the next train."

"But—I won't have it."

"Better not interfere, sir. I've men outside to helpme, and—I'm going to take 'em. Come now." Hecaught Betty by the arm and marched her, half fainting,toward the door.

At this moment Hester Storm lifted her eyes, openedher lips, and spoke in a strange, low tone:

"Wait! You mustn't take her. She didn't steal themoney. She had nothing to do with it. I stole themoney. I put it in that desk. I'm the one to take."

"Hester!" cried Betty. "You—you put that moneyin my desk?" repeated Betty slowly.

"Yes. I meant to steal it or—I meant to steal half ofit, but—when you sang that song about—her promisetrue, why—I thought how you'd been good to me,and—trusted me, and—I sneaked in here and left the money.The drawer was open, and I snapped it shut. Then,when I made my getaway he pinched me." She turnedto Grimes.

The detective lowered his head as if he was studyingthe girl through his eyebrows.

"You told me a different story just now?" he said.

"Sure I did. I lied. You know I lied. You don'tthink I'm stuck on gettin' sent away for ten years, doye? But if it's got to be her or me, well, I won't haveher sent away when all she's done is to treat me rightand try to save me. You can take that from HesterStorm."

"This is a rare and beautiful instance of gratitudeand devotion," commented Bunchester.

"That's all right, Bish; but I want to know moreabout this." Hiram turned to Hester, who was standingwith bowed head and clasped hands. "Well, fer a girlwho talks about stealin'—I guess some o' the honestfolks could take lessons from you. Say, I didn't quiteget that about how you planned to steal half o' thismoney? Where did the half come in? Why didn't yeplan to steal all of it?"

Then, little by little, with questions from Grimes andmore questions from Hiram the Storm girl told herstory, sometimes in broken words, as her feelingsoverpowered her, but in the main simply and bravely andtruthfully, as one who is strengthened by some higherpower. She went back to her childhood and spoke ofher sister Rosalie. She told of her wanderings andwaywardness, then of her visit to Ippingford and hermeeting with Horatio Merle. Then, finally, of herefforts to return the money and of the persecution shehad suffered at the hands of Anton. She kept nothingback, and she made no excuse for herself. She hadsinned and it was right that she should suffer.

As Hester finished her confession every heart wentout to her in genuine sympathy, and Grimes was seen towipe his eyes.

"I want to say," he remarked, "that I've seen somestrange cases in my time, but when it comes to a womantrying to steal money over again that she's stolen onceso as to give it back—why, that's a new one on me."

"Ye can't ever tell what a woman's goin' to do,"nodded Baxter.

"Anyway, I owe you an apology, Miss Thompson,"the detective went on, and there was a little catch in hisvoice as he met Betty's grave, beautiful eyes. "Thingscertainly did look black against you, but—all I can sayis, I'm sorry, Miss, I'm sorry."

"It's all right, old man," said Bob.

Whereupon the Bishop of Bunchester, clearing histhroat ponderously, addressed these comforting wordsto Hester Storm: "My dear young friend, I aminexpressively touched by this story of your struggles andtemptations and your splendid moral victory. It is amost meritorious case and one that the Society ofProgressive Mothers will take up with enthusiasm. As forthe outcome of this affair, speaking for the ProgressiveMothers' Society and for myself, as bishop of thisdiocese, I can assure you that there will be no unpleasantconsequences, so far as you are concerned. The moneyhas been returned. You have truly repented of yoursin and you have given an illustration of spiritualregeneration that will long be treasured in the annals of theProgressive Mothers' Society.

"And now, my dear Miss Thompson, how shall Iexpress my great joy——" The bishop turned to Betty,and was about to launch forth into another soundingperiod when Hiram Baxter interrupted him.

"Excuse me, Bish, fer breakin' in on yer speech,but—I've had a bad day in town, and—if you don't mindtakin' the detective into the next room and finishin' upthe details of this purse business with him, why——"

Baxter leaned back in his chair with signs of physicaldistress—"ye see, I'm just about all in."

"Why, certainly, my dear friend. Let us come inhere." And, motioning to Grimes and Hester, he ledthe way into the conservatory and carefully closed thedoor behind him.

"Father! Is anything wrong?" asked Bob in concern.

"Guardy, you're ill?"

With anxious faces the young lovers stood beside theold man, who smiled at them wearily.

"Children, I've got bad news fer ye, awful bad newsfor ye," he said. "I've made the best fight I could, butthat Henderson bunch, they've done me up. IndependentCopper broke twenty points to-day in the NewYork market, and—I was long of the stock. My mancabled me the tip to sell, but I never got it. I never gotit. That cable was held up." He bent forward, restinghis big grizzled head on his hands in an attitude of utterdespair. "It's all off, children. It's all off."

