



Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the
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[Illustration: "The black pile is mine, the gay pile is yours,"
she went on, turning toward the sleeping girl]

THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND

By GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON





CONTENTS




I MARCH COMES IN LIKE THE LION

II THE PASSING OF A NIGHT

III HETTY CASTLETON

IV WHILE THE MOB WAITED

V DISCUSSING A SISTER-IN-LAW

VI SOUTHLOOK

VII A FAITHFUL CRAYON-POINT

VIII IN WHICH HETTY IS WEIGHED

IX HAWKRIGHT'S MODEL

X THE GHOST AT THE FEAST

XI MAN PROPOSES

XII THE APPROACH OF A MAN NAMED SMITH

XIII MR. WRANDALL PERJURES HIMSELF

XIV IN THE SHADOW OF THE MILL

XV SARA WRANDALL FINDS THE TRUTH

XVI THE SECOND ENCOUNTER

XVII CROSSING THE CHANNEL

XVIII RATTLING OLD BONES

XIX VIVIAN AIRS HER OPINIONS

XX ONCE MORE AT BURTON'S INN

XXI DISTURBING NEWS

XXII THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND

XXIII SARA WRANDALL'S DECISION

XXIV THE JURY OF FOUR

XXV RENUNCIATION





CHAPTER I

MARCH COMES IN LIKE THE LION


The train, which had roared through a withering gale of sleet
all the way up from New York, came to a standstill, with many an
ear-splitting sigh, alongside the little station, and a reluctant
porter opened his vestibule door to descend to the snow-swept
platform: a solitary passenger had reached the journey's end. The
swirl of snow and sleet screaming out of the blackness at the end
of the station-building enveloped the porter in an instant, and
cut his ears and neck with stinging force as he turned his back
against the gale. A pair of lonely, half-obscured platform lights
gleamed fatuously at the top of their icy posts at each end of the
station; two or three frost-encrusted windows glowed dully in the
side of the building, while one shone brightly where the operator
sat waiting for the passing of No. 33.

The train itself was dark. Frosty windows, pelted for miles by the
furious gale, white outside but black within, protected the snug
travellers who slept the sleep of the hurried and thought not of
the storm that beat about their ears nor wondered at the stopping
of the fast express at a place where it had never stopped before.
Far ahead the panting engine shed from its open fire-box an aureole
of glaring red as the stoker fed coal into its rapacious maw. The
unblinking head-light threw its rays into the thick of the blinding
snow storm, fruitlessly searching for the rails through drifts
denser than fog and filled with strange, half-visible shapes.

An order had been issued for the stopping of the fast express at
B--, a noteworthy concession in these days of premeditated haste.
Not in the previous career of flying 33 had it even so much as
slowed down for the insignificant little station, through which it
swooped at midnight the whole year round. Just before pulling out
of New York on this eventful night the conductor received a command
to stop 33 at B---- and let down a single passenger, a circumstance
which meant trouble for every despatcher along the line.

The woman who got down at B---- in the wake of the shivering
but deferential porter, and who passed by the conductors without
lifting her face, was without hand luggage of any description.
She was heavily veiled, and warmly clad in furs. At eleven o'clock
that night she had entered the compartment in New York. Throughout
the thirty miles or more, she had sat alone and inert beside the
snow-clogged window, peering through veil and frost into the night
that whizzed past the pane, seeing nothing yet apparently intent
on all that stretched beyond. As still, as immobile as death itself
she had held herself from the moment of departure to the instant
that brought the porter with the word that they were whistling for
B---.  Without a word she arose and followed him to the vestibule,
where she watched him as he unfastened the outer door and lifted
the trap.  A single word escaped her lips and he held out his hand
to receive the crumpled bill she clutched in her gloved fingers.
He did not look at it. He knew that it would amply reward him for
the brief exposure he endured on the lonely, wind-swept platform
of a station, the name of which he did not know.

She took several uncertain steps in the direction of the station
windows and stopped, as if bewildered. Already the engine was
pounding the air with quick, vicious snorts in the effort to get
under way; the vestibule trap and door closed with a bang; the
wheels were creaking. A bitter wind smote her in the face; the wet,
hurtling sleet crashed against the thin veil, blinding her.

The door of the waiting-room across the platform opened and a man
rushed toward her.

"Mrs. Wrandall?" he called above the roar of the wind.

She advanced quickly.

"Yes."

"What a night!" he said, as much to himself as to her. "I'm sorry
you would insist on coming to-night. To-morrow morning would have
satisfied the--"

"Is this Mr. Drake?"

They were being blown through the door into the waiting-room as
she put the question. Her voice was muffled. The man in the great
fur coat put his weight against the door to close it.

"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall. I have done all that could be done under the
circumstances. I am sorry to tell you that we still have two miles
to go by motor before we reach the inn. My car is open,--I don't
possess a limousine,--but if you will lie down in the tonneau you
will find some protection from--"

She broke in sharply, impatiently. "Pray do not consider me, Mr.
Drake. I am not afraid of the blizzard."

"Then we'd better be off," said he, a note of anxiety in his
voice,--a certain touch of nervousness. "I drive my own car. The
road is good, but I shall drive cautiously. Ten minutes, perhaps.
I--I am sorry you thought best to brave this wretched--"

"I am not sorry for myself, Mr. Drake, but for you. You have been
most kind. I did not expect you to meet me."

"I took the liberty of telephoning to you. It was well that I
did it early in the evening. The wires are down now, I fear." He
hesitated for a moment, staring at her as if trying to penetrate
the thick, wet veil. "I may have brought you on a fool's errand.
You see, I--I have seen Mr. Wrandall but once, in town somewhere,
and I may be wrong. Still, the coroner,--and the sheriff,--seemed
to think you should be notified,--I might say questioned. That is
why I called you up. I trust, madam, that I am mistaken."

"Yes," she said shrilly, betraying the intensity of her emotion.
It was as if she lacked the power to utter more than a single word,
which signified neither acquiescence nor approval.

He was ill-at-ease, distressed. "I have engaged a room for you at
the inn, Mrs. Wrandall. You did not bring a maid, I see. My wife
will come over from our place to stay with you if you--"

She shook her head. "Thank you, Mr. Drake. It will not be necessary.
I came alone by choice. I shall return to New York to-night."

"But you--why, you can't do that," he cried, holding back as they
started toward the door. "No trains stop here after ten o'clock.
The locals begin running at seven in the morning. Besides--"

She interrupted him. "May we not start now, Mr. Drake? I am--well,
you must see that I am suffering. I must see, I must know. The
suspense--" She did not complete the sentence, but hurried past
him to the door, throwing it open and bending her body to the gust
that burst in upon them.

He sprang after her, grasping her arm to lead her across the icy
platform to the automobile that stood in the lee of the building.

Disdaining his command to enter the tonneau, she stood beside the
car and waited until he cranked it and took his place at the wheel.
Then she took her seat beside him and permitted him to tuck the
great buffalo robe about her. No word was spoken. The man was a
stranger to her. She forgot his presence in the car.

Into the thick of the storm the motor chugged. Grim and silent,
the man at the wheel, ungoggled and tense, sent the whirring thing
swiftly over the trackless village street and out upon the open
country road. The woman closed her eyes and waited.

You would know the month was March. He said: "It comes in like a
lion," but apparently the storm swallowed the words for she made
no response to them.

They crossed the valley and crept up the tree-covered hill, where
the force of the gale was broken. If she heard him say: "Fierce,
wasn't it?" she gave no sign, but sat hunched forward, peering ahead
through the snow at the blurred lights that seemed so far away and
yet were close at hand.

"Is that the inn?" she asked as he swerved from the road a few
moments later.

"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall. We're here."

"Is--is he in there?"

"Where you see that lighted window upstairs." He tooted the horn
vigorously as he drew up to the long, low porch. Two men dashed
out from the doorway and clumsily assisted her from the car.

"Go right in, Mrs. Wrandall," said Drake. "I join you in a jiffy."

She walked between the two men into the feebly lighted office
of the inn. The keeper of the place, a dreary looking person with
dread in his eyes, hurried forward. She stopped stock-still. Some
one was brushing the stubborn, thickly caked snow from her long
chinchilla coat.

"You must let me get you something hot to drink, madam," the landlord
was saying dolorously.

She struggled with her veil, finally tearing it away from her face.
Then she took in the rather bare, cheerless room with a slow,
puzzled sweep of her eyes.

"No, thank you," she replied.

"It won't be any trouble, madam," urged the other. "It's right here.
The sheriff says it's all right to serve it, although it is after
hours. I run a respectable, law-abiding house. I wouldn't think of
offering it to anyone if it was in violation--"

"Never mind, Burton," interposed a big man, approaching. "Let the
lady choose for herself. If she wants it, she'll say so. I am the
sheriff, madam. This gentleman is the coroner, Dr. Sheef. We waited
up for you after Mr. Drake said you'd got the fast train to stop
for you. To-morrow morning would have done quite as well. I'm sorry
you came to-night in all this blizzard."

He was staring as if fascinated at the white, colourless face of
the woman who with nervous fingers unfastened the heavy coat that
enveloped her slender figure. She was young and strikingly beautiful,
despite the intense pallor that overspread her face. Her dark,
questioning, dreading eyes looked up into his with an expression
he was never to forget. It combined dread, horror, doubt and a
smouldering anger that seemed to overcast all other emotions that
lay revealed to him.

"This is a--what is commonly called a 'road-house'?" she asked
dully, her eyes narrowing suddenly as if in pain.

The inn-keeper made haste to resent the implied criticism.

"My place is a respectable, law-abiding--"

The sheriff waved him aside.

"It is an inn during the winter, Mrs. Wrandall, and a road-house
in the summer, if that makes it plain to you. I will say, however,
that Burton has always kept well within the law. This is the
first--er--real bit of trouble he's had, and I won't say it's his
fault. Keep quiet, Burton. No one is accusing you of anything wrong.
Don't whine about it."

"But my place is ruined," groaned the doleful one. "It's got a
black eye now. Not that I blame you, madam, but you can see how--"

He quailed before the steady look in her eyes, and turned away
mumbling.

There were half a dozen men in the room, besides the speakers,
sober-faced fellows who conversed in undertones and studiously kept
their backs to the woman who had just come among them. They were
grouped about the roaring fireplace in the lower end of the room.
Steam arose from their heavy winters garments. Their caps were
still drawn far down over their ears. These were men who had been
out in the night.

"There is a fire in the reception-room, madam," said the coroner;
"and the proprietor's wife to look out for you if you should require
anything. Will you go in there and compose yourself before going
upstairs? Or, if you would prefer waiting until morning, I shall
not insist on the--er--ordeal to-night."

"I prefer going up there to-night," said she steadily.

The men looked at each other, and the sheriff spoke. "Mr. Drake is
quite confident the--the man is your husband. It's an ugly affair,
Mrs. Wrandall. We had no means of identifying him until Drake came
in this evening, out of curiosity you might say. For your sake, I
hope he is mistaken."

"Would you mind telling me something about it before I go upstairs?
I am quite calm. I am prepared for anything. You need not hesitate."

"As you wish, madam. You will go into the reception-room, if you
please. Burton, is Mrs. Wrandall's room quite ready for her?"

"I shall not stay here to-night," interposed Mrs. Wrandall. "You
need not keep the room for me."

"But, my dear Mrs. Wrandall--"

"I shall wait in the railway station until morning if necessary.
But not here."

The coroner led the way to the cosy little room off the office.
She followed with the sheriff. The men looked worn and haggard in
the bright light that met them, as if they had not known sleep or
rest for many hours.

"The assistant district attorney was here until eleven, but went
home to get a little rest. It's been a hard case for all of us--a
nasty one," explained the sheriff, as he placed a chair in front
of the fire for her. She sank into it limply.

"Go on, please," she murmured, and shook her head at the nervous
little woman who bustled up and inquired if she could do anything
to make her more comfortable.

The sheriff cleared his throat. "Well, it happened last night. All
day long we've been trying to find out who he is, and ever since
eight o'clock this morning we've been searching for the woman who
came here with him. She has disappeared as completely as if swallowed
by the earth. Not a sign of a clew---not a shred. There's nothing
to show when she left the inn or by what means. All we know is that
the door to that room up there was standing half open when Burton
passed by it at seven o'clock this morning---that is to say, yesterday
morning, for this is now Wednesday. It is quite clear, from this,
that she neglected to close the door tightly when she came out,
probably through haste or fear, and the draft in the hall blew it
wider open during the night. Burton says the inn was closed for
the night at half-past ten. He went to bed. She must have slipped
out after every one was sound asleep. There were no other guests
on that floor. Burton and his wife sleep on this floor, and the
servants are at the top of the house and in a wing. No one heard
a sound. We have not the remotest idea when the thing happened, or
when she left the place. Dr. Sheef says the man had been dead for
six or eight hours when he first saw him, and that was very soon
after Burton's discovery. Burton, on finding the door open, naturally
suspected that his guests had skipped out during the night to avoid
paying the bill, and lost no time in entering the room.

"He found the man lying on the bed, sprawled out, face upward and
as dead as a mack--I should say, quite dead. He was partly dressed.
His coat and vest hung over the back of a chair. A small service
carving knife, belonging to the inn, had been driven squarely into
his heart and was found sticking there. Burton says that the man,
on their arrival at the inn, about nine o'clock at night, ordered
supper sent up to the room. The tray of dishes, with most of the food
untouched, and an empty champagne bottle, was found on the service
table near the bed. One of the chairs was overturned. The servant
who took the meal to the room says that the woman was sitting at
the window with her wraps on, motor veil and all, just as she was
when she came into the place. The man gave all the directions,
the woman apparently paying no attention to what was going on. The
waitress left the room without seeing her face. She had instructions
not to come for the tray until morning.

"That was the last time the man was seen alive. No one has seen
the woman since the door closed after the servant, who distinctly
remembers hearing the key turn in the lock as she went down the
hall. It seems pretty clear that the man ate and drank but not the
woman. Her food remained untouched on the plate and her glass was
full. 'Gad, it must have been a merry feast! I beg your pardon,
Mrs.  Wrandall!"

"Go on, please," said she levelly.

"That's all there is to say so far as the actual crime is concerned.
There were signs of a struggle,--but it isn't necessary to go into
that. Now, as to their arrival at the inn. The blizzard had not
set in. Last night was dark, of course, as there is no moon, but
it was clear and rather warm for the time of year. The couple came
here about nine o'clock in a high power runabout machine, which
the man drove. They had no hand-baggage and apparently had run out
from New York. Burton says he was on the point of refusing them
accommodations when the man handed him a hundred dollar bill.
It was more than Burton's cupidity could withstand. They did not
register.  The state license numbers had been removed from the
automobile, which was of foreign make. Of course, it was only a
question of time until we could have found out who the car belonged
to. It is perfectly obvious why he removed the numbers."

At this juncture Drake entered the room. Mrs. Wrandall did not at
first recognise him.

"It has stopped snowing," announced the new-comer.

"Oh, it is Mr. Drake," she murmured. "We have a little French car,
painted red," she announced to the sheriff without giving Drake
another thought.

"And this one is red, madam," said the sheriff, with a glance at
the coroner. Drake nodded his head. Mrs. Wrandall's body stiffened
perceptibly, as if deflecting a blow. "It is still standing in the
garage, where he left it on his arrival."

"Did no one see the face of--of the woman?" asked Mrs. Wrandall,
rather querulously. "It seems odd that no one should have seen her
face," she went on without waiting for an answer.

"It's not strange, madam, when you consider ALL the circumstances.
She was very careful not to remove her veil or her coat until the
door was locked. That proves that she was not the sort of woman
we usually find gallavanting around with men regardless of--ahem,
I beg your pardon. This must be very distressing to you."

"I am not sure, Mr. Sheriff, that it IS my husband who lies up
there. Please remember that," she said steadily. "It is easier to
hear the details now, before I KNOW, than it will be afterward if
it should turn out to be as Mr. Drake declares."

"I see," said the sheriff, marvelling.

"Besides, Mr. Drake is not POSITIVE," put in the coroner hopefully.

"I am reasonably certain," said Drake.

"Then all the more reason why I should have the story first," said
she, with a shiver that no one failed to observe.

The sheriff resumed his conclusions. "Women of the kind I referred
to a moment ago don't care whether they're seen or not. In fact,
they're rather brazen about it. But this one was different. She
was as far from that as it was possible for her to be. We haven't
been able to find any one who saw her face or who can give the least
idea as to what she looks like, excepting a general description of
her figure, her carriage, and the out-door garments she wore. We
have reason to believe she was young. She was modestly dressed. Her
coat was one of those heavy ulster affairs, such as a woman uses
in motoring or on a sea-voyage. There was a small sable stole about
her neck. The skirt was short, and she wore high black shoes of
the thick walking type. Judging from Burton's description she must
have been about your size and figure, Mrs. Wrandall. Isn't that
so, Mrs.  Burton?"

The inn-keeper's wife spoke. "Yes, Mr. Harben, I'd say so myself.
About five feet six, I'd judge; rather slim and graceful-like, in
spite of the big coat."

Mrs. Wrandall was watching the woman's face. "I am five feet six,"
she said, as if answering a question.

The sheriff cleared his throat somewhat needlessly.

"Burton says she acted as if she were a lady," he went on. "Not the
kind that usually comes out here on such expeditions, he admits.
She did not speak to any one, except once in very low tones to the
man she was with, and then she was standing by the fireplace out in
the main office, quite a distance from the desk. She went upstairs
alone, and he gave some orders to Burton before following her.
That was the last time Burton saw her. The waitress went up with
a specially prepared supper about half an hour later."

"It seems quite clear, Mrs. Wrandall, that she robbed the man after
stabbing him," said the coroner.

Mrs. Wrandall started. "Then she was NOT a lady, after all," she
said quickly. There was a note of relief in her voice. It was as
if she had put aside a half-formed conclusion.

"His pockets were empty. Not a penny had been left. Watch, cuff-links,
scarf pin, cigarette case, purse and bill folder,--all gone. Burton
had seen most of these articles in the office."

"Isn't it--but no! Why should I be the one to offer a suggestion
that might be construed as a defence for this woman?"

"You were about to suggest, madam, that some one else might have
taken the valuables--is that it?" cried the sheriff.

"Had you thought of it, Mr. Sheriff?"

"I had not. It isn't reasonable. No one about this place is suspected.
We have thought of this, however: the murderess may have taken
all of these things away with her in order to prevent immediate
identification of her victim. She may have been clever enough for
that. It would give her a start."

"Not an unreasonable conclusion, when you stop to consider, Mr.
Sheriff, that the man took the initiative in that very particular,"
said Mrs. Wrandall in such a self-contained way that the three men
looked at her in wonder. Then she came abruptly to her feet. "It
is very late, gentlemen. I am ready to go upstairs, Mr. Sheriff."

"I must warn you, madam, that Mr. Drake is reasonably certain that
it is your husband," said the coroner uncomfortably. "You may not
be prepared for the shock that--"

"I shall not faint, Dr. Sheef. If it IS my husband I shall ask you
to leave me alone in the room with him for a little while." The
final word trailed out into a long, tremulous wail, showing how near
she was to the breaking point in her wonderful effort at self-control.
The men looked away hastily. They heard her draw two or three deep,
quavering breaths; they could almost feel the tension that she was
exercising over herself.

The doctor turned after a moment and spoke very gently, but with
professional firmness. "You must not think of venturing out in this
wretched night, madam. It would be the worst kind of folly. Surely
you will be guided by me--by your own common sense. Mrs. Burton
will be with you--"

"Thank you, Dr. Sheef," she interposed calmly. "If what we all fear
should turn out to be the truth, I could not stay here. I could
not breathe. I could not live. If, on the other hand, Mr. Drake is
mistaken, I shall stay. But if it is my husband, I cannot remain
under the same roof with him, even though he be dead. I do not
expect you to understand my feelings. It would be asking too much
of men,--too much."

"I think I understand," murmured Drake.

"Come," said the sheriff, arousing himself with an effort.

She moved swiftly after him. Drake and the coroner, following
close behind with Mrs. Burton, could not take their eyes from the
slender, graceful figure. She was a revelation to them. Feeling as
they did that she was about to be confronted by the most appalling
crisis imaginable, they could not but marvel at her composure.
Drake's mind dwelt on the stories of the guillotine and the heroines
who went up to it in those bloody days without so much as a quiver
of dread.  Somehow, to him, this woman was a heroine.

They passed into the hall and mounted the stairs. At the far end
of the corridor, a man was seated in front of a closed door. He
arose as the party approached. The sheriff signed for him to open
the door he guarded. As he did so, a chilly blast of air blew upon
the faces of those in the hall. The curtains in the window of the
room were flapping and whipping in the wind. Mrs. Wrandall caught
her breath.  For the briefest instant, it seemed as though she was
on the point of faltering. She dropped farther behind the sheriff,
her limbs suddenly stiff, her hand going out to the wall as if for
support.  The next moment she was moving forward resolutely into
the icy, dimly lighted room.

A single electric light gleamed in the corner beside the bureau.
Near the window stood the bed. She went swiftly toward it, her
eyes fastened upon the ridge that ran through the centre of it: a
still, white ridge that seemed without beginning or end.

With nervous fingers, the attendant lifted the sheet at the head
of the bed and turned it back. As he let it fall across the chest
of the dead man, he drew back and turned his face away.

She bent forward and then straightened her figure to its full
height, without for an instant removing her gaze from the face of
the man who lay before her: a dark-haired man grey in death, who
must have been beautiful to look upon in the flush of life.

For a long time she stood there looking, as motionless as the object
on which she gazed. Behind her were the tense, keen-eyed men, not
one of whom seemed to breathe during the grim minutes that passed.
The wind howled about the corners of the inn, but no one heard it.
They heard the beating of their hearts, even the ticking of their
watches, but not the wail of the wind.

At last her hands, claw-like in their tenseness, went slowly to
her temples. Her head drooped slightly forward, and a great shudder
ran through her body. The coroner started forward, expecting her
to collapse.

"Please go away," she was saying in an absolutely emotionless voice.
"Let me stay here alone for a little while."

That was all. The men relaxed. They looked at each other with a
single question in their eyes. Was it quite safe to leave her alone
with her dead? They hesitated.

She turned on them suddenly, spreading her arms in a wide gesture
of self-absolution. Her sombre eyes swept the group.

"I can do no harm. This man is mine. I want to look at him for the
last time--alone. Will you go?"

"Do you mean, madam, that you intend to--" began the coroner in
alarm.

She clasped her hands. "I mean that I shall take my last look at
him now--and here. Then you may do what you like with him. He is
your dead--not mine. I do not want him. Can you understand? _I_ DO
NOT WANT THIS DEAD THING. But there is something I would say to
him, something that I must say. Something that no one must hear
but the good God who knows how much he has hurt me. I want to say
it close to those grey, horrid ears. Who knows? He may hear me!"

Wondering, the others backed from the room. She watched them until
they closed the door.

Listening, they heard her lower the window. It squealed like a
thing in fear.

Ten minutes passed. The group in the hall conversed in whispers.

"Why did she put the window down?" asked the wife of the inn-keeper,
crossing herself.

Drake shook his head. "I wonder what she is saying to him," he
muttered.

"A wonderful nerve," said Dr. Sheef. "Positively wonderful. I've
never seen anything like it."

"Her own husband, too," said Mrs. Burton. "Why, I--I should have
said she'd go into hysterics. Such a handsome man he was."

"I guess, from what I've heard of this fellow, Wrandall, he's not
been an angel," volunteered the sheriff.

Drake shook his head once more.

"He ain't one now, I'll bet on that," said the man who stood guard.
"He's in hell if ever a man--"

"Sh!" whispered the woman in horror. "God forgive you for uttering
words like that!"

"Every one in the city knows what sort of a man he's been," said
Drake.

"He comes of a fine family," said the coroner. "One of the best in
New York. I guess he's never been much of a credit to it, however."

"They say he ran after chorus girls," said Mrs. Burton. The men
grinned.

"I've an idea she's had the devil's own time with him," mused the
sheriff, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the door.

"Poor thing," said the inn-keeper's wife.

"Well," said Drake, taking a deep breath, "she won't have to worry
any more about his not coming home nights. I say, this business will
create a fearful sensation, sheriff. The Four Hundred will have a
conniption fit."

"We've got to land that girl, whoever she is," grated the official.
"Now that we know who he is, it shouldn't be hard to pick out the
women he's been trailing with lately. Then we can sift 'em down
until the right one is left. It ought to be easy."

"I'm not so sure of it," said the coroner, shaking his head. "I
have a feeling that she isn't one of the ordinary type. It wouldn't
surprise me if she belongs to--well, you might say, the upper ten.
Somebody's wife, don't you see. That will make it rather difficult,
especially as her tracks have been pretty well covered."

"It beats me, how she got away without leaving a single sign behind
her," acknowledged the sheriff. "She's a wonder, that's all I've
got to say."

At that instant the door opened and Mrs. Wrandall appeared. She
stopped short, confronting the huddled group, dry-eyed but as pallid
as a ghost. Her eyes were wide, apparently unseeing; her colourless
lips were parted in the drawn rigidity that suggested but one
thing to the professional man who looks: the RISIS SARDONICUS of
the strychnae victim. With a low cry, the doctor started forward,
fully convinced that she had swallowed the deadly drug.

"For God's sake, madam," he began. But as he spoke, her expression
changed; she seemed to be aware of their presence for the first
time. Her eyes narrowed in a curious manner, and the rigid lips
seemed to surge with blood, presenting the effect of a queer,
swift-fading smile that lingered long after her face was set and
serious.

"I neglected to raise the window, Dr. Sheef," she said in a low
voice. "It was very cold in there." She shivered slightly. "Will
you be so kind as to tell me what I am to do now? What formalities
remain for me--"

The coroner was at her side. "Time enough for that, Mrs. Wrandall.
The first thing you are to do is to take something warm to drink,
and pull yourself together a bit--"

She drew herself up coldly. "I am quite myself, Dr. Sheef. Pray do
not alarm yourself on my account. I shall be obliged to you, however,
if you will tell me what I am to do as speedily as possible, and
let me do it so that I may leave this--this unhappy place without
delay. No! I mean it, sir. I am going to-night--unless, of course,"
she said, with a quick look at the sheriff, "the law stands in the
way."

"You are at liberty to come and go as you please, Mrs. Wrandall,"
said the sheriff, "but it is most fool-hardy to think of--"

"Thank you, Mr. Sheriff," she said, "for letting me go. I thought
perhaps there might be legal restraint." She sent a swift glance
over her shoulder, and then spoke in a high, shrill voice, indicative
of extreme dread and uneasiness:

"Close the door to that room!"

The door was standing wide open, just as she had left it. Startled,
the coroner's deputy sprang forward to close it. Involuntarily,
all of her listeners looked in the direction of the room, as if
expecting to see the form of the murdered man advancing upon them.
The feeling, swiftly gone, was most uncanny.

"Close it from the INSIDE," commanded the coroner, with unmistakable
emphasis. The man hesitated, and then did as he was ordered, but
not without a curious look at the wife of the dead man, whose back
was toward him.

"He will not find anything disturbed, doctor," said she, divining
his thought. "I had the feeling that something was creeping toward
us out of that room."

"You have every reason to be nervous, madam. The situation has been
most extraordinary,--most trying," said the coroner. "I beg of you
to come downstairs, where we may attend to a few necessary details
without delay. It has been a most fatiguing matter for all of us.
Hours without sleep, and such wretched weather."

They descended to the warm little reception-room. She sent at once
for the inn-keeper, who came in and glowered at her as if she were
wholly responsible for the blight that had been put upon his place.

"Will you be good enough to send some one to the station with me
in your depot wagon?" she demanded without hesitation.

He stared. "We don't run a 'bus in the winter time," he said gruffly.

She opened the little chatelaine bag that hung from her wrist and
abstracted a card which she submitted to the coroner.

"You will find, Dr. Sheef, that the car my husband came up here in
belongs to me. This is the card issued by the State. It is in my
name. The factory number is there. You may compare it with the one
on the car. My husband took the car without obtaining my consent."

"Joy riding," said Burton, with an ugly laugh. Then he quailed
before the look she gave him.

"If no other means is offered, Dr. Sheef, I shall ask you to let
me take the car. I am perfectly capable of driving. I have driven
it in the country for two seasons. All I ask is that some one be
directed to go with me to the station. No! Better than that, if
there is some one here who is willing to accompany me to the city,
he shall be handsomely paid for going. It is but little more than
thirty miles.  I refuse to spend the night in this house. That is
final."

They drew apart to confer, leaving her sitting before the fire,
a stark figure that seemed to detach itself entirely from its
surroundings and their companionship. At last, the coroner came to
her side and touched her arm.

"I don't know what the district attorney and the police will say
to it, Mrs. Wrandall, but I shall take it upon myself to deliver
the car to you. The sheriff has gone out to compare the numbers. If
he finds that the car is yours, he will see to it, with Mr. Drake,
that it is made ready for you. I take it that we will have no
difficulty in--" He hesitated, at a loss for words.

"In finding it again in case you need it for evidence?" she supplied.
He nodded. "I shall make it a point, Dr. Sheef, to present the car
to the State after it has served my purpose to-night. I shall not
ride in it again."

"The sheriff has a man who will ride with you to the station or
the city, whichever you may elect. Now, may I trouble you to make
answer to certain questions I shall write out for you at once? The
man is Challis Wrandall, your husband? You are positive?"

"I am positive. He is--or was--Challis Wrandall."

Half an hour later, she was ready for the trip to New York City.
The clock in the office marked the hour as one. A toddied individual
in a great buffalo coat waited for her outside, hiccoughing and
bandying jest with the half-frozen men who had spent the night with
him in the forlorn hope of finding THE GIRL.

Mrs. Wrandall gave final instructions to the coroner and his deputy,
who happened to be the undertaker's assistant. She had answered all
the questions that had been put to her, and had signed the document
with a firm, untrembling hand. Her veil had been lowered since the
beginning of the examination. They did not see her face; they only
heard the calm, low voice, sweet with fatigue and dread.

"I shall notify my brother-in-law as soon as I reach the city," she
said. "He will attend to everything. Mr. Leslie Wrandall, I mean.
My husband's only brother. He will be here in the morning, Dr. Sheef.
My own apartment is not open. I have been staying in a hotel since
my return from Europe two days ago. But I shall attend to the
opening of the place to-morrow. You will find me there."

The coroner hesitated a moment before putting the question that
had come to his mind as she spoke.

"Two days ago, madam? May I inquire where your husband has been
living during your absence abroad? When did you last see him alive?"

She did not reply for many seconds, and then it was with a perceptible
effort.

"I have not seen him since my return until--to-night," she replied,
a hoarse note creeping into her voice. "He did not meet me on
my return. His brother Leslie came to the dock. He--he said that
Challis, who came back from Europe two weeks ahead of me, had been
called to St. Louis on very important, business. My husband had
been living at his club, I understand. That is all I can tell you,
sir."

"I see," said the coroner gently.

He opened the door for her and she passed out. A number of men
were grouped about the throbbing motor-car. They fell away as she
approached, silently fading into the shadows like so many vast,
unwholesome ghosts. The sheriff and Drake came forward.

"This man will go with you, madam," said the sheriff, pointing
to an unsteady figure beside the machine. "He is the only one who
will undertake it. They're all played out, you see. He has been
drinking, but only on account of the hardships he has undergone
to-night. You will be quite safe with Morley."

No snow was falling, but a bleak wind blew meanly. The air was free
from particles of sleet; wetly the fall of the night clung to the
earth where it had fallen.

"If he will guide me to the Post-road, that is all I ask," said
she hurriedly. Involuntarily she glanced upward. The curtains in
an upstairs window were blowing inward and a dim light shone out
upon the roof of the porch. She shuddered and then climbed up to
the seat and took her place at the wheel.

A few moments later, the three men standing in the middle of the
road watched the car as it rushed away.

"By George, she's a wonder!" said the sheriff.




CHAPTER II

THE PASSING OF A NIGHT


The sheriff was right. Sara Wrandall was an extraordinary woman,
if I may be permitted to modify his rather crude estimate of her.
It is difficult to understand, much less to describe a nature like
hers.  Fine-minded, gently bred women who can go through an ordeal
such as she experienced without breaking under the strain are
rare indeed.  They must be wonderful. It is hard to imagine a more
heart-breaking crisis in life than the one which confronted her
on this dreadful night, and yet she had faced it with a fortitude
that seems almost unholy.

She had loved her handsome, wayward husband. He had hurt her deeply
more times than she chose to remember during the six years of their
married life, but she had loved him in spite of the wounds up to
the instant when she stood beside his dead body in the cold little
room at Burton's Inn. She went there loving him as he had lived,
yet prepared, almost foresworn, to loathe him as he had died, and
she left him lying there alone in that dreary room without a spark
of the old affection in her soul. Her love for him died in giving
birth to the hatred that now possessed her. While he lived it
was not in her power to control the unreasoning resistless thing
that stands for love in woman: he WAS her love, the master of her
impulses.  Dead, he was an unwholesome, unlovely clod, a pallid
thing to be scorned, a hulk of worthless clay. His blood was cold.
He could no longer warm her with it; it could no longer kill the
chill that his misdeeds cast about her tender sensitiveness; his
lips and eyes never more could smile and conquer. He was a dead
thing. Her love was a dead thing. They lay separate and apart. The
tie was broken.  With love died the final spark of respect she had
left for him in her tired, loyal, betrayed heart. He was at last
a thing to be despised, even by her. She despised him.

She sent the car down the <DW72> and across the moonless valley
with small regard for her own or her companion's safety. It swerved
from side to side, skidded and leaped with terrifying suddenness,
but held its way as straight as the bird that flies, driven by a
steady hand and a mind that had no thought for peril. A sober man
at her side would have been afraid; this man swayed mildly to and
fro and chuckled with drunken glee.

Her bitter thoughts were not of the dead man back there, but of the
live years that she was to bury with him: years that would never
pass beyond her ken, that would never die. He had loved her in his
wild, ruthless way. He had left her times without number in the
years gone by, but he had always come back, gaily unchastened, to
remould the love that waited with dog-like fidelity for the touch
of his cunning hand. But he had taken his last flight. He would
not come back again. It was all over. Once too often he had tried
his reckless wings. She would not have to forgive him again.
Uppermost in her mind was the curiously restful thought that his
troubles were over, and with them her own. A hand less forgiving
than hers had struck him dead.

Somehow, she envied the woman to whom that hand belonged. It had
been her divine right to kill, and yet another took it from her.

Back there at the inn she had said to the astonished sheriff:

"Poor thing, if she can escape punishment for this, let it be so.
I shall not help the law to kill her simply because she took it
in her own hands to pay that man what she owed him. I shall not be
the one to say that he did not deserve death at her hands, whoever
she may be. No, I shall offer no reward. If you catch her, I shall
be sorry for her, Mr. Sheriff. Believe me, I bear her no grudge."

"But she robbed him," the sheriff had cried.

"From my point of view, Mr. Sheriff, that hasn't anything to do
with the case," was her significant reply.

"Of course, I am not defending HIM."

"Nor am I defending her," she had retorted. "It would appear that
she is able to defend herself."

Now, on the cold, trackless road, she was saying to herself that
she did have a grudge against the woman who had destroyed the life
that belonged to her, who had killed the thing that was hers to
kill. She could not mourn for him. She could only wonder what the
poor, hunted terrified creature would do when taken and made to
pay for the thing she had done.

Once, in the course of her bitter reflections, she spoke aloud in
a shrill, tense voice, forgetful of the presence of the man beside
her:

"Thank God, they will see him now as I have seen him all these
years. They will know him as they have never known him. Thank God
for that!"

The man looked at her stupidly and muttered something under his
breath. She heard him, and recalling her wits, asked which turn she
was to take for the station. The fellow lopped back in the seat,
too drunk to reply.

For a moment she was dismayed, frightened. Then she resolutely
reached out and shook him by the shoulder. She had brought the car
to a full stop.

"Arouse yourself, man!" she cried. "Do you want to freeze to death?
Where is the station?"

He straightened up with an effort, and, after vainly seeking light
in the darkness, fell back again with a grunt, but managed to wave
his hand toward the left. She took the chance. In five minutes she
brought the car to a standstill beside the station. Through the
window she saw a man with his feet cocked high, reading. He leaped
to his feet in amazement as she entered the waiting-room.

"Are you the agent?" she demanded.

"No, ma'am. I'm simply stayin' here for the sheriff. We're lookin'
for a woman--Say!" He stopped short and stared at the veiled face
with wide, excited eyes. "Gee whiz! Maybe you--"

"No, I am not the woman you want. Do you know anything about the
trains?"

"I guess I'll telephone to the sheriff before I--"

"If you will step outside you will find one of the sheriff's deputies
in my automobile, helplessly intoxicated. I am Mrs.  Wrandall."

"Oh," he gasped. "I heard 'em say you were coming up to-night.
Well, say! What do you think of--"

"Is there a train in before morning?"

"No ma'am. Seven-forty is the first."

She waited a moment. "Then I shall have to ask you to come out and
get your fellow-deputy. He is useless to me. I mean to go on in
the machine. The sheriff understands."

The fellow hesitated.

"I cannot take him with me, and he will freeze to death if I leave
him in the road. Will you come?"

The man stared at her.

"Say, IS it your husband?" he asked agape.

She nodded her head.

"Well, I'll go out and have a look at the fellow you've got with
you," said he, still doubtful.

She stood in the door while he crossed over to the car and peered
at the face of the sleeper.

"Steve Morley," he said. "Fuller'n a goat."

"Please remove him from the car," she directed.

Later on, as he stood looking down at the inert figure in the
big rocking chair, and panting from his labours, he heard her say
patiently:

"And now will you be so good as to direct me to the Post-road."

He scratched his head. "This is mighty queer, the whole business,"
he declared, assailed by doubts. "Suppose you are NOT Mrs. Wrandall,
but--the other one. What then?"

As if in answer to his question, the man Morley opened his blear-eyes
and tried to get to his feet.

"Wha--what are we doin' here, Mis' Wran'all? Wha's up?"

"Stay where you are, Steve," said the other. "It's all right."
Then he went forth and pointed the way to her. "It's a long ways
to Columbus Circle," he said. "I don't envy you the trip. Keep
straight ahead after you hit the Post-road." He stood there listening
until the whir of the motor was lost in the distance. "She'll never
make it," he said to himself. "It's more than a strong man could
do on roads like these. She must be crazy."

Coming to the Post-road, she increased the speed of the car, with
the sharp wind behind her, her eyes intent on the white stretch
that leaped up in front of the lamps like a blank wall beyond
which there was nothing but dense oblivion. But for the fact that
she knew that this road ran straight and unobstructed into the
outskirts of New York, she might have lost courage and decision. The
natural confidence of an experienced driver was hers. She had the
daring of one who has never met with an accident, and who trusts to
the instincts rather than to an actual understanding of conditions.
With her, it was not a question of her own capacity and strength,
but a belief in the fidelity of the engine that carried her forward.
It had not occurred to her that the task of guiding that heavy,
swerving thing through the unbroken road was something beyond her
powers of endurance. She often had driven it a hundred miles and
more without resting, or without losing zest in the enterprise:
then why should she fear the small matter of thirty miles, even
under the most trying of conditions?

The restless, driving desire to be as far as possible from that
horrid sight at the inn, with all that went to make it repellant,
put strength into her arms. The car swung from one side of the road
to the other, picking its way through the opaque desert, reeling
from rut to rut past hideous shadows and deeper into the black
abyss that lay ahead. No friendly light gleamed by the wayside; the
world was black and cold and dead. She alone was on the highway,
the only human creature who defied the night. Off there on either
side people lived, and slept, and were in darkness just as she was,
but not in dreadful darkness. They were not pursued by ghosts; they
were not running away from a Thing! They slept and were at peace,
and their lights were out for they were not afraid in the dark.
She thought of it: she was alone! No other creature was abroad--not
one!

Sharply there came to her mind the question: was she the only one
abroad in this black little world? What of the other woman? The
one who was being hunted? Where was she? And what of the ghost at
HER heels?

The car bounded over a railroad crossing. She recalled the directions
given by the man at the station and hastily applied the brake. There
was another and more dangerous crossing a hundred yards ahead. She
had been warned particularly to take it carefully, as there was a
sharp curve in the road beyond.