Betty's heart was pounding violently as she listened.Things had happened so rapidly in the last few hoursthat she had scarcely thought of Lionel and his wildsprint for the cable office. Had he failed to get therein time? Had he made some mistake? What could havehappened to Lionel?

"Excuse me a moment," she said, and hurrying towardthe conservatory, she threw open the door and lookedabout her.

One glance showed that something had happened, forher eyes fell on a murmuring group gathered aboutAnton and the detective. And there in the group, calmlysmoking a cigarette, was Lionel Fitz-Brown.

"Lionel!" Betty called, addressing him by his Christianname for the first time in her life. "Please comehere—quick." And then, when he stood before her, veryindignantly: "The idea of your not coming to tell me!"

"Tell you about what?" he asked blankly.

"About the cable. Did you—were you in time?"

Fitz-Brown adjusted his monocle with great care, then,gradually, a smile spread over his face. "Oh, I say!The cable! You see, I got so beastly wet in the storm,Miss Thompson, that I—well, the fact is, I had on thinflannel trousers and they jolly well shrunk up to myknees and—haw, haw, haw!" He exploded intouproarious merriment.

"Oh, Mr. Fitz-Brown," she wrung her hands beseechingly,"please tell me if you got the cable off by twelve?"

Lionel laid a reflective forefinger along his nose. "Bytwelve? No. No, I didn't."

"You didn't?" Betty's heart sank.

"I go it off five minutes before twelve. Haw, haw,haw!" He fairly doubled up in his enjoyment of thiswitticism.

Like a flash, Betty darted back to Hiram, thrillingwith this good news. And at the same moment Grimesentered, holding a cablegram in his hand.

"Beg your pardon, sir," he said respectfully toBaxter, "I've just arrested your chauffeur, Anton Busch.He's a crook, Slippery Jake, sneak thief and confidenceman, wanted by the police in half dozen cities. He'sbeen working some deviltry here, sir. I've just foundthis cablegram on him. It's addressed to you."

"Thank you," said Hiram with a look of inexpressiblesadness in his eyes. "It's come too late."

"I'm sorry, sir. I—I'll wait outside," and Grimeswithdrew, his hard face softened by a look of deep pityfor the shattered old warrior.

Baxter sat still, looking at the yellow envelope. "Toolate!" he muttered. "Oh, if I'd only got this cablegramin time!"

"Guardy, I want to tell you something," Betty began,but Hiram paid no attention.

"Nothing matters now," he went on bitterly. "Imustn't say that. I'm happy about you two. Betty!Bob!" He joined their hands and held themstrongly. "It's what I've always dreamed of, but—Iwanted to leave ye well fixed and now——" The tearswere coursing down his grizzled cheeks. "We'reruined—ruined."

"No, no! We're not ruined. You mustn't say that,Guardy." The girl dared not promise anything, for shedid not know the result of her effort, but she pointedhopefully to the unopened cablegram. "Why don't youopen this? Why don't you read it?"

He shook his head despairingly. "I know what it is.It's the notice that I've been sold out and—everything'sgone. God! If I'd only known! If I couldonly have given the order to sell—even a few thousandshares."

With a listless movement Hiram ripped open the cableenvelope and drew out the yellow sheet. Betty thoughther heart would stop beating as she watched his face.Slowly the look of amazement came. He rubbed hiseyes and read the message again. Then he sprang tohis feet with a great cry.

"What! It ain't possible! Listen to this!" In hisexcitement, Hiram almost shouted the words writtenthere before him. "'Congratulate you on your splendidnerve. Executed order at once. Sold fifty thousandshares at top of market and closed out with twentypoints profit. Gramercy.' You hear that, Bob? Readit! Am I crazy or—— No, no! There's somethingwrong. I didn't show any splendid nerve. I didn'tcable any order to sell fifty thousand shares. There'ssome mistake."

"There's no mistake," cried Betty. "I cabled the orderto sell."

"You?" stared Bob.

"You?" gasped Hiram. "You cabled the order to sellfifty thousand shares of Independent Copper stock formy account? Fifty thousand shares?"

It was several moments before Betty could speak, andthen, laughing and crying hysterically, she told what sheand Lionel had done.

"I should say it was splendid nerve," said Bob. Andfolding his big, strong arms around her, "Betty, youdarling!" he whispered.

She lay there happy in his arms and, looking up intohis eyes with all the fondness of her soul, answeredshyly and sweetly, "Bob, my love."

And Hiram Baxter, wiping away his tears of joy, mutteredto himself (since no one else was paying any attention),"Holy cats! Is there anything a woman won't do?"

THE END

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73472 ***