Suddenly she jammed down the emergency brake, a startled exclamation
falling from her lips. Not twenty feet ahead, in the middle of
the road and directly in line with the light of the lamps, stood
a black, motionless figure--the figure of a woman whose head was
lowered and whose arms hung limply at her sides.

The woman in the car bent forward over the wheel, staring hard. Many
seconds passed. At last the forlorn object in the roadway lifted
her face and looked vacantly into the glare of the lamps. Her eyes
were wide-open, her face a ghastly white.

"God in heaven!" struggled from the stiffening lips of Sara Wrandall.
Her fingers tightened on the wheel.

She knew. This was the woman!

The long brown ulster; the limp, fluttering veil! "A woman about
your size and figure," the sheriff had said.

The figure swayed and then moved a few steps forward. Blinded by
the lights, she bent her head and shielded her eyes with her hand
the better to glimpse the occupant of the car.

"Are you looking for me?" she cried out shrilly, at the same time
spreading her arms as if in surrender. It was almost a wail.

Mrs. Wrandall caught her breath. Her heart began to beat once more.

"Who are you? What do you want?" she cried out, without knowing
what she said.

The girl started. She had not expected to hear the voice of a woman.
She staggered to the side of the road, out of the line of light.

"I--I beg your pardon," she cried,--it was like a wail of
disappointment,--"I am sorry to have stopped you."

"Come here," commanded the other, still staring.

The unsteady figure advanced. Halting beside the car, she leaned
across the spare tires and gazed into the eyes of the driver. Their
faces were not more than a foot apart, their eyes were narrowed in
tense scrutiny.

"What do you want?" repeated Mrs. Wrandall, her voice hoarse and
tremulous.

"I am looking for an inn. It must be near by. I do--"

"An inn?" with a start.

"I do not recall the name. It is not far from a village, in the
hills."

"Do you mean Burton's?"

"Yes. That's it. Can you direct me?" The voice of the girl was
faint; she seemed about to fall.

"It is six or eight miles from here," said Mrs. Wrandall, still
looking in wonder at the miserable nightfarer.

The girl's head sank; a moan of despair came through her lips,
ending in a sob.

"So far as that?" she murmured. Then she drew herself up with a
fine show of resolution. "But I must not stop here. Thank you."

"Wait!" cried the other. The girl turned to her once more. "Is--is
it a matter of life or death?"

There was a long silence. "Yes. I must find my way there. It
is--death."

Sara Wrandall laid her heavily gloved hand on the slim fingers that
touched the tire.

"Listen to me," she said, a shrill note of resolve ringing in her
voice. "I am going to New York. Won't you let me take you with me?"

The girl drew back, wonder and apprehension struggling for the
mastery of her eyes.

"But I am bound the other way. To the inn. I must go on."

"Come with me," said Sara Wrandall firmly. "You must not go back
there. I know what has happened there. Come! I will take care of
you. You must not go to the inn."

"You know?" faltered the girl.

"Yes. You poor thing!" There was infinite pity in her voice.

The girl laid her head on her arms.

Mrs. Wrandall sat above her, looking down, held mute by warring
emotions. The impossible had come to pass. The girl for whom the
whole world would be searching in a day or two, had stepped out
of the unknown and, by the most whimsical jest of fate, into the
custody of the one person most interested of all in that self-same
world. It was unbelievable. She wondered if it were not a dream,
or the hallucination of an overwrought mind. Spurred by the sudden
doubt as to the reality of the object before her, she stretched
out her hand and touched the girl's shoulder.

Instantly she looked up. Her fingers sought the friendly hand and
clasped it tightly.

"Oh, if you will only take me to the city with you! If you only
give me the chance," she cried hoarsely. "I don't know what impulse
was driving me back there. I only know I could not help myself.
You really mean it? You WILL take me with you?"

"Yes. Don't be afraid. Come! Get in," said the woman in the car
rapidly. "You--you are real?"

The girl did not hear the strange question. She was hurrying around
to the opposite side of the car. As she crossed before the lamps,
Mrs. Wrandall noticed with dulled interest that her garments were
covered with mud; her small, comely hat was in sad disorder; loose
wisps of hair fluttered with the unsightly veil. Her hands, she
recalled, were clad in thin suede gloves. She would be half-frozen.
She had been out in all this terrible weather,--perhaps since the
hour of her flight from the inn.

The odd feeling of pity grew stronger within her. She made no
effort to analyse it, nor to account for it. Why should she pity
the slayer of her husband? It was a question unasked, unconsidered.
Afterwards she was to recall this hour and its strange impulses,
and to realise that it was not pity, but mercy that moved her to
do the extraordinary thing that followed.

Trembling all over, her teeth chattering, her breath coming in
short little moans, the girl struggled up beside her and fell back
in the seat. Without a word, Sara Wrandall drew the great buffalo
robe over her and tucked it in about her feet and legs and far up
about her body, which had slumped down in the seat.

"You are very, very good," chattered the girl, almost inaudibly.
"I shall never forget--" She did not complete the sentence, but
sat upright and fixed her gaze on her companion's face. "You--you
are not doing this just to turn me over to--to the police? They
must be searching for me. You are not going to give me up to them,
are you?  There will be a reward I--"

"There is no reward," said Sara Wrandall sharply. "I do not mean to
give you up. I am simply giving you a chance to get away. I have
always felt sorry for the fox when the time for the kill drew near.
That's the way I feel."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you! But what am I saying? Why should I permit
you to do this for me? I meant to go back there and have it over
with. I know I can't escape. It will have to come, it is bound to
come. Why put it off? Let them take me, let them do what they will
with me. I--"

"Hush! We'll see. First of all, understand me: I shall not turn you
over to the police. I will give you the chance. I will help you.
I can do no more than that."

"But why should you help me? I--I--Oh, I can't let you do it! You
do not understand. I--have--committed--a--terrible--" she broke
off with a groan.

"I understand," said the other, something like grimness in her level
tones. "I have been tempted more than once myself." The enigmatic
remark made no impression on the listener.

"I wonder how long ago it was that it all happened," muttered the
girl, as if to herself. "It seems ages,--oh, such ages."

"Where have you been hiding since last night?" asked Mrs. Wrandall,
throwing in the clutch. The car started forward with a jerk, kicking
up the snow behind it.

"Was it only last night? Oh, I've been--" The thought of her
sufferings from exposure and dread was too much for the wretched
creature. She broke out in a soft wail.

"You've been out in all this weather?" demanded the other.

"I lost my way. In the hills back there. I don't know where I was."

"Had you no place of shelter?"

"Where could I seek shelter? I spent the day in the cellar of a
farmer's house. He didn't know I was there. I have had no food."

"Why did you kill that man?"

"There was nothing left for me to do but that."

"And why did you rob him?"

"Ah, I had ample time to think of all that. You may tell the
officers they will find everything hidden in that farmhouse cellar.
God knows I did not want them. I am not a thief. I'm not so bad as
that."

Mrs. Wrandall marvelled. "Not so bad as that!" And she was a
murderess, a wanton!

"You are hungry? You must be famished."

"No, I am not hungry. I have not thought of food." She said it in
such a way that the other knew what her whole mind had been given
over to since the night before.

A fresh impulse seized her. "You shall have food and a place where
you can sleep--and rest," she said. "Now please don't say anything
more. I do not want to know too much. The least you say to-night,
the better for--for both of us."

With that she devoted all of her attention to the car, increasing
the speed considerably. Far ahead she could see twinkling, will-o'-the-wisp
lights, the first signs of thickly populated districts. They were
still eight or ten miles from the outskirts of the city and the
way was arduous. She was conscious of a sudden feeling of fatigue.
The chill of the night seemed to have made itself felt with abrupt,
almost stupefying force. She wondered if she could keep her strength,
her courage,--her nerves.

The girl was English. Mrs. Wrandall was convinced of the fact almost
immediately. Unmistakably English and apparently of the cultivated
type. In fact, the peculiarities of speech that determines the London
show-girl or music-hall character were wholly lacking. Her voice,
her manner, even under such trying conditions, were characteristic
of the English woman of cultivation. Despite the dreadful strain
under which she laboured, there were evidences of that curious
serenity which marks the English woman of the better classes: an
inborn composure, a calm orderliness of the emotions.  Mrs. Wrandall
was conscious of a sense of surprise, of a wonder that increased as
her thoughts resolved themselves into something less chaotic than
they were at the time of contact with this visible condition.

For a mile or more, she sent the car along with reckless disregard
for comfort or safety. Her mind was groping for something tangible
in the way of intentions. What was she to do with this creature?
What was to become of her? At what street corner should she turn
her adrift? The idea of handing her over to the police did not
enter her thoughts for an instant. Somehow she felt that the girl
was a stranger to the city. She could not explain the feeling, yet
it was with her and very persistent. Of course, there was a home
of some sort, or lodgings, or friends, but would the girl dare show
herself in familiar haunts?

She had said to the sheriff that she hoped the slayer of her husband
would never be caught. She recalled her words, and she remembered how
sincere she had been in uttering them. But she had not figured on
herself as an instrument in furthering the hope to the point of actual
realisation. What could be more incongruous, more theatric,--yes,
more bizarre, than her attitude at this moment? It seemed impossible
that this shrinking, inert heap at her side was a living thing; a
woman who had slain a fellow creature, and that creature the man
who had been her husband for six years. It seemed utterly beyond
sense or reason that she should be helping this murderess to escape,
that she should be showing her the slightest sign of mercy. And
yet, it was all true. She was helping her, she was befriending her.

She found herself wondering why the poor wretch had not made way
with herself. Escape seemed out of the question. That must have been
clear to her from the beginning, else why was she going back there
to give herself up? What better way out of it all than self-destruction?
Sara Wrandall reached a sudden conclusion. She would advise the girl
to leave the car when they reached the centre of a certain bridge
that spanned the river! No one would find her...

Even as the thought took shape in her mind, she experienced a great
sense of awe, so overwhelming that she cried out with the horror
of it. She turned her head for a quick glance at the mute, wretched
face showing white above the robe, and her heart ached with sudden
pity for her. The thought of that slender, alive thing going down
to the icy waters--her soul turned sick with the dread of it!

In that instant, Sara Wrandall--no philanthropist, no sentimentalist--made
up her mind to give this erring one more than an even chance for
salvation. She would see her safely across THAT bridge and many
others. God had directed the footsteps of this girl so that she
should fall in with the one best qualified to pass judgment on
her. It was in that person's power to save her or destroy her. The
commandment, "Thou shalt not kill," took on a broader meaning as
she considered the power that was hers: the power to kill.

Back of all these finely human impulses was the mysterious arbiter
that makes great decisions for all of us, from which there can be
no appeal, and which brooks no argument: Self. Self it was that
put a single question to her and answered it as well: what personal
grievance had she against this unhappy girl? None whatever. Self it
was therefore that slyly thanked her for an unspeakable blessing:
she had brought to an end not only the life of her husband but the
false position she herself had been obliged to maintain through a
mistaken sense of duty and self-respect. And who was to say, outside
the law, that this frail girl had not just cause to slay?

A great relaxation came over Sara Wrandall. It was as if every
nerve, every muscle in her body had reached the snapping point
and suddenly had given way. For a moment her hands were weak and
powerless; her head fell forward. In an instant she conquered,--but
only partially,--the strange feeling of lassitude. Then she realised
how tired she was, how fiercely the strain had told on her body
and brain, how much she had really suffered.

Her blurred eyes turned once more for a look at the girl, who
sat there, just as she had been sitting for miles, her white face
standing out with almost unnatural clearness, and as rigid as that
of the sphinx.

The girl spoke. "Do they hang women in this country?"

Mrs. Wrandall started. "In some of the States," she replied, and
was unable to account for the swift impulse to evade.

"But in this State?" persisted the other, almost without a movement
of the lips.

"They send them to the electric chair--sometimes," said Mrs.
Wrandall.

There was a long silence between them, broken finally by the girl.

"You have been very kind to me, madam. I have no means of expressing
my gratitude. I can only say that I shall bless you to my dying
hour. May I trouble you to set me down at the bridge? I remember
crossing one. I shall be able to--"

"No!" cried Mrs. Wrandall shrilly, divining the other's intention
at once. "You shall not do that. I too thought of that as a way out
of it for you, but--no, it must not be that. Give me a few minutes
to think. I will find a way."

The girl turned toward her. Her eyes were burning.

"Do you mean that you will help me to get away?" she cried, slowly,
incredulously.

"Let me think!"

"You will lay yourself liable--"

"Let me think, I say."

"But I mean to surrender myself to--"

"An hour ago you meant to do it, but what were you thinking of ten
minutes ago? Not surrender. You were thinking of the bridge. Listen
to me now: I am sure that I can save you. I do not know all the--all
the circumstances connected with your association with--with that
man back there at the inn. Twenty-four hours passed before they
were able to identify him. It is not unlikely that to-morrow may
put them in possession of the name of the woman who went with him
to that place. They do not know it to-night, of that I am positive.
You covered your trail too well. But you must have been seen with
him during the day or the night--"

The other broke in eagerly: "I don't believe any one knows that
I--that I went out there with him. He arranged it very--carefully.
Oh, what a beast he was!" The bitterness of that wail caused the
woman beside her to cry out as if hurt by a sharp, almost unbearable
pain. For an instant she seemed about to lose control of herself.
The car swerved and came dangerously near to leaving the road.

A full minute passed before she could trust herself to speak. Then
it was with a deep hoarseness in her voice.

"You can tell me about it later on, not now. I don't want to hear
it. Tell me, where do you live?"

The girl's manner changed so absolutely that there could be but
one inference: she was acutely suspicious. Her lips tightened and
her figure seemed to stiffen in in the seat.

"Where do you live?" repeated the other sharply.

"Why should I tell you that? I do not know you. You--"

"You are afraid of me?"

"Oh, I don't know what to say, or what to do," came from the lips
of the hunted one. "I have no friends, no one to turn to, no one to
help me. You--you can't be so heartless as to lead me on and then
give me up to--God help me, I--I should not be made to suffer for
what I have done. If you only knew the circumstances. If you only
knew--"

"Stop!" cried the other, in agony.

The girl was bewildered. "You are so strange. I don't understand--"

"We have but two or three miles to go," interrupted Mrs. Wrandall.
"We must think hard and--rapidly. Are you willing to come with me
to my hotel? You will be safe there for the present. To-morrow we
can plan something for the future."

"If I can only find a place to rest for a little while," began the
other.

"I shall be busy all day, you will not be disturbed. But leave the
rest to me. I shall find a way."

It was nearly three o'clock when she brought the car to a stop in
front of a small, exclusive hotel not far from Central Park. The
street was dark and the vestibule was but dimly lighted. No attendant
was in sight.

"Slip into this," commanded Mrs. Wrandall, beginning to divest
herself of her own fur coat. "It will cover your muddy garments. I
am quite warmly dressed. Don't worry. Be quick. For the time being
you are my guest here. You will not be questioned. No one need know
who you are. It will not matter if you look distressed. You have
just heard of the dreadful thing that has happened to me. You--"

"Happened to you?" cried the girl, drawing the coat about her.

"A member of my family has died. They know it in the hotel by this
time. I was called to the death bed--to-night. That is all you will
have to know."

"Oh, I am sorry--"

"Come, let us go in. When we reach my rooms, you may order food and
drink. You must do it, not I. Please try to remember that it is I
who am suffering, not you."

A sleepy night watchman took them up in the elevator. He was not
even interested. Mrs. Wrandall did not speak, but leaned rather
heavily on the arm of her companion. The door had no sooner closed
behind them when the girl collapsed. She sank to the floor in a
heap.

"Get up!" commanded her hostess sharply. This was not the time for
soft, persuasive words. "Get up at once. You are young and strong.
You must show the stuff you are made of now if you ever mean to
show it. I cannot help you if you quail."

The girl looked up piteously, and then struggled to her feet. She
stood before her protectress, weaving like a frail reed in the
wind, pallid to the lips.

"I beg your pardon," she murmured. "I will not give way like that
again. I dare say I'm faint. I have had no food, no rest--but never
mind that now. Tell me what I am to do. I will try to obey."

"First of all, get out of those muddy, frozen things you have on."

Mrs. Wrandall herself moved stiffly and with unsteady limbs as
she began to remove her own outer garments. The girl mechanically
followed her example. She was a pitiable object in the strong
light of the electrolier. Muddy from head to foot, water-stained
and bedraggled, her face streaked with dirt, she was the most
unattractive creature one could well imagine.

These women, so strangely thrown together by Fate, maintained
an unbroken silence during the long, fumbling process of partial
disrobing. They scarcely looked at one another, and yet they were
acutely conscious of the interest each felt in the other. The
grateful warmth of the room, the abrupt transition from gloom and
cheerlessness to comfortable obscurity, had a more pronounced effect
on the stranger than on her hostess.

"It is good to feel warm once more," she said, an odd timidness in
her manner. "You are very good to me."

They were in Mrs. Wrandall's bed-chamber, just off the little
sitting-room. Three or four trunks stood against the walls.

"I dismissed my maid on landing. She robbed me," said Mrs. Wrandall,
voicing the relief that was uppermost in her mind. She opened a
closet door and took out a thick eider-down robe, which she tossed
across a chair. "Now call up the office and say that you are speaking
for me. Say to them that I must have something to eat, no matter
what the hour may be. I will get out some clean underwear for you,
and--Oh, yes; if they ask about me, say that I am cold and ill.
That is sufficient. Here is the bath. Please be as quick about it
as possible."

Moving as if in a dream, the girl did as she was told. Twenty minutes
later there was a knock at the door. A waiter appeared with a tray
and service table. He found Mrs. Wrandall lying back in a chair,
attended by a slender young woman in a pink eiderdown dressing-gown,
who gave hesitating directions to him. Then he was dismissed with
a handsome tip, produced by the same young woman.

"You are not to return for these things," she said as he went out.

In silence she ate and drank, her hostess looking on with gloomy
interest. It was no shock to Mrs. Wrandall to find that the girl,
who was no more than twenty-two or three, possessed unusual beauty.
Her great eyes were blue,--the lovely Irish blue,--her skin was
fair and smooth, her features regular and of the delicate mould
that defines the well-bred gentlewoman at a glance. Her hair, now
in order, was dark and thick and lay softly about her small ears
and neck. She was not surprised, I repeat, for she had never known
Challis Wrandall to show interest in any but the most attractive
of her sex. She found herself smiling bitterly as she looked.

To herself she was saying: "It isn't so hard to bear when I realise
that he betrayed me for one who is so much more beautiful than I.
He loved me because I am beautiful. His every defection proves it.
The others have all been beautiful. And to think that this gentle,
slender creature should have been the one to give him his death-blow.
It seems incredible. If it had been struck by some outraged husband,
strong of arm and fierce with vengeance, I could understand. But--but
this young, pretty, soft-eyed thing!"

But who may know the thoughts of the other occupant of that little
sitting-room? Who can put herself in the place of that despairing,
hunted creature who knew that blood was on the hands with which
she ate, and whose eyes were filled with visions of the death-chair?

So great was her fatigue that long before she finished the meal her
tired lids began to droop, her head to nod in spasmodic surrenders
to an overpowering desire for sleep. Suddenly she dropped the fork
from her fingers and sank back in the comfortable chair, her head
resting against the soft, upholstered back. Her lids fell, her hands
dropped to the arms of the chair. A fine line appeared between her
dark eyebrows,--indicative of pain.

For many minutes Sara Wrandall watched the haggardness deepen in
the face of the unconscious sleeper. Then, even as she wondered
at the act, she went over and took up one of the slim hands in her
own. The hand of an aristocrat! It lay limp in hers, and helpless.
Long, tapering fingers and delicately pink with the return of
warmth.

Rousing herself from the mute contemplation of her charge, she shook
the girl's shoulder. Instantly she was awake and staring, alarm in
her dazed, bewildered eyes.

"You must go to bed," said Mrs. Wrandall quietly. "Don't be afraid.
No one will think of coming here."

The girl arose. As she stood before her benefactress, she heard
her murmur as if from afar-off: "Just about your size and figure,"
and wondered not a little.

"You may sleep late. I have many things to do and you will not be
disturbed. Come, take off your clothes and get into my bed.  To-morrow
we will plan further--"

"But, madam," cried the girl, "I cannot take your bed. Where are
you to--"

"If I feel like lying down, I shall lie there beside you."

The girl stared. "Lie beside ME?"

"Yes. Oh, I am not afraid of you, child. You are not a monster.
You are just a poor, tired--"

"Oh, please don't! Please!" cried the other, tears rushing to her
eyes. She raised Mrs. Wrandall's hand to her lips and covered it
with kisses.

Long after she went to sleep, Sara Wrandall stood beside the bed,
looking down at the pain-stricken face, and tried to solve the
problem that suddenly had become a part of her very existence.

"It is not friendship," she argued fiercely. "It is not charity,
it is not humanity. It's the debt I owe, that's all. She did the
thing for me that I could not have done myself because I loved him.
I owe her something for that."

Later on she turned her attention to the trunks. Her decision was
made. With ruthless hands she dragged gown after gown from the
"innovations" and cast them over chairs, on the floor, across the
foot of the bed: smart things from Paris and Vienna; ball gowns,
street gowns, tea gowns, lingerie, blouses, hats, gloves and all
of the countless things that a woman of fashion and means indulges
herself in when she goes abroad for that purpose and no other to
speak of. From the closets she drew forth New York "tailor-suits"
and other garments.

Until long after six o'clock she busied herself over this huge
pile of costly raiment, portions of which she had worn but once or
twice, some not at all, selecting certain dresses, hats, stockings,
etc., each of which she laid carelessly aside: an imposing pile of
many hues, all bright and gay and glittering. In another heap she
laid the sombre things of black: a meagre assortment as compared
to the other.

Then she stood back and surveyed the two heaps with tired eyes, a
curious, almost scornful smile on her lips. "There!" she said with
a sigh. "The black pile is mine, the gay pile is yours," she went
on, turning toward the sleeping girl. "What a travesty!"

Then she gathered up the soiled garments her charge had worn and
cast them into the bottom of a trunk, which she locked. Laying out
a carefully selected assortment of her own garments for the girl's
use when she arose, Mrs. Wrandall sat down beside the bed and
waited, knowing that sleep would not come to her.




CHAPTER III

HETTY CASTLETON


At half-past six she went to the telephone and called for the morning
newspapers. At the same time she asked that a couple of district
messenger boys be sent to her room with the least possible delay.
The hushed, scared voice of the telephone girl downstairs convinced
her that news of the tragedy was abroad; she could imagine the girl
looking at the headlines with awed eyes even as she responded to
the call from room 416, and her shudder as she realised that it
was the wife of the dead man speaking.

One of the night clerks, pale and agitated, came up with the papers.
He inquired if there was anything he could do. He tried to tell
her that it was a dreadful, sickening thing, but the words stuck
in his throat. She stood before him, holding the door open; the
light in the hall fell upon her white, haggard face. He began to
tremble all over, as if with the ague.

"Will you be good enough to come in?" she inquired, quite steadily.
"The newspapers--have they printed the--the details?"

He entered and she closed the door.

"Just the--just the news that it was Mr. Wrandall," he replied
jerkily. "Later on they'll have--"

She interrupted him. "Let me have them, please." Without so much
as a glance at the headlines, she tossed the papers on the table.
"I have sent for two messenger boys. It is too early to accomplish
much by telephone, I fear. Will you be so kind as to telephone at
seven o'clock or a little after to my apartment?--You will find
the number under Mr. Wrandall's name. Please inform the butler or
his wife that they may expect me by ten o'clock, and that I shall
bring a friend with me--a young lady. Kindly have my motor sent
to Haffner's garage, and looked after. When the reporters come, as
they will, please say to them that I will see them at my own home
at eleven o'clock."

"Can't I--we--I should say, don't you want us to send word to
your--your friends, Mrs. Wrandall,--the family, I mean? No trouble
to do it, and--"

"Thank you, no. The messengers will attend to all that is necessary.
When my lawyer arrives, please send him here to me. Mr. Carroll.
Thank you."

The clerk, considerably relieved, took his departure in some
haste, and she was left with the morning papers, each of which she
scanned rapidly. The details, of course, were meagre. There was a
double-leaded account of her visit to the inn and her extraordinary
return to the city. Her chief interest, however, did not rest in
these particulars, but in the speculations of the authorities as
to the identity of the mysterious woman--and her whereabouts. There
was the likelihood that she was not the only one who had encountered
the girl on the highway or in the neighbourhood of the inn. So far
as she could glean from the reports, however, no one had seen the
girl, nor was there the slightest hint offered as to her identity.
The papers of the previous afternoon had published lurid accounts of
the murder, with all of the known details, the name of the victim
at that time still being a mystery. She remembered reading the
story with no little interest. The only new feature in the case,
therefore, was the identification of Challis Wrandall by his
"beautiful wife," and the sensational manner in which it had been
brought about. With considerable interest she noted the hour that
these despatches had been received from "special correspondents,"
and wondered where the shrewd, lynx-eyed reporters napped while
she was at the inn. All of the despatches were timed three o'clock
and each paper characterised its issue as an "Extra," with Challis
Wrandall's name in huge type across as many columns as the dignity
of the sheet permitted.

Not one word of the girl! Absolute mystery!

Mrs. Wrandall returned to her post beside the bed of the sleeper
in the adjoining room. Deliberately she placed the newspapers on
a chair near the girl's pillow, and then raised the window shades
to let in the hard grey light of early morn.

It was not her present intention to arouse the wan stranger, who
slept as one dead. So gentle was her breathing that the watcher
stared in some fear at the fair, smooth breast that seemed scarcely
to rise and fall. For a long time she stood beside the bed, looking
down at the face of the sleeper, a troubled expression in her eyes.

"I wonder how many times you were seen with him, and where, and by
whom," were the questions that ran in a single strain through her
mind. "Where do you come from? Where did you meet him? Who is there
that knows of your acquaintance with him?"

There was no kindly light in her eyes, nor was there the faintest
sign of animosity. Merely the look of one who calculates in the
interest of a well-shaped purpose. She was estimating the difficulties
that were likely to attend the carrying out of a design as yet
half-formed and quixotic. There were many things to be considered.
At present she was working in utter darkness. What would the light
bring forth?

Her lawyer came in great haste and perturbation at eight o'clock,
in response to the letter delivered by one of the messengers.
A second letter had gone by like means to her husband's brother,
Leslie Wrandall, instructing him to break the news to his father
and mother and to come to her apartment after he had attended to
the removal of the body to the family home near Washington Square.
She made it quite plain that she did not want Challis Wrandall's
body to lie under the roof that sheltered her.

His family had resented their marriage. Father, mother and sister had
objected to her from the beginning, not because she was unworthy,
but because her tradespeople ancestry was not so remote as his. She
found a curious sense of pleasure in returning to them the thing
they prized so highly and surrendered to her with such bitterness
of heart. She had not been good enough for him: that was their
attitude. Now she was returning him to them, as one would return
an article that had been tested and found to be worthless.  She
would have no more of him!

Leslie, three years younger than Challis, did not hold to the views
that actuated the remaining members of the family in opposing her
as an addition to the rather close corporation known far and wide
as "the Wrandalls." He had stood out for her in a rather mild but
none-the-less steadfast manner, blandly informing his mother on
mere than one occasion that Sara was quite too good for Challis,
any way you looked at it: an attitude which provoked sundry caustic
references to his own lamentable shortcomings in the matter of
family pride and--intelligence.

He and Sara had been good friends after a fashion. He was a bit of
a snob but not much of a prig. She had the feeling about him that
if he could be weaned away from the family he might stand for
something fine in the way of character. But he was an adept at
straddling fences, so that he was never fully on one side or the
other, no matter which way he leaned.

He had not been deeply attached to his brother. Their ways were
wide apart. All his life he had known Challis for what he was;
his heart if not his hand was against him. From the first, he had
regarded Sara's marriage as a bad bargain for her, and toward the
last bluntly told her so. Not once but many times had he taken it
upon himself to inform her that she was a fool to put up with all
the beastly things Challis was doing. He characterised as infatuation
the emotion she was prone to call love when they met to discuss
the escapades of the careless Challis, for she always went to him
with her troubles. In direct opposition to his counselling, she
invariably forgave the erring lover who was her husband. Once Leslie
had said to her, in considerable heat: "You act as if you were his
mistress, instead of his wife. Mistresses have to forgive; wives
don't." And she had replied: "Yes, but I'd much rather have him a
lover than a husband." A remark which Leslie never quite fathomed,
being somewhat literal himself.

Carroll, her lawyer, an elderly man of vast experience, was not
surprised to find her quite calm and reasonable. He had come to
know her very well in the past few years. He had been her father's
lawyer up to the time of that excellent tradesman's demise,
and he had settled the estate with such unusual despatch that the
heirs,--there were many of them,--regarded him as an admirable
person and--kept him busy ever afterward straightening out their
own affairs. Which goes to prove that policy is often better than
honesty.

"I quite understand, my dear, that while it is a dreadful shock to
you, you are perfectly reconciled to the--er--to the--well, I might
say the culmination of his troubles," said Mr. Carroll tactfully,
after she had related for his benefit the story of the night's
adventure, with reservation concerning the girl who slumbered in
the room beyond.

"Hardly that, Mr. Carroll. Resigned, perhaps. I can't say that I
am reconciled. All my life I shall feel that I have been cheated,"
she said.

He looked up sharply. Something in her tone puzzled him. "Cheated,
my dear? Oh, I see. Cheated out of years and years of happiness.
I see."

She bowed her head. Neither spoke for a full minute.

"It's a horrible thing to say, Sara, but this tragedy does away
with another and perhaps more unpleasant alternative: the divorce
I have been urging you to consider for so long."

"Yes, we are spared all that," she said. Then she met his gaze with
a sudden flash of anger in her eyes. "But I would not have divorced
him--never. You understood that, didn't you?"

"You couldn't have gone on for ever, my dear child, enduring the--"

She stopped him with a sharp exclamation. "Why discuss it now? Let
the past take care of itself, Mr. Carroll. The past came to an end
night before last, so far as I am concerned. I want advice for the
future, not for the past."

He drew back, hurt by her manner. She was quick to see that she
had offended him.

"I beg your pardon, my best of friends," she cried earnestly.

He smiled. "If you will take PRESENT advice, Sara, you will let go
of yourself for a spell and see if tears won't relieve the tension
under--"

"Tears!" she cried. "Why should I give way to tears? What have I
to weep for? That man up there in the country? The cold, dead thing
that spent its last living moments without a thought of love for
me?  Ah, no, my friend; I shed all my tears while he was alive.
There are none left to be shed for him now. He exacted his full
share of them.  It was his pleasure to wring them from me because
he knew I loved him." She leaned forward and spoke slowly, distinctly,
so that he would never forget the words. "But listen to me, Mr.
Carroll. You also know that I loved him. Can you believe me when
I say to you that I hate that dead thing up there in Burton's Inn
as no one ever hated before? Can you understand what I mean? I hate
that dead body, Mr. Carroll. I loved the life that was in it. It
was the life of him that I loved, the warm, appealing life of him.
It has gone out. Some one less amiable than I suffered at his hands
and--well, that is enough. I hate the dead body she left behind
her, Mr. Carroll."

The lawyer wiped the cool moisture from his brow.

"I think I understand," he said, but he was filled with wonder.
"Extraordinary! Ahem! I should say--Ahem! Dear me! Yes, yes--I've
never really thought of it in that light."

"I dare say you haven't," she said, lying back in the chair as if
suddenly exhausted.

"By the way, my dear, have you breakfasted?"

"No. I hadn't given it a thought. Perhaps it would be better if I
had some coffee--"

"I will ring for a waiter," he said, springing to his feet.

"Not now, please. I have a young friend in the other room--a guest
who arrived last night. She will attend to it when she awakes. Poor
thing, it has been dreadfully trying for her."

"Good heaven, I should think so," said he, with a glance at the
closed door, "Is she asleep?"

"Yes. I shall not call her until you have gone."

"May I enquire--"

"A girl I met recently--an English girl," said she succinctly, and
forthwith changed the subject. "There are a few necessary details
that must be attended to, Mr. Carroll. That is why I sent for you
at this early hour. Mr. Leslie Wrandall will take charge--Ah!" she
straightened up suddenly. "What a farce it is going to be!"

Half an hour later he departed, to rejoin her at eleven o'clock,
when the reporters were to be expected. He was to do the talking
for her. While he was there, Leslie Wrandall called her up on the
telephone. Hearing but one side of the rather prolonged conversation,
he was filled with wonder at the tactful way in which she met
and parried the inevitable questions and suggestions coming from
her horror-struck brother-in-law. Without the slightest trace of
offensiveness in her manner, she gave Leslie to understand that
the final obsequies must be conducted in the home of his parents,
to whom once more her husband belonged, and that she would abide by
all arrangements his family elected to make. Mr. Carroll surmised
from the trend of conversation that young Wrandall was about to
leave for the scene of the tragedy, and that the house was in a
state of unspeakable distress. The lawyer smiled rather grimly to
himself as he turned to look out of the window. He did not have to
be told that Challis was the idol of the family, and that, so far
as they were concerned, he could do no wrong!

After his departure, Mrs. Wrandall gently opened the bedroom door
and was surprised to find the girl wide-awake, resting on one
elbow, her staring eyes fastened on the newspaper that topped the
pile on the chair.

Catching sight of Mrs. Wrandall she pointed to the paper with a
trembling hand and cried out, in a voice full of horror:

"Did you place them there for me to read? Who was with you in the
other room just now? Was it some one about the--some one looking
for me? Speak! Please tell me. I heard a man's voice--"

The other crossed quickly to her side.

"Don't be alarmed. It was my lawyer. There is nothing to fear--at
present. Yes, I left the papers there for you to see. You can see
what a sensation it has caused. Challis Wrandall was one of the most
widely known men in New York. But I suppose you know that without
my telling you."

The girl sank back with a groan. "My God, what have I done? What
will come of it all?"

"I wish I could answer that question," said the other, taking
the girl's hand in hers. Both were trembling. After an instant's
hesitation, she laid her other hand on the dark, dishevelled hair
of the wild-eyed creature, who still continued to stare at the
headlines. "I am quite sure they will not look for you here, or in
my home."

"In your home?"

"You are to go with me. I have thought it all over. It is the only
way. Come, I must ask you to pull yourself together. Get up at once,
and dress. Here are the things you are to wear." She indicated the
orderly pile of garments with a wave of her hand.

Slowly the girl crept out of bed, confused, bewildered, stunned.

"Where are my own things? I--I cannot accept these. Pray give me
my own--"

Mrs. Wrandall checked her.

"You must obey me, if you expect me to help you. Don't you understand
that I have had a--a bereavement? I cannot wear these things now.
They are useless to me. But we will speak of all that later on.
Come, be quick; I will help you to dress. First, go to the telephone
and ask them to send a waiter to--these rooms. We must have something
to eat. Please do as I tell you."

Standing before her benefactress, her fingers fumbling impotently
at the neck of the night-dress, the girl still continued to stare
dumbly into the calm, dark eyes before her.

"You are so good. I--I--"

"Let me help you," interrupted the other, deliberately setting
about to remove the night-dress. The girl caught it up as it slipped
from her shoulders, a warm flush suffusing her face, a shamed look
springing into her eyes.

"Thank you, I can--get on very well. I only wanted to ask you a
question. It has been on my mind, waking and sleeping. Can you tell
me anything about--do you know his wife?"

The question was so abrupt, so startling that Mrs. Wrandall uttered
a sharp little cry. For a moment she could not reply.

"I am so sorry, so desperately sorry for her," added the girl
plaintively.

"I know her," the other managed to say with an effort.

"If I had only known that he had a wife--" began the girl bitterly,
almost angrily.

Mrs. Wrandall grasped her by the arm. "You did not know that he
had a wife?" she cried.

The girl's eyes flashed with a sudden, fierce fire in their depths.

"God in heaven, no! I did not know it until--Oh, I can't speak of
it! Why should I tell you about it? Why should you be interested
in hearing it?"

Mrs. Wrandall drew back and regarded the girl's set, unhappy face.
There was a curious light in her eyes that escaped the other's
notice,--a light that would have puzzled her not a little.

"But you WILL tell me--EVERYTHING--a little later," she said,
strangely calm. "Not now, but,--before many hours have passed. First
of all, you must tell me who you are, where you live,--everything
except what happened in Burton's Inn. I don't want to hear that at
present--perhaps never. Yes, on second thoughts, I will say NEVER!
You are never to tell me just what happened up there, or just what
led up to it. Do you understand? Never!"

The girl stared at her in amazement. "But I--I must tell some one,"
she cried vehemently. "I have a right to defend myself--"

"I am not asking you to defend yourself," said Mrs. Wrandall shortly.
Then, as if afraid to remain longer, she rushed from the room. In
the doorway, she turned for an instant to say: "Do as I told you.
Telephone. Dress as quickly as you can." She closed the door swiftly.

Standing in the centre of the room, her hands clenched until the
nails cut the flesh, she said over and over again to herself: "I
don't want to know! I don't want to KNOW!"

A few minutes later she was critically inspecting the young woman
who came from the bedroom attired in a street dress that neither
of them had ever donned before. The girl, looking fresher, prettier
and even younger than when she had seen her last, was in no way
abashed.  She seemed to have accepted the garments and the situation
in the same spirit of resignation and hope: as if she had decided
to make the most of her slim chance to profit by these amazing
circumstances.

They sat opposite each other at the little breakfast table.

"Please pour the coffee," said Mrs. Wrandall. The waiter had left
the room at her command. The girl's hand shook, but she complied
without a word.

"Now you may tell me who you are and--but wait! You are not to say
anything about what happened at the inn. Guard your words carefully.
I am not asking for a confession. I do not care to know what happened
there. It will make it easier for me to protect you. You may call
it conscience. Keep your big secret to yourself. NOT ONE WORD TO
ME. Do you understand?"

"You mean that I am not to reveal, even to you, the causes which
led up to--"

"Nothing--absolutely nothing," said Mrs. Wrandall firmly.

"But I cannot permit you to judge me, to--well, you might say to
acquit me,--without hearing the story. It is so vital to me."

"I can judge you without hearing all of the--the evidence, if that's
what you mean. Simply answer the questions I shall ask, and nothing
more. There are certain facts I must have from you if I am to shield
you. You must tell me the truth. I take it you are an English girl.
Where do you live? Who are your friends? Where is your family?"

The girl's face flushed for an instant and then grew pale again.

"I will tell you the truth," she said. "My name is Hetty Castleton.
My father is Col. Braid Castleton, of--of the British army. My mother
is dead. She was Kitty Glynn, at one time a popular music-hall
performer in London. She was Irish. She died two years ago. My
father was a gentleman. I do not say he IS a gentleman, for his
treatment of my mother relieves him from that distinction. He is
in the Far East, China, I think. I have not seen him in more than
five years. He deserted my mother. That's all there is to that
side of my story. I appeared in two or three of the musical pieces
produced in London two seasons ago, in the chorus. I never got
beyond that, for very good reasons. I was known as Hetty Glynn.
Three weeks ago I started for New York, sailing from Liverpool.
Previously I had served in the capacity of governess in the family
of John Budlong, a brewer. They had a son, a young man of twenty.
Two months ago I was dismissed. A California lady, Mrs. Holcombe,
offered me a situation as governess to her two little girls soon
afterward. I was to go to her home in San Francisco. She provided
the money necessary for the voyage and for other expenses. She is
still in Europe. I landed in New York a fortnight ago and, following
her directions, presented myself at a certain bank,--I have the
name somewhere--where my railroad tickets were to be in readiness
for me, with further instructions. They were to give me twenty-five
pounds on the presentation of my letter from Mrs. Holcombe. They
gave me the money and then handed me a cable-gram from Mrs. Holcombe,
notifying me that my services would not be required. There was no
explanation. Just that.

"On the steamer I met--HIM. His deck chair was next to mine. I
noticed that his name was Wrandall--'C. Wrandall' the card on the
chair informed me. I--"

"You crossed on the steamer with him?" interrupted Mrs. Wrandall
quickly.

"Yes."

"Had--had you seen him before? In London?"

"Never. Well, we became acquainted, as people do. He--he was very
handsome and agreeable." She paused for a moment to collect herself.

"Very handsome and agreeable," said the other slowly.

"We got to be very good friends. There were not many people on
board, and apparently he knew none of them. It was too cold to stay
on deck much of the time, and it was very rough. He had one of the
splendid suites on the--"

"Pray omit unnecessary details. You landed and went--where?"

"He advised me to go to an hotel--I can't recall the name. It was
rather an unpleasant place. Then I went to the bank, as I have stated.
After that I did not know what to do. I was stunned, bewildered.
I called him up on the telephone and--he asked me to meet him for
dinner at a queer little cafe, far down town. We--"

"And you had no friends, no acquaintances here?"

"No. He suggested that I go into one of the musical shows, saying
he thought he could arrange it with a manager who was a friend.
Anything to tide me over, he said. But I would not consider it,
not for an instant. I had had enough of the stage. I--I am really
not fitted for it. Besides, I AM qualified--well qualified--to
be governess--but that is neither here nor there. I had some
money--perhaps forty pounds. I found lodgings with some people in
Nineteenth street. He never came there to see me. I can see plainly
now why he argued it would not be--well, he used the word 'wise.'
But we went occasionally to dine together. We went about in a
motor--a little red one. He--he told me he loved me. That was one
night about a week ago. I--"

"I don't care to hear about it," cried the other. "No need of that.
Spare me the silly side of the story."

"Silly, madam? In God's name, do you think it was silly to me?
Why--why, I believed him! And, what is more, I believe that he DID
love me--even now I believe it."

"I have no doubt of it," said Mrs. Wrandall calmly. "You are very
pretty--and charming."

"I--I did not know that he had a wife until--well, until--" She
could not go on.

"Night before last?"

The girl shuddered. Mrs. Wrandall turned her face away and waited.

"There is nothing more I can tell you, unless you permit me to tell
ALL," the girl resumed after a moment of hesitation.

Mrs. Wrandall arose.

"I have heard enough. This afternoon I will send my butler with
you to the lodging house in Nineteenth street. He will attend to
the removal of your personal effects to my home, and you will return
with him. It will be testing fate, Miss Castleton, this visit to
your former abiding place, but I have decided to give the law its
chance. If you are suspected, a watch will be set over the house
in which you lived. If you are not suspected, if your association
with--with Wrandall is quite unknown, you will run no risk in going
there openly, nor will I be taking so great a chance as may appear
in offering you a home, for the time being at least, as companion--or
secretary or whatever we may elect to call it for the benefit of
all enquirers. Are you willing to run the risk--this single risk?"

"Perfectly willing," announced the other without hesitation. Indeed,
her face brightened. "If they are waiting there for me, I shall go
with them without a word. I have no means of expressing my gratitude
to you for--"

"There is time enough for that," said Mrs. Wrandall quickly. "And
if they are not there, you will return to me? You will not desert
me now?"

The girl's eyes grew wide with wonder. "Desert you? Why do you put
it in that way? I don't understand."

"You will come back to me?" insisted the other.

"Yes. Why,--why, it means everything to me. It means life,--more
than that, most wonderful friend. Life isn't very sweet to me. But
the joy of giving it to you for ever is the dearest boon I crave.
I DO give it to you. It belongs to you. I--I could die for you."

She dropped to her knees and pressed her lips to Sara Wrandall's
hand; hot tears fell upon it.

Mrs. Wrandall laid her free hand on the dark, glossy hair and smiled;
smiled warmly for the first time in--well, in years she might have
said to herself if she had stopped to consider.

"Get up, my dear," she said gently. "I shall not ask you to die for
me--if you DO come back. I may be sending you to your death, as it
is, but it is the chance we must take. A few hours will tell the
tale. Now listen to what I am about to say,--to propose. I offer
you a home, I offer you friendship and I trust security from the
peril that confronts you. I ask nothing in return, not even a word
of gratitude. You may tell the people at your lodgings that I have
engaged you as companion and that we are to sail for Europe in a
week's time if possible. Now we must prepare to go to my own home.
You will see to packing my--that is, our trunks--"

"Oh, it--it must be a dream!" cried Hetty Castleton, her eyes swimming.
"I can't believe--" Suddenly she caught herself up, and tried to
smile. "I don't see why you do this for me. I do not deserve--"

"You have done me a service," said Mrs. Wrandall, her manner so
peculiar that the girl again assumed the stare of perplexity and
wonder that had been paramount since their meeting: as if she were
on the verge of grasping a great truth.

"What CAN you mean?"

Sara laid her hands on the girl's shoulders and looked steadily
into the puzzled eyes for a moment before speaking.

"My girl," she said, ever so gently, "I shall not ask what your
life has been; I do not care. I shall not ask for references. You
are alone in the world and you need a friend. I too am alone. If
you will come to me I will do everything in my power to make you
comfortable and--contented. Perhaps it will be impossible to make
you happy. I promise faithfully to help you, to shield you, to repay
you for the thing you have done for me. You could not have fallen
into gentler hands than mine will prove to be. That much I swear
to you on my soul, which is sacred. I bear you no ill-will. I have
nothing to avenge."

Hetty drew back, completely mystified.

"Who are you?" she murmured, still staring.

"I am Challis Wrandall's wife."




CHAPTER IV

WHILE THE MOB WAITED


The next day but one, in the huge old-fashioned mansion of
the Wrandalls in lower Fifth Avenue, in the drawing-room directly
beneath the chamber in which Challis was born, the impressive but
grimly conventional funeral services were held.

Contrasting sharply with the sombre, absolutely correct atmosphere
of the gloomy interior was the exterior display of joyous curiosity
that must have jarred severely on the high-bred sensibilities
of the chief mourners, not to speak of the invited guests who had
been obliged to pass between rows of gaping bystanders in order to
reach the portals of the house of grief, and who must have reckoned
with extreme distaste the cost of subsequent departure. A dozen
raucous-voiced policemen were employed to keep back the hundreds
that thronged the sidewalk and blocked the street. Curiosity was
rampant. Ever since the moment that the body of Challis Wrandall
was carried into the house of his father, a motley, varying crowd
of people shifted restlessly in front of the mansion, filled with
gruesome interest in the absolutely unseen, animated by the sly
hope that something sensational might happen if they waited long
enough.

Men, women, children struggled for places nearest the tall iron
fence surrounding the spare yard, and gazed with awed but wistful
eyes at the curtained windows and at the huge bow of crepe on the
massive portals. In hushed voices they spoke of the murder and
expressed a single opinion among them all: the law ought to make
short work of her! If this thing had happened in England, said
they who scoff at our own laws, there wouldn't be any foolishness
about the business: the woman would be buried in quick-lime before
you could know what you were talking about. The law in this country
is a joke, said they, with great irritability. Why can't we do the
business up, sharp and quick, as they do in England? Get it over
with, that's the ticket. What's the sense of dragging it out for a
year? Send 'em to the chair or hang 'em while everybody's interested,
not when the thing's half forgotten. Who wants to see a person
hanged after the crime's been forgotten? And then, think of the
saving to the State? Hang 'em, men or women, and in a couple of
years' time there wouldn't be a tenth part of the murders we have
now. Statistics prove, went on the wise ones, that only one out of
every hundred is hanged. What's that? The jury system is rotten!
No sirree, we are 'way behind England in that respect. Just look
at that big murder case in London last month! Remember it? Murderer
was hanged inside of three weeks after he was caught. That's the
way to do it! And the London police catch 'em too. Our police stand
around doing nothing until the criminal has got a week's start, and
then--oh, well, what can you expect? "Now if I was at the head of
the New York department I'd have that woman behind the bars before
night, that's what I'd do. You bet your life, I would," said more
than one. And no one questioned his ability to do so.

And then all of them would growl at the policemen who pushed them
back from the gates, and call them "scabs" and "mutts" in repressed
tones, and snarl under their breath that they wouldn't be pushing
people around like that if they didn't have stars and clubs and a
great idea of their own importance. "If it wasn't for the family at
home dependin' on me for support, I'd take a punch at that stiff,
so help me God, even if I went to the Island for it!"

And so it WAS and ever shall be, world without end.

Newsboys, hoarse-voiced and pipe-voiced, mingled with the crowd,
and shrieked their extras under the very noses of the always-aloof
Wrandalls, who up to this day had turned them up at the sight of
a vulgar extra, but who now looked down them with a trembling of
the nostrils that left no room for doubt as to their present state
of mind.

Up to the very portals these assiduous peddlers yelped for pennies
and gave in exchange the latest headlines. "All about Mr. Challis
Wran'all's fun'ral!" "Horrible extry!" Ding-donging the thing in
the very ears of the dead man himself!

Motor after motor, carriage after carriage, rolled up to the curb
and emptied its sober-faced, self-conscious occupants in front
of the door with the great black bow; with each arrival the crowd
surged forward, and names were muttered in undertones, passing from
lip to lip until every one in the street knew that Mr. So-and-So,
Mrs. This-or-That, the What-do-you-call-ems and others of the
city's most exclusive but most garishly advertised society leaders
had entered the house of mourning. It was a great show for the
plebeian spectators. Much better than Miss So-and-So's wedding,
said one woman who had attended the aforesaid ceremony as a unit
in the well-dressed mob that almost wrecked the carriages in the
desire to see the terrified bride. Better than a circus, said a man
who held his little daughter above the heads of the crowd so that
she might see the fine lady in a wild-beast fur. Swellest funeral
New York ever had, remarked another, excepting one 'way back when
he was a kid.

At the corner below stood two patrol wagons, also waiting.

Inside the house sat the carefully selected guests, hushed and
stiff and gratified. (Not because they were attending a funeral,
but because the occasion served to separate them from the chaff:
they were the elect.) It would be going too far to intimate that
they were proud of themselves, but it is not stretching it very
much to say that they counted noses with considerable satisfaction
and were glad that they had not been left out. The real, high-water
mark in New York society was established at this memorable function.
It was quite plain to every one that Mrs. Wrandall,--THE Mrs.
Wrandall,--had made out the list of guests to be invited to the
funeral of her son. It was a blue-stocking affair. You couldn't
imagine anything more so. Afterwards, the two hundred who were
there looked with utmost pity and not a little scorn on the other
two hundred who failed to get in, notwithstanding there was ample
room in the spacious house for all of them. There wasn't a questionable
guest in the house, unless one were to question the right of the
dead man's widow to be there--and, after all, she was upstairs with
the family. Even so, she was a Wrandall--remotely, of course, but
recognisable.

Yes, they counted noses, so to say. As one after the other arrived
and was ushered into the huge drawing-room, he or she was accorded
a congratulatory look from those already assembled, a tribute
returned with equal amiability. Each one noted who else was there,
and each one said to himself that at last they really had something
all to themselves. It was truly a pleasure, a relief, to be able to
do something without being pushed about by people who didn't belong
but thought they did. They sat back,--stiffly, of course,--and in
utter stillness confessed that there could be such a thing as the
survival of the fittest. Yes, there wasn't a nose there that couldn't
be counted with perfect serenity. It was a notable occasion.

Mrs. Wrandall, the elder, had made out the list. She did not consult
her daughter-in-law in the matter. It is true that Sara forestalled
her in a way by sending word, through Leslie, that she would be pleased
if Mrs. Wrandall would issue invitations to as many of Challis's
friends as she deemed advisable. As for herself, she had no wish
in the matter; she would be satisfied with whatever arrangements
the family cared to make.

It is not to be supposed, from the foregoing, that Mrs. Wrandall,
the elder, was not stricken to the heart by the lamentable death
of her idol. He WAS her idol. He was her first-born, he was her
love-born. He came to her in the days when she loved her husband
without much thought of respecting him. She was beginning to
regard him as something more than a lover when Leslie came, so it
was different. When their daughter Vivian was born, she was plainly
annoyed but wholly respectful. Mr. Wrandall was no longer the lover;
he was her lord and master. The head of the house of Wrandall was
a person to be looked up to, to be respected and admired by her,
for he was a very great man, but he was dear to her only because
he was the father of Challis, the first-born.

In the order of her nature, Challis therefore was her most dearly
beloved, Vivian the least desired and last in her affections as
well as in sequence.

Strangely enough, the three of them perfected a curiously significant
record of conjugal endowments. Challis had always been the wild,
wayward, unrestrained one, and by far the most lovable; Leslie,
almost as good looking but with scarcely a noticeable trace of the
charm that made his brother attractive; Vivian, handsome, selfish
and as cheerless as the wind that blows across the icebergs in the
north. Challis had been born with a widely enveloping heart and an
elastic conscience; Leslie with a brain and a soul and not much of
a heart, as things go; Vivian with a soul alone, which belonged to
God, after all, and not to her. Of course she had a heart, but it
was only for the purpose of pumping blood to remote extremities, and
had nothing whatever to do with anything so unutterably extraneous
as love, charity or self-sacrifice.

As for Mr. Redmond Wrandall he was a very proper and dignified
gentleman, and old for his years.

Secretly, Vivian was his favourite. Moreover, possessing the
usual contrariness of man, and having been at one time or other, a
hot-blooded lover, he professed--also in secret--a certain admiration
for the beautiful, warm-hearted wife of his eldest son.  He looked
upon her from a man's point of view. He couldn't help that. Not
once, but many times, had he said to himself that perhaps Challis
was lucky to have got her instead of one of the girls his mother
had chosen for him out of the minute elect.

It may be seen, or rather surmised, that if the house of Wrandall
had not been so admirably centred under its own vine and fig tree,
it might have become divided against itself without much of an
effort.

Mrs. Redmond Wrandall was the vine and fig tree.

And now they had brought her dearly beloved son home to her,
murdered and--disgraced. If it had been either of the others, she
could have said: "God's will be done." Instead, she cried out that
God had turned against her.

Leslie had had the bad taste--or perhaps it was misfortune--to
blurt out an agonised "I told you so" at a time when the family
was sitting numb and hushed under the blight of the first horrid
blow.  He did not mean to be unfeeling. It was the truth bursting
from his unhappy lips.

"I knew Chal would come to this--I knew it," he had said. His arm
was about the quivering shoulders of his mother as he said it.

She looked up, a sob breaking in her throat. For a long time she
looked into the face of her second son.

"How can you--how dare you say such a thing as that?" she cried,
aghast.

He , and drew her closer to him.

"I--I didn't mean it," he faltered.

"You have always taken sides against him," began his mother.

"Please, mother," he cried miserably.

"You say this to me NOW," she went on. "You who are left to take
his place in my affection.--Why, Leslie, I--I--"

Vivian interposed. "Les is upset, mamma darling. You know he loved
Challis as deeply as any of us loved him."

Afterwards the girl said to Leslie when they were quite alone:
"She will never forgive you for that, Les. It was a beastly thing
to say."

He bit his lip, which trembled. "She's never cared for me as she
cared for Chal. I'm sorry if I've made it worse."

"See here, Leslie, was Chal so--so--"

"Yes. I meant what I said a while ago. It was sure to happen to
him one time or another. Sara's had a lot to put up with."

"Sara! If she had been the right sort of a wife, this never would
have happened."

"After all is said and done, Vivie, Sara's in a position to rub it
in on us if she's of a mind to do so. She won't do it, of course,
but--I wonder if she isn't gloating, just the same."

"Haven't we treated her as one of us?" demanded she, dabbing her
handkerchief in her eyes. "Since the wedding, I mean. Haven't we
been kind to her?"

"Oh, I think she understands us perfectly," said her brother.

"I wonder what she will do now?" mused Vivian, in that speech
casting her sister-in-law out of her narrow little world as one
would throw aside a burnt-out match.

"She will profit by experience," said he, with some pleasure in a
superior wisdom.

In Mrs. Wrandall's sitting-room at the top of the broad stairway,
sat the family,--that is to say, the IMMEDIATE family,--a solemn-faced
footman in front of the door that stood fully ajar so that the
occupants might hear the words of the minister as they ascended,
sonorous and precise, from the hall below. A minister was he who
knew the buttered side of his bread. His discourse was to be a
beautiful one. He stood at the front of the stairs and faced the
assembled listeners in the hall, the drawing-room and the entresol,
but his infinitely touching words went up one flight and lodged.

Sara Wrandall sat a little to the left of and behind Mrs. Redmond
Wrandall, about whom were grouped the three remaining Wrandalls,
father, son and daughter, closely drawn together. Well to the fore
were Wrandall uncles and cousins and aunts, and one or two carefully
chosen blood-relations to the mistress of the house, whose hand
had long been set against kinsmen of less exalted promise.

The room was dark. A forgotten French clock ticked madly and
tinkled its quarter-hours with surpassing sprightliness. Time went
on regardless. One of the Wrandall uncles, obeying a look from his
wife, tiptoed across the room and tried to find a way to subdue
the jingling disturber. But it chimed in his face, and he put his
black kid glove over his lips. The floor creaked horribly as he
went back to his chair.

Beside Sara Wrandall, on the small pink divan, sat a stranger in
this sombre company: a young woman in black, whose pale face was
uncovered, and whose lashes were lifted so rarely that one could
not know of the deep, real pain that lay behind them, in her Irish
blue eyes.

She had arrived at the house an hour or two before the time set for
the ceremony, in company with the widow. True to her resolution,
the widow of Challis Wrandall had remained away from the home of
his people until the last hour. She had been consulted, to be sure,
in regard to the final arrangements, but the meetings had taken
place in her own apartment, many blocks distant from the house in
lower Fifth Avenue. The afternoon before she had received Redmond
Wrandall and Leslie, his son. She had not sent for them. They came
perfunctorily and not through any sense of obligation. These two
at least knew that sympathy was not what she wanted, but peace.
Twice during the two trying days, Leslie had come to see her. Vivian
telephoned.

On the occasion of his first visit, Leslie had met the guest in the
house. The second time he called, he made it a point to ask Sara
all about her.

It was he who gently closed the door after the two women when, on
the morning of the funeral, they entered the dark, flower-laden
room in which stood the casket containing the body of his brother.
He left them alone together in that room for half an hour or more,
and it was he who went forward to meet them when they came forth.
Sara leaned on his arm as she ascended the stairs to the room where
the others were waiting. The ashen-faced girl followed, her eyes
lowered, her gloved hands clenched.

Mrs. Wrandall, the elder, kissed Sara and drew her down beside her
on the couch. To her own surprise, as well as that of the others,
Sara broke down and wept bitterly. After all, she was sorry for
Challis's mother. It was the human instinct; she could not hold
out against it. And the older woman put away the ancient grudge
she held against this mortal enemy and dissolved into tears of real
compassion.

A little later she whispered brokenly in Sara's ear: "My dear, my
dear, this has brought us together. I hope you will learn to love
me."

Sara caught her breath, but uttered no word. She looked into her
mother-in-law's eyes, and smiled through her tears. The Wrandalls,
looking on in amaze, saw the smile reflected in the face of the
older woman. Then it was that Vivian crossed quickly and put her
arms about the shoulders of her sister-in-law. The white flag on
both sides.

Hetty Castleton stood alone and wavering, just inside the door. No
stranger situation could be imagined than the one in which this
unfortunate girl found herself at the present moment. She was virtually
in the hands of those who would destroy her; she was in the house
of those who most deeply were affected by her act on that fatal
night. Among them all she stood, facing them, listening to the
moans and sobs, and yet her limbs did not give way beneath her....

Some one gently touched her arm. It was Leslie. She shrank back,
a fearful look in her eyes. In the semi-darkness he failed to note
the expression.

"Won't you sit here?" he asked, indicating the little pink divan
against the wall. "Forgive me for letting you stand so long."

She looked about her, the wild light still in her eyes. She was
like a rat in a trap.

Her lips parted, but the word of thanks did not come forth. A
strange, inarticulate sound, almost a gasp, came instead. Pallid
as a ghost, she dropped limply to the divan, and dug her fingers
into the satiny seat. As if fascinated, she stared over the black
heads of the three women immediately in front of her at the full
length portrait hanging where the light from the hall fell full
upon it: the portrait of a dashing youth in riding togs.

A moment later Sara Wrandall came over and sat beside her. The girl
shivered as with a mighty chill when the warm hand of her friend
fell upon hers and enveloped it in a firm clasp.

"His mother kissed me," whispered Sara. "Did you see?"

The girl could not reply. She could only stare at the open door.
A small, hatchet-faced man had come up from below and was nodding
his head to Leslie Wrandall,--a man with short side whiskers, and
a sepulchral look in his eyes. Then, having received a sign from
Leslie, he tiptoed away. Almost instantly the voices of people
singing softly came from some distant, remote part of the house.

And then, a little later, the perfectly modulated voice of a man
in prayer.

Back of her, Wrandalls; beside her, Wrandalls; beneath her, friends
of the Wrandalls; outside, the rabble, those who would join with
these black, raven-like spectres in tearing her to pieces if they
but knew!

Sitting, with his hand to his head, Leslie Wrandall found himself
staring at the face of this stranger among them; not with any
definable interest, but because she happened to be in his line of
vision and her face was so singularly white that it stood out in
cameo-like relief against all this ebony setting.

The droning voice came up from below, each well-chosen word distinct
and clear: tribute beautiful to the irreproachable character of the
deceased. Leslie watched the face of the girl, curiously fascinated
by the set, emotionless features, and yet without a conscious interest
in her. He was dully sensible to the fact that she was beautiful,
uncommonly beautiful. It did not occur to him to feel that she was
out of place among them, that she belonged downstairs.  Somehow
she was a part of the surroundings, like the spectre at the feast.

If he could have witnessed all that transpired while Sara was in
the room below with her guest--her companion, as he had come to
regard her without having in fact been told as much,--he would have
been lost in a maze of the most overwhelming emotions.

To go back: The door had barely closed behind the two women when
Hetty's trembling knees gave way beneath her. With a low moan of
horror, she slipped to the floor, covering her face with her hands.

Sara knelt beside her.

"Come," she said gently, but firmly; "I must exact this much of
you.  If we are to go on together, as we have planned, you must
stand beside me at his bier. Together we must look upon him for the
last time. You must see him as I saw him up there in the country.
I had my cruel blow that night. It is your turn now. I will not
blame you for what you did. But if you expect me to go on believing
that you did a brave thing that night, you must convince me that
you are not a coward now. It is the only test I shall put you to.
Come; I know it is hard, I know it is terrible, but it is the true
test of your ability to go through with it to the end. I shall know
then that you have the courage to face anything that may come up."

She waited a long time, her hand on the girl's shoulder. At last
Hetty arose.

"You are right," she said hoarsely. "I should not be afraid."

Later on, they sat over against the wall beyond the casket, into
which they had peered with widely varying emotions. Sara had said:

"You know that I loved him."

The girl put her hands to her eyes and bowed her head.

"Oh, how can you be so merciful to me?"

"Because he was not," said Sara, white-lipped. Hetty glanced at
the half-averted face with queer, indescribable expression in her
eyes.

Then her nerves gave way. She shrank away from the casket,
whimpering like a frightened child, mouttering, almost gibbering
in the extremity of despair. She had lived in dread of this ordeal;
it had been promised the day before by Sara Wrandall, whose will
was law to her. Now she had come to the very apex of realisation.
She felt that her mind was going, that her blood was freezing. In
response to a sudden impulse she sprang up and ran, blindly and
without thought, bringing up against the wall with such force that
she dropped to the floor, quite insensible.

When she regained her senses, she was lying back in Sara Wrandall's
arms, and a soft faraway voice was pleading with her to wake, to
say something, to open her eyes.

If Leslie Wrandall could have looked in upon them at that moment,
or at any time during the half an hour that followed, he would have
known who was the slayer of his brother, but it is doubtful if he
could have had the heart to denounce her to the world.

When they were ready to leave the room, Hetty had regained control
of her nerves to a most surprising extent, a condition unmistakably
due to the influence of the older woman.

"I can trust myself now, Mrs. Wrandall," said Hetty steadily as
they hesitated for an instant before turning the knob of the door.

"Then, I shall ask YOU to open the door," said Sara, drawing back.

Without a word or a look, Hetty opened the door and permitted the
other to pass out before her. Then she followed, closing it gently,
even deliberately, but not without a swift glance over her shoulder
into the depths of the room they were leaving.

Of the two, Sara Wrandall was the paler as they went up the broad
staircase with Leslie.

The funeral oration by the Rev. Dr. Maltby dragged on. Among all
his hearers there was but one who believed the things he said of
Challis Wrandall, and she was one of two persons who, so the saying
goes, are the last to find a man out; his mother and his sister.
But in this instance the mother was alone. The silent, attentive
guests on the lower floor listened in grim approval: Dr. Maltby
was doing himself proud. Not one but all of them knew that Maltby
KNEW. And yet how soothing he was.

Thus afterwards, to his wife, on the way home after a fruitful
silence, spoke Colonel Berkimer, well known to the Tenderloin:

"When I die, my dear, I want you to be sure to have Maltby in for
the sermon. He's really wonderful."

"You don't mean to say you BELIEVED all that he said," cried his
wife.

"Certainly NOT," he snapped. "That's the point."

Once at the end of a beautifully worded sentence, eulogistic of
the dead man's character as a son and husband, the tense silence
of the room upstairs was shattered by the utterance of a single,
poignant word:

"God!"

It was so expressive of surprise, of scorn, of contempt, although
spoken in little more than a whisper, that every one in the room
caught his or her breath in a sharp little gasp, as if cringing
from the effect of an unexpected shock to a sensitive nerve.

Each looked at his neighbour and then in a shocked sort of way at
every one else, for no one could quite make out who had uttered
the word, and each wondered if, in a fit of abstraction, he could
have done it himself. It unmistakably had been the voice of a woman,
but whose? Hetty knew, but not by the slightest sign did she betray
the fact that the woman who sat beside her was the one to utter
the brief but scathing estimate of the minister's eulogy.

The hatchet-faced little undertaker stood in the open door again
and solemnly bowed his head to Leslie, lifting his dolorous eyebrows
in lieu of the verbal question. Receiving a simple nod in reply,
he announced that as soon as the guests had departed he would be
pleased to have the family descend to the carriages.

Outside, the shivering, half-frozen multitude edged its way up to
the line of blue-coats and again whispered the names of the departing
guests, and every neck was craned in the effort to secure the first
view of the casket, the silk-hatted pall-bearers and the weeping
members of the family.

"They'll be out with 'im in a minute now," said a hoarse-voiced man
who clung to the ornamental face of the tall gate and passed back
the word, for he could see beyond the stream of guests into the
hallway of the house.

"Git down out o' that," commanded a policeman tapping him sharply
with his night-stick.

"Aw, I ain't botherin' anybody--"

"Git down, I say!"

Grumbling, the man slunk back, and a woman took his place. This was
better for the crowd, as her voice was shriller and she had less
compunction about making herself heard.

A small boy crept beyond the line and peered, round-eyed, up the
carpeted steps. He received a sharp push from a night-stick and
went blubbering back into the crowd.

And all through the eager, seething mob went sharp-eyed men in
plain clothes, searching each face with crafty eyes, looking for
the sign that might betray the woman who had brought all this about.
They were men from the central office. Another of their ilk had the
freedom of the house in the guise of an undertaker's assistant. He
watched the favoured few!

There is a saying that a strange, mysterious force drags the
murderer to the scene of his crime, whether he will or no, to look
with others upon the havoc he has wrought. He has been known to sit
beside the bier of his victim; he has been known to follow him to
the tomb; he has been known to betray himself at the very edge of
the grave. A grim, fantastic thing is conscience!

At last the crowd gave out a deep, hissing breath and surged forward.
They were bearing Challis Wrandall down the steps. The wall of
policemen held firm; the morbid hundreds fell back and glared with
unblinking eyes at the black thing that slowly crossed the sidewalk
and slid noiselessly into the yawning mouth of the hearse.  No
man in all that mob uncovered his head, no woman crossed herself.
Inwardly they reviled the police who kept them from seeing all that
they wanted to see. They were being cheated.

Then there was an eager shout from the foremost in the throng, and
the word went singing through the crowd, back to the outer fringe,
where men danced like so many jumping-jacks in the effort to see
above the heads of those in front.

"Here they come!" went the hoarse whisper, like the swish of the
wind.

"Stand back, please!"

"That's his mother!" cried a shrill voice, triumphantly,--even
gladly. She was the first to give the news.

"Keep back!" growled the police, lifting their clubs.

"Which one is his wife?"

"Has she come out yet?"

"Get out of my way, damn you!"

"Say, if these cops was doing their duty they'd--"

"That's what I say! No wonder they never ketch anybody."

"Say, they don't seem to be takin' it very hard. I thought they'd
be cryin' like--"

"Is that his wife?"

"Poor little thing! Ouch! You big ruffian!"

"Swell business, eh?"

"She won't be sayin' 'Where's my wanderin' boy--'"

"If we had police in this city that could ketch a street car we'd--"

"That's old man Wrandall. I've waited on him dozens o' times."

"Did they have any children?"

Up in the front rank stood a slim little thing with yellow hair and
carmined lips, wrapped in costly furs yet shivering as if chilled
to the bone. Four plain clothes men were watching her narrowly. She
was known to have been one of Challis Wrandall's associates. When
she shrank back into the crowd and made her way to the outskirts,
hurrying as if pursued by ghosts, two men followed close behind,
and kept her in sight for many blocks.

The motors and carriages rolled away, and there was left only the
policemen and the unsatiated mob. They watched the undertaker's
assistant remove the great bow of black from the door of the house.

By the end of the week the murder of Challis Wrandall was forgotten
by all save the police. The inquest was over, the law was baffled,
the city was serenely waiting for its next sensation. No one cared.

Leslie Wrandall went down to the steamer to see his sister-in-law
off for Europe.

"Good-bye, Miss Castleton," he said, as he shook the hand of the
slim young Englishwoman at parting. "Take good care of Sara. She
needs a friend, a good friend, now. Keep her over there until she
has--forgotten."




CHAPTER V

DISCUSSING A SISTER-IN-LAW


"You remember my sister-in-law, don't you, Brandy?" was the question
that Leslie Wrandall put to a friend one afternoon, as they sat
drearily in a window of one of the fashionable up-town clubs, a
little more than a year after the events described in the foregoing
chapters. Drearily, I have said, for the reason that it was Sunday,
and raining at that.

"I met Mrs. Wrandall a few years ago in Rome," said his companion,
renewing interest in a conversation that had died some time before
of its own exhaustion. "She's most attractive. I saw her but once.
I think it was at somebody's fete."

"She's returning to New York the end of the month," said Leslie.
"Been abroad for over a year. She had a villa at Nice this winter."

"I remember her quite well. I was of an age then to be particularly
sensitive to female loveliness. If I'd been staying on in Rome, I
should have screwed up the courage, I'm sure, to have asked her to
sit for me."

"Lord love you, man, she's posed for half the painters in the world,
it seems to me. Like the duchesses that Romney and those old chaps
used to paint. It occurs to me those grand old dames did nothing but
sit for portraits, year in and year out, all their lives. I don't
see where they found time to scratch up the love affairs they're
reported to have had. There always must have been some painter or
other hanging around. I remember reading that the Duchess of--I
can't remember the name--posed a hundred and sixty-nine times, for
nearly as many painters. Sara's not so bad as all that, of course,
but I don't exaggerate when I say she's been painted a dozen
times--and hung in twice as many exhibits."

"I know," said the other with a smile. "I've seen a few of them."

"The best of them all is hanging in her place up in the country,
old man. It's the one my brother liked. A Belgian fellow did it a
couple of years ago. Never been exhibited, so of course you haven't
seen it. Challis wouldn't consent to its being revealed to the
vulgar gaze, he loved it so much."

"I like that," resented Brandon Booth, with a mild glare.

"Lot of common, vulgar people do hang about picture galleries, you
will have to admit that, Brandy. They visit 'em in the winter time
to get in where it's warm, and in the summer time they go because
it's nice and shady. That's the sort I mean."

"What do you know about art or the people who--"

"I know all there is to know about it, old chap. Haven't we got
Gainsboroughs, and Turners, and Constables, and Corots hanging all
over the place? And a lot of others, too. Reynolds, Romney and
Raeburn,--the three R's. And didn't I tag along with mother to
picture dealers' shops and auctions when every blessed one of 'em
was bought? I know ALL about it, let me tell you. I can tell you what
kind of an 'atmosphere' a painting's got, with my eyes closed; and
as for 'quality' and 'luminosity' and 'broadness' and 'handling,'
I know more this minute about such things than any auctioneer in the
world. I am a past master at it, believe me. One can't go around
buying paintings with his mother without getting a liberal education
in art. She began taking me when I was ten years old. Challis
wouldn't go, so she MADE me do it. Then I always had to go back
with her when she wanted to exchange them for something else the
dealer assured her she ought to have in our collection, and which
invariably cost three times as much. No, my dear fellow, you are
very much mistaken when you say that I don't know anything about
art. I am a walking price-list of all the art this side of the
Dresden gallery. You should not forget that we are a very old New
York family. We've been collecting for over twenty years."

Both laughed. He liked Wrandall best when he affected mockery
of this sort, although he was keenly alive to a certain breath of
self-glorification in his raillery. Leslie felt a delicious sense
of security in railing at family limitations: he knew that no one
was likely to take him seriously.

"Nevertheless, your mother has some really fine paintings in the
collection," proclaimed Booth amiably, also descending to snobbishness
without really meaning to do so. He considered Velasquez to be the
superior of all those mentioned by Wrandall, and there was the end
to it, so far as he was concerned. It was ever a source of wonder
to him that Mrs. Wrandall didn't "trade in" everything else she
possessed for a single great Velasquez.

"Getting back to Sara,--my sister-in-law,--why don't you ask her to
sit for you this summer? She's not going out, you know, and time
will hang so heavily on her hands that she will even welcome another
portrait agony."

"I can't ask her to--"

"I'll do the asking, if you say the word."

"Don't be an ass."

"I'm quite willing to be one, if it will help you out, old man,"
said Leslie cheerfully.

"And make one of me as well, I suppose. She'd think me a frightful
cub after all those other fellows. After Sargent, ME! Ho, ho! She'd
laugh in my face."

"If you could paint that smile of hers, Brandy, you'd make Romney
look like an amateur. Most wonderful smile. It's a splendid idea.
Let her laugh in your face, as you say; then paint like the devil
while she's doing it, and your reputation is made for--"

"Will you have another drink?"

"No, thanks. I can change the subject without it. What time is it?"

Both looked at their watches, and put them back again without
remark to resume the interrupted contemplation of Fifth Avenue in
the waning light of a drab, drizzly day. A man in a shiny "slicker"
was pushing a sweep and shovel in the centre of the thoroughfare.
They wondered how long it would be before a motor struck him.

Brandon Booth was of an old Philadelphia family: an old and wealthy
family. Both views considered, he was qualified to walk hand in
glove with the fastidious Wrandalls. Leslie's mother was charmed
with him because she was also the mother of Vivian. The fact that
he went in for portrait painting and seemed averse to subsisting on
the generosity of his father, preferring to live by his talent, in
no way operated against him, so far as Mrs. Wrandall was concerned.
That was HIS lookout, not hers; if he elected to that sort of
thing, all well and good. He could afford to be eccentric; there
remained, in the perspective he scorned, the bulk of a huge fortune
to offset whatever idiosyncrasies he might choose to cultivate.
Some day, in spite of himself, she contended serenely, he would
be very, very rich. What could be more desirable than fame, family
and fortune all heaped together and thrust upon one exceedingly
interesting and handsome young man? For he would be famous, she was
sure of it.  Every one said that of him, even the critics, although
she didn't have much use for critics, retaining opinions of her
own that seldom agreed with theirs. It was enough for her that he
was a Booth, and knew how to behave in a drawing-room, because he
belonged there and was not lugged in by the scruff of an ill-fitting
dress-suit to pose as a Bohemian celebrity. Moreover, he was a
level-headed, well-balanced fellow in spite of his calling; which
was saying a great deal, proclaimed the mother of Vivian in opposition
to her own argument that painters never made satisfactory or even
satisfying husbands: the artistic temperament and all that sort of
thing getting in the way of compatibility.

He had been the pupil of celebrated draughtsmen and painters in
Europe, and had exhibited a sincerity of purpose that was surprising,
all things considered. The mere fact that he was not obliged to
paint in order to obtain a living, was sufficient cause for wonder
among the artists he met and studied with or under. At first they
regarded him as a youth with a fancy that soon would pass, leaving
him high and dry and safe on something steadier than Art. They
couldn't understand a rich man's son really having aspirations,
although they granted him temperament and ability. But he went
about it so earnestly, so systematically, that they were compelled
to alter the time-honoured tune and to sing praises instead of
whistling their insulting "I-told-you-sos." To the disgust of many,
he had a real purpose supported by talent, and that was what they
couldn't understand in a rich man's son. They hated to see their
traditions spoiled. The only way in which they could account for
it all was that he was an American, and Americans are always doing
the things one doesn't expect them to do, especially along grooves
that ought to be kept closed by tradition.

When he said good-bye to his European friends and masters, and set
his face toward home, they took off their hats to him, so to speak,
and agreed that he had a brilliant future, without a thought of
the legacy that one day would be his.

His studio in New York was not a fashionable resting place. It was
a work-shop. You could have tea there, of course, and you were sure
to meet people you knew and liked, but it was quite as much of a
work-shop as any you could mention. He was not a dabbler in art,
not a mere dauber of pigments: he was an ARTIST. People argued that
because he was a thoroughbred and doomed to be rich, his conscious
egotism would show itself at once in the demand for ridiculously high
prices. In that they happily were fooled, not to say disappointed.
He began by painting the portrait of a well-known society woman of
great wealth, who sat to him because she wanted to "take him up,"
and who was absolutely disconsolate when he announced, at the end
of the sittings, that his price was five hundred dollars. She would
not believe her ears.

"Why, my dear Brandon, you will be ruined--utterly ruined--if it
becomes known that you ask less than five thousand," she had cried,
almost in tears. "No one will come to you."

He had smiled. "A master's price is for a master, not for a tyro.
If they want to pay five thousand dollars for a portrait, I can
recommend a dozen or more gentlemen whose work is worth it. Mine
isn't. Some day I hope to be able to say five thousand with a great
deal more assurance than I now say five hundred, Mrs. Wheeler, but
it won't be until I have courage, not nerve."

"But NOBODY will sit for a five hundred dollar portrait," she
expostulated. "Really, Brandon, I prefer to pay five thousand. I
can't--I simply cannot tell people that I paid only five--"

"Will you give six hundred?" he asked, his smile broadening.

"Absurd!"

"Seven hundred?"

"Why, it sounds as if you were jewing me up, not I trying to jew
you down," she cried, dismayed.

"That's the point," he said, with mock gravity. "If my price isn't
what it ought to be in your opinion, it is only fair that I should
make concessions. My picture is worth five hundred dollars, but I
am willing to do a little better than that by you. I will make it
seven-fifty to you, but not a cent more."

"Can't I jew you up any higher, dear boy?"

"No," with a smile; "but if you will consent to sit to me ten years
from now, I promise faithfully to ask five thousand of you without
a blush."

"Ah, but ten years from now I should blush to even think of having
my portrait painted."

"Ten years will make no change in you," said he gallantly, "but I
expect them to make quite another artist of me."

And so his price was established for the time being. He offset
the chilling effect of the low figure by deliberately declining
commissions to paint women who fell below a rather severe standard
of personal attractiveness. Gross women were not allowed to crowd
his canvases; ugly ones who succeeded in tempting him were surprised
to find how ugly they really were when the portrait was finished.
He made it a point never to lie about a woman, not even on canvas.
It made him very unpopular with certain ladies who wanted to be
lied about--on canvas.

As the result of his rather independent attitude, he had more
commissions than he could fill. When it got about that he cared to
paint only attractive women, his studio was besieged by ladies of
a curious turn of mind. If they discovered that he was willing to
paint them, they blissfully dropped the matter and went happily on
their way. If they found that his time was so fully occupied that
he could not paint them they urged him to reconsider--even offering
to quadruple his price if he would only "do" them. One exceedingly
plain woman, who couldn't be reconciled to Nature, offered him
twenty thousand dollars if he would paint her for the Metropolitan
Museum. Another asked him if he was a pupil of Gainsborough. Finding
that he was not, she asked WHY not, with all the money he had at
his command.

He had been in New York for the better part of two years at the
time he is introduced into this narrative. Years of his life had
been spent abroad, yet he was not a stranger in a strange land
when he took up his residence in Gotham. Society opened its arms
to him. It was like a home-coming. Had he been a bridge player,
his coronation might have been complete.

Booth was thirty,--perhaps a year or two older; tall, dark and
good-looking. The air of the thoroughbred marked him. He did not
affect loose flowing cravats and baggy trousers, nor was he careless
about his finger-nails. He was simply the ordinary, everyday sort
of chap you would meet in Fifth Avenue during parade hours, and
you would take a second look at him because of his face and manner
but not on account of his dress. Some of his ancestors came over
ahead of the Mayflower, but he did not gloat.

Leslie Wrandall was his closest friend and harshest critic. It
didn't really matter to Booth what Leslie said of his paintings:
he quite understood that he didn't know anything about them.

"When does Mrs. Wrandall return?" asked the painter, after a long
period of silence spent in contemplation of the gleaming pavement
beyond the club's window.

"That's queer," said Leslie, looking up. "I was thinking of Sara
myself. She sails next week. I've had a letter asking me to open her
house in the country. Her place is about two miles from father's.
It hasn't been opened in two years. Her father built it fifteen or
twenty years ago, and left it to her when he died. She and Challis
spent several summers there."

"Vivian took me through it one afternoon last summer."

"It must have been quite as much of a novelty to her as it was to
you, old chap," said Leslie gloomily.

"What do you mean?"

"Vivian's a bit of a snob. She never liked the place because old
man Gooch built it out of worsteds. She never went there."

"But the old man's been dead for years."

"That doesn't matter. The fact is, Vivian didn't quite take to Sara
until after--well, until after Challis died. We're dreadful snobs,
Brandy, the whole lot of us. Sara was quite good enough for a much
better man than my brother. She really couldn't help the worsteds,
you know. I'm very fond of her, and always have been. We're pals.
'Gad, it was a fearful slap at the home folks when Challis justified
Sara by getting snuffed out the way he did."

Booth made an attempt to change the subject, but Wrandall got back
to it.

"Since then we've all been exceedingly sweet on Sara. Not because
we want to be, mind you, but because we're afraid she'll marry some
chap who wouldn't be acceptable to us."

"I should consider that a very neat way out of it," said Booth
coldly.

"Not at all. You see, Challis was fond of Sara, in spite of everything.
He left a will and under it she came in for all he had.  As that
includes a third interest in our extremely refined and irreproachable
business, it would be a deuce of a trick on us if she married one
of the common people and set him up amongst us, willy-nilly. We
don't want strange bed-fellows. We're too snug--and, I might say,
too smug. Down in her heart, mother is saying to herself it would
be just like Sara to get even with us by doing just that sort of
a trick. Of course, Sara is rich enough without accepting a sou
under the will, but she's a canny person. She hasn't handed it back
to us on a silver platter, with thanks; still, on the other hand,
she refuses to meddle. She makes us feel pretty small.  She won't
sell out to us. She just sits tight. That's what gets under the
skin with mother."

"I wouldn't say that, Les, if I were in your place."

"It is a rather priggish thing to say, isn't it?"

"Rather."

"You see, I'm the only one who really took sides with Sara. I forget
myself sometimes. She was such a brick, all those years."

Booth was silent for a moment, noting the reflective look in his
companion's eyes.

"I suppose the police haven't given up the hope that sooner or
later the--er--the woman will do something to give herself away,"
said he.

"They don't take any stock in my theory that she made way with
herself the same night. I was talking with the chief yesterday. He
says that any one who had wit to cover up her tracks as she did,
is not the kind to make way with herself. Perhaps he's right. It
sounds reasonable. 'Gad, I felt sorry for the poor girl they had
up last spring. She went through the third degree, if ever any one
did, but, by Jove, she came out of it all right. The Ashtley girl,
you remember. I've dreamed about that girl, Brandy, and what they
put her through. It's a sort of nightmare to me, even when I'm
awake.  Oh, they've questioned others as well, but she was the only
one to have the screws twisted in just that way."

"Where is she now?"

"She's comfortable enough now. When I wrote to Sara about what she'd
been through, she settled a neat bit of money on her, and she'll
never want for anything. She's out West somewhere, with her mother
and sisters. I tell you, Sara's a wonder. She's got a heart of
gold."

"I look forward to meeting her, old man."

"I was with her for a few weeks this winter. In Nice, you know.
Vivian stayed on for a week, but mother had to get to the baths.
'Gad, I believe she hated to go. Sara's got a most adorable
girl staying with her. A daughter of Colonel Castleton, and she's
connected in some way with the Murgatroyds--old Lord Murgatroyd,
you know. I think her mother was a niece of the old boy. Anyhow,
mother and Vivian have taken a great fancy to her. That's proof of
the pudding."

"I think Vivian mentioned a companion of some sort."

"You wouldn't exactly call her a companion," said Leslie. "She's
got money to burn, I take it. Quite keeps up with Sara in making it
fly, and that's saying a good deal for her resources. I think it's
a pose on her part, this calling herself a companion. An English
joke, eh?  As a matter of fact, she's an old friend of Sara's
and my brother's too. Knew them in England. Most delightful girl.
Oh, I say, old man, she's the one for you to paint." Leslie waxed
enthusiastic. "A type, a positive type. Never saw such eyes in all
my life. Dammit, they haunt you. You dream about 'em."

"You seem to be hard hit," said Booth indifferently. He was watching
the man in the "slicker" through moody eyes.

"Oh, nothing like that," disclaimed Leslie, with unnecessary promptness.
"But if I were given to that sort of thing, I'd be bowled over in
a minute. Positively adorable face. If I thought you had it in you
to paint a thing as it really is, I'd commission you myself to do
a miniature for me, just to have it around where I could pick it
up when I liked and hold it between my hands, just as I've often
wanted to hold the real thing."

"Come, come! You're dotty about her."

"Get Vivian to tell you about her," said Leslie sweepingly. "Come
down and have dinner with me to-night. She'll bear out--"

"I'll take your word for it. Thanks for the bid, but I can't come.
Dining at the Ritz with Joey and Linda. I think I'll be off."

He stretched himself, took the final, reluctant look of the artist
at the "slicker" man, and moved away. Leslie called after him:

"Wait till you see her."

"All right. I'll wait."

Sara Wrandall returned to New York at the end of the month,
and Leslie met her at the dock, as he did on an occasion fourteen
months earlier. Then she came in on a fierce gale from the wintry
Atlantic; this time the air was soft and balmy and sweet with the
kindness of spring. It was May and the sea was blue, the land was
green.

Again she went to the small, exclusive hotel near the Park. Her
apartment was closed, the butler and his wife and all of their
hastily recruited company being in the country, awaiting her arrival
from town. Leslie attended to everything. He lent his resourceful
man-servant and his motor to his lovely sister-in-law, and saw to
it that his mother and Vivian sent flowers to the ship. Redmond
Wrandall called at the hotel immediately after banking hours,
kissed his daughter-in-law, and delivered an ultimatum second-hand
from the power at home: she was to come to dinner and bring Miss
Castleton. A little quiet family dinner, you know, because they
were all in mourning, he said in conclusion, vaguely realising all
the while that it really wasn't necessary to supply the information,
but, for the life of him, unable to think of anything else to say
under the circumstances. Somehow it seemed to him that while Sara
was in black she was not in mourning in the same sense that the
rest of them were. It seemed only right to acquaint her with the
conditions in his household. And he knew that he deserved the scowl
that Leslie bestowed upon him.

Sara accepted, much to his surprise and gratification. He had been
rather dubious about it. It would not have surprised him in the
least if she had declined the invitation, feeling, as he did, that
he had in a way come to her with a white flag or an olive branch
or whatever it is that a combative force utilises when it wants to
surrender in the cause of humanity.

Leslie was a very observing person. It might have been said of him
that he was always on the lookout for the things that most people
were unlikely to notice: the trivial things that really were
important. He not only took in his father's amiable blunder, but
caught the curious expression in Hetty's dark blue eyes, and the
sharp almost inaudible catch of her breath. The gleam was gone
in an instant, but it made an impression on him. He found himself
wondering if the girl was a snob as well as the rest of them.
The look in her eyes betrayed unmistakable surprise and--yes, he
was quite sure of it--dismay when Sara accepted the invitation to
dine.  Was it possible that the lovely Miss Castleton considered
herself--but no! Of course it couldn't be that. The Wrandalls were
good enough for dukes and duchesses. Still he could not get beyond
the fact that he HAD seen the look of disapproval. 'Gad, thought
he, it was almost a look of appeal. He made up his mind, as he
stood there chatting with her, that he would find out from Vivian
what his mother had done to create an unpleasant estimate of
the family in the eyes of this gentle, refined cousin of old Lord
Murgatroyd.

He was quite as quick to detect the satirical smile in Sara's frank,
amused eyes as she graciously accepted the invitation to the home
whose doors had only been half-open to her in the past. It scratched
his pride a bit to think of the opinion she must have of the family,
and he was inexpressibly glad that she could not consistently class
him with the others. He found himself feeling a bit sorry for the
old gentleman, and hoped that he missed the touch of irony in Sara's
voice.

Old Mr. Wrandall floundered from one invitation to another.

"Of course, Sara, my dear, you will want to go out to the cemetery
to-morrow, I shall be only too ready to accompany you. We have
erected a splendid--"

"No, thank you, Mr. Wrandall," she interrupted gently. "I shall
not go to the cemetery."

Leslie intervened. "You understand, don't you, father?" he said,
rather out of patience.

The old gentleman lowered his head. "Yes, yes," he hastened to
say.  "Quite so, quite so. Then we may expect you at eight, Sara,
and you, Miss Castleton. Mrs. Wrandall is looking forward to seeing
you again. It isn't often she takes a liking to--ahem! I beg your
pardon, Leslie?"

"I was just going to suggest that we move along, dad. I fancy you
want to get at your trunks, Sara. Smuggled a few things through,
eh?  Women never miss a chance to get a couple of dozen dresses
through, as you'll discover if you become a real American, Miss
Castleton.  It's in the blood."

Mr. Wrandall fell into another trap. "Now please remember that we
are to dine very informally," he hastened to say, his mind on the
smuggled gowns. It was his experience that gowns that escaped duty
invariably were "creations."

Leslie got him away.

As soon as they were alone, Hetty turned to her friend.

"Oh, Sara, can't you go without me? Tell them that I am ill--suddenly
ill. I--I don't think it right or honourable of me to accept--"

Sara shook her head, and the words died on the girl's lips.

"You must play the game, Hetty."

"It's--very hard," murmured the other, her face very white and
bleak.

"I know, my dear," said Sara gently.

"If they should ever find out," gasped the girl, suddenly giving
way to the dread that had been lying dormant all these months.

"They will never know the truth unless you choose to enlighten
them," said Sara, putting her arm about the girl's shoulders and
drawing her close.

"You never cease to be wonderful, Sara,--so very wonderful," cried
the girl, with a look of worship in her eyes.

Sara regarded her in silence for a moment, reflecting. Then, with
a swift rush of tears to her eyes, she cried fiercely:

"You must never, never tell me all that happened, Hetty! You must
not speak it with your own lips."

Hetty's eyes grew dark with pain and wonder.

"That is the thing I can't understand in you, Sara," she said
slowly.

"We must not speak of it!"

Hetty's bosom heaved. "Speak of it!" she cried, absolute agony in
her voice. "Have I not kept it locked in my heart since that awful
day--"

"Hush!"

"I shall go mad if I cannot talk with you about--"

"No, no! It is the forbidden subject! I know all that I should
know--all that I care to know. We have not said so much as this
in months--in ages, it seems. Let sleeping dogs lie. We are better
off, my dear. I could not touch your lips again."

"I--I can't bear the thought of that!"

"Kiss me now, Hetty."

"I could die for you, Sara," cried Hetty, as she impulsively obeyed
the command.

"I mean that you shall live for me," said Sara, smiling through
her tears. "How silly of me to cry. It must be the room we are in.
These are the same rooms, dear, that you came to on the night we
met. Ah, how old I feel!"

"Old? You say that to me? I am ages and ages older than you," cried
Hetty, the colour coming back to her soft cheeks.

"You are twenty-three."

"And you are twenty-eight."

Sara had a far away look in her eyes. "About your size and figure,"
said she, and Hetty did not comprehend.




CHAPTER VI

SOUTHLOOK


Sara Wrandall's house in the country stood on a wooded knoll
overlooking the Sound. It was rather remotely located, so far as
neighbours were concerned. Her father, Sebastian Gooch, shrewdly
foresaw the day when land in this particular section of the suburban
world would return dollars for the pennies, and wisely bought
thousands of acres: woodland, meadowland, beachland and hills,
inserted between the environs of New York City and the rich towns
up the coast. Years afterward he built a commodious summer home on
the choicest point that his property afforded, named it Southlook,
and transformed that particular part of his wilderness into
a millionaire's paradise, where he could dawdle and putter to his
heart's content, where he could spend his time and his money with
a prodigality that came so late in life to him that he made waste
of both in his haste to live down a rather parsimonious past.

Two miles and a half away, in the heart of a scattered colony of
purse-proud New Yorkers, was the country home of the Wrandalls, an
imposing place and older by far than Southlook. It had descended
from well-worn and time-stained ancestors to Redmond Wrandall,
and, with others of its kind, looked with no little scorn upon the
modern, mushroom structures that sprouted from the seeds of trade.
There was no friendship between the old and the new. Each had
recourse to a bitter contempt for the other, though consolation
was small in comparison.

It was in the wooded by-ways of this despised domain that Challis
Wrandall and Sara, the earthly daughter of Midas, met and loved and
defied all things supernal, for matches are made in heaven. Their
marriage did not open the gates of Nineveh. Sebastian Gooch's
paradise was more completely ostracised than it was before the
disaster. The Wrandalls spoke of it as a disaster.

Clearly the old merchant was not over-pleased with his daughter's
choice, a conclusion permanently established by the alteration he
made in his will a year or two after the marriage. True, he left
the vast estate to his beloved daughter Sara, but he fastened a
stout string to it, and with this string her hands were tied. It
must have occurred to him that Challis was a profligate in more ways
than one, for he deliberately stipulated in his will that Sara was
not to sell a foot of the ground until a period of twenty years had
elapsed. A very polite way, it would seem, of making his investment
safe in the face of considerable odds.

He lived long enough after the making of his will, I am happy to
relate, to find that he had made no mistake. As he preceded his
son-in-law into the Great Beyond by a scant three years, it readily
may be seen that he wrought too well by far. Seventeen unnecessary
years of proscription remained, and he had not intended them for
Sara ALONE. He was not afraid of Sara, but for her.

When the will was read and the condition revealed, Challis Wrandall
took it in perfect good humour. He had the grace to proclaim
in the bosom of his father's family that the old gentleman was a
father-in-law to be proud of. "A canny old boy," he had announced
with his most engaging smile, quite free from rancour or resentment.
Challis was well acquainted with himself.

And so the acres were strapped together snugly and firmly, without
so much as a town-lot protruding.

So impressed was Challis by the farsightedness of his father-in-law
that he forthwith sat him down and made a will of his own. He would
not have it said that Sara's father did a whit better by her than
he would do. He left everything he possessed to his wife, but put
no string to it, blandly implying that all danger would be past
when she came into possession. There was a sort of grim humour in
the way he managed to present himself to view as the real and ready
source of peril.

Among certain of the Wrandall clan there was serious talk of
contesting the will. It was a distinct shock to all of them. Some
one made bold to assert that Challis was not in his right mind at
the time it was executed. For that matter, a couple of uncles on
his mother's side were of the broad opinion that he never had been
mentally adequate.

During a family conference four days after the funeral, Leslie
launched forth at some length and with considerable heat, expressing
an opinion that met with small favour at the outset but which had
its results later on.

"Why," he declaimed, standing before the fireplace with his hands
in his pockets, "if Sara dreamed that we even so much as contemplate
making a fuss about Chal's will, she'd up and chuck the whole blooming
legacy in our faces, and be glad to do it. She's got plenty of her
own. She doesn't need the little that Challis left her. Then, what
would we look like, tell me that? What would the world say?  Why,
it would say that she didn't think our money was clean enough to
mix with old man Gooch's. She'd throw it in our faces and the whole
town would snicker."

"Figuratively speaking, young man, figuratively speaking," said
one of the uncles, a stockholder and director.

"What do you mean by that?"

"That she--ahem! That she couldn't actually THROW it."

"I'm not so literal as you, Uncle George."

"Then why use the word THROW?"

"Of course, Uncle George, I don't mean to say she'd have it reduced
to gold coin and stand off and take shots at us. You understand
that, don't you?"

"Leslie," put in his father, "you have a most distressing way
of--er--putting it. Your Uncle George is not so dense as all that."

"I didn't use the word 'throw' in the first place," said Leslie,
with a shrug. "I said 'chuck.'"

"I distinctly heard you use the word 'throw,'" said Uncle George,
very red in the face.

"It was on the second occasion, George," said Mrs. Wrandall, loyal
to Leslie.

"In either case," said her son, "we'd be made ridiculous. That's
the long and short of it. Even if she HANDED it to us on a silver
plate,--figuratively speaking, Uncle George,--we'd be made to look
like thirty cents."

"Well, I'm damn--" began Uncle George, almost forgetting where he
was, but remembering in time. He was afraid to utter a word for
the next ten minutes, and Leslie was spared the interruptions.

It was decided that the will should stand. Later on, the alarming
prospect of Sara's perfect right to marry again came up to mar the
peace of mind of all the Wrandalls, and it grew to be horribly real
without a single move on her part to warrant the fears they were
encouraging.

Sara and Hetty did not stay long in town. The newspapers announced
the return of Challis Wrandall's widow and reporters sought her
out for interviews. The old interest was revived and columns were
printed about the murder at Burton's Inn, with sharp editorial
comments on the failure of the police to clear up the mystery.

The woods were green and the earth was redolent of rich spring
odours; wild flowers peeped shyly from the leaf-strewn soil in the
shadow of the trees; some, more bold than others, came down to
the roadway, and from the banks and hedges smiled saucily upon all
who passed; the hillsides were like spotless carpets, the meadows
a riot of clover hues. The world was light with the life of the
new-born year, for who shall say that the year does not begin with
the birth of spring? May! May, when the earth begins to bear, not
January when it sets out in sorrow to bury its dead. New Year's
day it is, when the first tiny flower of spring comes to life and
smiles oh the face of Mother Earth, and the sun is warm with the
love of a gentle father.

"I shall ask Leslie down for the week-end," said Sara, the third
day after their arrival in the country. The house was huge and
lonely, and time hung rather heavily despite the glorious uplift
of spring.

Hetty looked up quickly from her book. A look of dismay flickered
in her eyes for an instant and then gave way to the calmness that
had come to dwell in their depths of late. Her lips parted in the
sudden impulse to cry out against the plan, but she checked the
words. For a moment, her dark, questioning eyes studied the face
of her benefactress; then, as if nothing had been revealed to her,
she allowed her gaze to drift pensively out toward the sunset sea.

They were sitting on the broad verandah overlooking the Sound. The
dusk of evening was beginning to steal over the earth. She laid
her book aside.

"Will you telephone in to him after dinner, Hetty?" went on Sara,
after a long period of silence.

Again Hetty started. This time a look of actual pain flashed in
her eyes.

"Would not a note by post be more certain to find him in the--"
she began hurriedly.

"I dislike writing notes," said Sara calmly. "Of course, dear, if
you feel that you'd rather not telephone to him, I can--"

"I dare say I am finicky, Sara," apologised Hetty in quick contrition.
"Of course, he is your brother. I should remem--"

"My brother-in-law, dear," said Sara, a trifle too literally.

"He will come often to your house," went on Hetty rapidly. "I must
make the best of it."

"He is your friend, Hetty. He admires you."

"I cannot see him through your eyes, Sara."

"But he IS charming and agreeable, you'll admit," persisted the
other.

"He is very kind, and he is devoted to you. I should like him for
that."

"You have no cause for disliking him."

"I do not dislike him. I--I am--Oh, you always have been so
thoughtful, so considerate, Sara, I can't understand your failing
to see how hard it is for me to--to--well, to endure his open-hearted
friendship."

Sara was silent for a moment. "You draw a pretty fine line, Hetty,"
she said gently.

Hetty flushed. "You mean that there is little to choose between
wife and brother? That isn't quite fair. You know everything, he
knows nothing. I wear a mask for him; you have seen into the very
heart of me. It isn't the same."

Sara came over and stood beside the girl's chair. After a moment of
indecision, she laid her hand on Hetty's shoulder. The girl looked
up, the ever-recurring question in her eyes.

"We haven't spoken of--of these things in many months, Hetty."

"Not since Mrs. Wrandall and Vivian came to Nice. I was upset--dreadfully
upset then, Sara. I don't know how I managed to get through with
it."

"But you managed it," pronounced Sara. Her fingers seemed to tighten
suddenly on the girl's shoulder. "I think we were quite wonderful,
both of us. It wasn't easy for me."

"Why did we come back to New York, Sara?" burst out Hetty, clasping
her friend's hand as if suddenly spurred by terror. "We were happy
over there. And free!"

"Listen, my dear," said Sara, a hard note growing in her voice:
"this is my home. I do not love it, but I can see no reason for
abandoning it. That is why we came back to New York."

Hetty pressed her friend's hand to her lips. "Forgive me," she
cried impulsively. "I shouldn't have complained. It was detestable."

"Besides," went on Sara evenly, "you were quite free to remain on
the other side. I left it to you."

"You gave me a week to decide," said Hetty, in a hurried manner of
speaking. "I--I took but twenty-four hours--less than that. Over
night, you remember. I love you, Sara. I could not leave you. All
that night I could feel you pulling at my heart-strings, pulling
me closer and closer, and holding me. You were in your room, I in
mine, and yet all the time you seemed to be bending over me in the
darkness, urging me to stay with you and love you and be loved by
you. It couldn't have been a dream."

"It was not a dream," said Sara, with a queer smile.

"You DO love me?" tensely.

"I DO love you," was the firm answer. Sara was staring out across
the water, her eyes big and as black as night itself. She seemed
to be looking far beyond the misty lights that bobbled with nearby
schooners, far beyond the yellow mass on the opposite shore where
a town lay cradled in the shadows, far into the fast darkening sky
that came up like a wall out of the east.

Hetty's fingers tightened in a warmer clasp. Unconsciously perhaps,
Sara's grip on the girl's shoulder tightened also: unconsciously,
for her thoughts were far away. The younger woman's pensive gaze
rested on the peaceful waters below, taking in the slow approach of
the fog that was soon to envelop the land. Neither spoke for many
minutes: inscrutable thinkers, each a prey to thoughts that leaped
backward to the beginning and took up the puzzle at its inception.

"I wonder--" began Hetty, her eyes narrowing with the intensity of
thought. She did not complete the sentence.

Sara answered the unspoken question. "It will never be different
from what it is now, unless you make it so."

Hetty started. "How could you have known what I was thinking?" she
cried in wonder.

"It is what you are always thinking, my dear. You are always asking
yourself when will I turn against you."

"Sara!"

"Your own intelligence should supply the answer to all the questions
you are asking of yourself. It is too late for me to turn against
you." She abruptly removed her hand from Hetty's shoulder and walked
to the edge of the verandah. For the first time, the English girl
was conscious of pain. She drew her arm up and cringed. She pulled
the light scarf about her bare shoulders.

The butler appeared in the doorway.

"The telephone, if you please, Miss Castleton. Mr. Leslie Wrandall
is calling."

The girl stared. "For me, Watson?"

"Yes, Miss. I forgot to say that he called up this afternoon while
you were out," very apologetically, with a furtive glance at Mrs.
Wrandall, who had turned.

"Loss of memory, Watson, is a fatal affliction," she said, with a
smile.

"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall. I don't see 'ow it 'appened."

"It is not likely to happen again."

"No, madam."

Hetty had risen, visibly agitated.

"What shall I say to him, Sara?" she cried.

"Apparently it is he who has something to say to you," said the
other, still smiling. "Wait and see what it is. Please don't neglect
to say that we'd like to have him over Sunday."

"A box of flowers has just come up from the station for you, Miss,"
said Watson.

Hetty was very white as she passed into the house. Mrs. Wrandall
resumed her contemplation of the fog-screened Sound.

"Shall I fetch you a wrap, ma'am?" asked Watson, hesitating.

"I am coming in, Watson. Open the box of flowers for Miss Castleton.
Is there a fire in the library?"

"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall."

"Mr. Leslie will be out on Saturday. Tell Mrs. Conkling."

"The evening train, ma'am?"

"No. The eleven-thirty. He will be here for luncheon."

When Hetty hurried into the library a few minutes later, her
manner was that of one considerably disturbed by something that
has transpired almost on the moment. Her cheeks were flushed and
her eyes were reflectors of a no uncertain distress of mind. Mrs.
Wrandall was standing before the fireplace, an exquisite figure
in the slinky black evening gown which she affected in these days.
Her perfectly modelled neck and shoulders gleamed like pink marble
in the reflected glow of the burning logs. She wore no jewellery,
but there was a single white rose in her dark hair, where it had
been placed by the whimsical Hetty an hour earlier as they left
the dinner table.

"He is coming out on the eleven-thirty, Sara," said the girl
nervously, "unless you will send the motor in for him. The body of
his car is being changed and it's in the shop. He must have been
jesting when he said he would pay for the petrol--I should have
said gasoline."

Sara laughed. "You will know him better, my dear," she said. "Leslie
is very light-hearted."

"He suggested bringing a friend," went on Hetty hurriedly. "A Mr.
Booth, the portrait painter."

"I met him in Italy. He is charming. You will like HIM, too, Hetty."
The emphasis did not escape notice.

"It seems that he is spending a fortnight in the village, this Mr.
Booth, painting spring lambs for rest and recreation, Mr. Leslie
says."

"Then he is at our very gates," said Sara, looking up suddenly.

"I wonder if he can be the man I saw yesterday at the bridge,"
mused Hetty. "Is he tall?"

"I really can't say. He's rather vague. It was six or seven years
ago."

"It was left that Mr. Wrandall is to come out on the eleven-thirty,"
explained Hetty. "I thought you wouldn't like sending either of
the motors in."

"And Mr. Booth?"

"We are to send for him after Mr. Wrandall arrives. He is stopping
at the inn, wherever that may be."

"Poor fellow!" sighed Sara, with a grimace. "I am sure he will like
us immensely if he has been stopping at the inn."

Hetty stood staring down at the blazing logs for a full minute
before giving expression to the thought that troubled her.

"Sara," she said, meeting her friend's eyes with a steady light
in her own, "why did Mr. Wrandall ask for me instead of you? It is
you he is coming to visit, not me. It is your house. Why should--"

"My dear," said Sara glibly, "I am merely his sister-in-law. It
wouldn't be necessary to ask me if he should come. He knows he is
welcome."

"Then why should he feel called upon to--"

"Some men like to telephone, I suppose," said the other coolly.

"I wonder if you will ever understand how I feel about--about
certain things, Sara."

"What, for instance?"

"Well, his very evident interest in me," cried the girl hotly. "He
sends me flowers,--this is the second box this week,--and he is so
kind, so VERY friendly, Sara, that I can't bear it--I really can't."

Mrs. Wrandall stared at her. "You can't very well send him about
his business," she said, "unless he becomes more than friendly.
Now, can you?"

"But it seems so--so horrible, so beastly," groaned the girl.

Sara faced her squarely. "See here, Hetty," she said levelly, "we
have made our bed, you and I. We must lie in it--together. If Leslie
Wrandall chooses to fall in love with you, that is his affair, not
ours. We must face every condition. In plain words, we must play
the game."

"What could be more appalling than to have him fall in love with
me?"

"The other way 'round would be more dramatic, I should say."

"Good God, Sara!" cried the girl in horror. "How can you even speak
of such a thing?"

"After all, why shouldn't--" began Sara, but stopped in the middle
of her suggestion, with the result that it had its full effect without
being uttered in so many cold-blooded words. The girl shuddered.

"I wish, Sara, you would let me unburden myself completely to you,"
she pleaded, seizing her friend's hands. "You have forbidden me--"

Sara jerked her hands away. Her eyes flashed. "I do not want to
hear it," she cried fiercely. "Never, never! Do you understand?
It is your secret. I will not share it with you. I should hate you
if I knew everything. As it is, I love you because you are a woman
who suffered at the hand of one who made me suffer. There is nothing
more to say. Don't bring up the subject again. I want to be your
friend for ever, not your confidante. There is a distinction. You
may be able to see how very marked it is in our case, Hetty. What
one does not know, seldom hurts."

"But I want to justify myself--"

"It isn't necessary," cut in the other so peremptorily that the
girl's eyes spread into a look of anger. Whereupon Sara Wrandall
threw her arm about her and drew her down beside her on the
chaise-longue. "I didn't mean to be harsh," she cried. "We must
not speak of the past, that's all. The future is not likely to hurt
us, dear. Let us avoid the past."

"The future!" sighed the girl, staring blankly before her.

"To appreciate what it is to be," said the other, "you have but to
think of what it might have been."

"I know," said Hetty, in a low voice. "And yet I sometimes wonder
if--"

Sara interrupted. "You are paying me, dear, instead of the law,"
she said gently. "I am not a harsh creditor, am I?"

"My life belongs to you. I give it cheerfully, even gladly."

"So you have said before. Well, if it belongs to me, you might at
least permit me to develop it as I would any other possession. I
take it as an investment. It will probably fluctuate."

"Now you are jesting!"

"Perhaps," said Sara laconically.

The next morning Hetty set forth for her accustomed tramp over the
roads that wound through the estate. Sara, the American, dawdled
at home, resenting the chill spring drizzle that did not in the
least discourage the Englishwoman. The mistress of the house and
of the girl's destiny stood in the broad French window watching her
as she strode springily, healthily down the maple lined avenue in
the direction of the gates. The gardeners doffed their caps to her
as she passed, and also looked after her with surreptitious glances.

There was a queer smile on Sara's lips that remained long after the
girl was lost to view beyond the lodge. It was still on her lips
but gone from her eyes as she paused beside the old English table
to bury her nose in one of the gorgeous roses that Leslie had sent
out to Hetty the day before. They were all about the room, dozens
of them. The girl had insisted on having them downstairs instead of
in her own little sitting-room, for which they plainly were intended.

A nasty sea turn had brought lowering grey skies and a dreary,
enveloping mist that never quite assumed the dignity of a drizzle
and yet blew wet and cold to the very marrow of the bones. Hetty
was used to such weather. Her English blood warmed to it. As she
strode briskly across the meadow-land road in the direction of the
woods that lay ahead, a soft ruddy glow crept up to her cheeks,
and a sparkle of joy into her eyes. She walked strongly, rapidly.
Her straight, lithe young figure was a joyous thing to behold.
High boots, short skirt, a loose jacket and a broad felt hat made
up her costume. She was graceful, adorable; a young, healthy,
beautiful creature in whom the blood surged quickly, strongly: the
type of woman men are wont to classify as "ineffably feminine,"
though why we should differentiate is no small mystery unless
there really is such a thing as one woman possessing an adorably
feminine quality denied to her sisters. Be that as it may, there
IS a distinction and men pride themselves on knowing it. Hetty was
alluringly feminine.  Leaving out the matter of morals, whatever
they are, and coming right up to her as an example of her sex, pure
and simple if you please, we are bound to say that she was perfect.
The best thing we can say of Challis Wrandall is that he took the
same view of her that we should, and fell in love with her. He
would have married her if he could, there isn't much doubt as to
that, no matter what she had been before he knew her or what she
was at the time of his discovery. No more is it to be considered
unique that his brother should have experienced a similar interest
in her, knowing even less.

She was the sort of girl one falls in love with and remembers it
the rest of his life.

Take her now, for instance, as she swings along the highway, fresh,
trim and graceful, her chin uptilted, her cheeks warm, her eyes
clear and as blue as sapphires, and we experience the most intense,
unreasoning desire to be near her, at her side, where hands could
touch her and the very spell of her creep out over one to make a
man of him.

The kind of woman one wants to draw close to him because his heart
is sweet.

She had the blood of a fellow creature on her hands--the blood of
one of us--and yet we men will overlook one commandment for another.
It is a matter of choice.

What of her present position in the house and in the heart of the
one woman who of all those we know is abnormally unfeminine in that
she subordinates the natural and instinctive animosity of woman
toward another who robs her of a husband, no matter how unworthy
or how hateful he may have been to her behind the screen with which
she hides her sores from the world. The answer is ready: Hetty
was a slave bound to an extraordinary condition. There had been no
coercion on the part of Challis Wrandall's wife; no actual restraint
had been set upon the girl. The situation was a plain one from every
point of view: Hetty owed her life to Sara, she would have paid
with her life's blood the debt she owed. It had become perfectly
natural for her to consider herself a willing, grateful prisoner--a
prisoner on parole. She would not, could not abuse the parole. She
loved her gaoler with a love that knew no bounds; she loved the
walls Sara had thrown up about her; she was content to live and
die in the luxurious cell, attended by love and kindness and mercy.
After all, Hetty was even more feminine than we seem able to convey
in words.

Not in that she lacked in pride or sensitiveness, but that she
possessed to a self-satisfying degree the ability to subordinate
both of these to a loyalty that had no bounds. There were fine
feelings in Hetty. She was honest with herself. She did not look
beyond her present horizon for brighter skies. They were as bright
as they could ever be, of that she was sure; her hopes lay within
the small circumference that Sara Wrandall made possible for her.
She knew that her peril, her ruin lay in the desire to step outside
that narrow circle, for out there the world was cold and merciless.

She lived as one charmed by some powerful influence, and was content.
Not once had the fear entered her soul that Sara would turn against
her. Her trust in Wrandall's wife was infinite. In her simple,
devoted heart she could feel no prick of dread so far as the present
was concerned. The past was dreadful, but it was the past, and its
loathsomeness was moderated by subtle contrast with the present.
As for the future, it belonged to Sara Wrandall. It was safe.

If Sara were to decide that she must be given up to the law, all
well and good. She could meet her fate with a smile for Sara, and
with love in her heart. She could pay in full if the demand was
made by the wife of the man she had left in the grim little upstairs
room at Burton's Inn on that never-to-be-forgotten night in March.

The one great, inexplicable mystery to her was the heart of Sara
Wrandall. She could not fathom it.

She could understand her own utter subjection to the will of the
other woman; she could explain it satisfactorily to herself, and
she could have explained it to the world. Self-preservation in the
beginning, self-surrender as time went on, self-sacrifice as the
prerogative.

And so it was, on this grey spring day, that she gazed undaunted at
the world, with the shadows all about her, and hummed a sprightly
tune through warm red lips that were kissed by the morning mist.

She came to the bridge by the mill, long since deserted and now
a thing of ruin and decay. A man in knickerbockers stood leaning
against the rail, idly gazing down at the trickling stream below.
The brier pipe that formed the circuit between hand and lips sent
up soft blue coils to float away on the drizzle.

She passed behind him, with a single furtive, curious glance at
his handsome, undisturbed profile, and in that glance recognised
him as the man she had seen the day before.

When she was a dozen rods away, the tall man turned his face from
the stream and sent after her the long-restrained look. There was
something akin to cautiousness in that look of his, as if he were
afraid that she might turn her head suddenly and catch him at it.
Something began stirring in his heart, the nameless something that
awakens when least expected. He felt the subtle, sweet femininity
of her as she passed. It lingered with him as he looked.

She turned the bend in the road a hundred yards away. For many
minutes he studied the stream below without really seeing it.
Then he straightened up, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and set
off slowly in her wake, although he had been walking in quite the
opposite direction when he came to the bridge,--and on a mission
of some consequence, too.

There was the chance that he would meet her coming back.




CHAPTER VII

A FAITHFUL CRAYON-POINT


Leslie Wrandall came out on the eleven-thirty. Hetty was at
the station with the motor, a sullen resentment in her heart, but
a welcoming smile on her lips. The sun shone brightly. The Sound
glared with the white of reflected skies.

"I thought of catching the eight o'clock," he cried enthusiastically,
as he dropped his bag beside the motor in order to reach over and
shake hands with her. "That would have gotten me here hours earlier.
The difficulty was that I didn't think of the eight o'clock until
I awoke at nine."

"And then you had the additional task of thinking about breakfast,"
said Hetty, but without a trace of sarcasm in her manner.

"I never think of breakfast," said he amiably. "I merely eat it.
Of course, it's a task to eat it sometimes, but--well, how are you?
How do you like it out here?"

He was beside her on the broad seat, his face beaming, his gay
little moustache pointing upward at the ends like oblique brown
exclamation points, so expansive was his smile.

"I adore it," she replied, her own smile growing in response to his.
It was impossible to resist the good nature of him. She could not
dislike him, even though she dreaded him deep down in her heart. Her
blood was hot and cold by turns when she was with him, as her mind
opened and shut to thoughts pleasant and unpleasant with something
of the regularity of a fish's gills in breathing.

"I knew you would. It's great. You won't care much for our place,
Miss Castleton. Sara's got the pick of the coast in that place of
hers. Trust old Sebastian Gooch to get the best of everything. If
my dad or my grand-dad had possessed a tenth of the brain that that
old chap had, we'd have our own tabernacle up there on the point,
instead of sulking at his back gate. That's really where we're
located, you know. His back gate opens smack in the face of our
front one. I think he did it with malice aforethought, too. His
back gate is two miles from the house. It wasn't really necessary
to go so far for a back gate as all that, was it? To make it worse,
he put a big sign over it for us to read: 'NO TRESPASSING. THIS
MEANS YOU.' Sara took it down after the old boy died."

"I suppose by that time the desire to trespass was gone," she said.
"One doesn't enjoy freedom of that sort."

"I've come to believe that the only free things we really covet
are passes to the theatre. We never get over that, I'm sure. I'd
rather have a pass to the theatre than a ten dollar bill any time.
I say, it was nice of you to come down to meet me. It was more than
I--er--expected." He almost said "hoped for."

"Sara was too busy about the house to come," she explained quickly.
"And I had a few errands to do in the village."

"Don't spoil it!"

"I am a horribly literal person," she said.

"Better that than literally horrible," he retorted, rather proud
of himself for it. "It's wonderful, the friendship between you two
girls--Sara's not much more than a girl, you see. You're so utterly
unlike in every way."

"It isn't strange to me," said she simply, but without looking at
him.

"Of course, I can understand it," he went on. "I've always liked
Sara. She's bully. Much too good for my brother, God rest his soul.
He never--"

"Oh, don't utter a thing like that, even in jest," she cried,
shocked by his glib remark.

He flushed. "You didn't know Challis," he said almost surlily.

She held her breath.

After a moment, the points of his little moustache went up again
in the habitual barometrical smile. Rather a priggish, supercilious
smile, she thought, taking a glance at his face.

"I say I can understand it, but mother and Vivian will never be
able to get it through those tough skulls of theirs. They really
don't like Sara. Snobs, both of 'em--of the worst kind, too. Why,
mother has always looked upon Sara as a--e---a sort of brigandess,
the kind that steals children and holds them for ransom. Of
course, old man Gooch was as common as rags--utterly impossible,
you know--but that shouldn't stand against Sara. By the way, her
father called her Sallie. Her mother was a very charming woman,
they say. We never knew her. For that matter, we never knew the
old man until he became prominent as a father-in-law."

The girl was silent. He went on.

"Mother likes you. She doesn't say it in so many words, but I
can see that she wonders how you can have anything in common with
Sara.  She prides herself on being able to distinguish blue blood
at a glance. Silly notion she's got, but--"

"Please don't go on, Mr. Wrandall," cried Hetty in distress.

"I'm not saying she isn't friendly to Sara nowadays," he explained.
"She's changed a good deal in the last few months. I think she's
broadening out a bit. Since that visit to Nice, she's been quite
different. As a matter of fact, she expects to see a good bit of
Sara and you this summer. It's like a spring thaw, by Jove, it is."

"When does she come to the country?" asked Hetty, bent on breaking
his train of confidence.

"In three or four weeks. But, as I was saying, the mater has taken
a great fancy to you. She--"

"It's very nice of her."

"She prides herself, as I said before, but she always makes sure
by asking questions."

"Questions?"

"Yes. Although she could see through you as if you were plate glass,
she made it a point to ask Sara all the questions she could think
of. Over in Nice, you know. Of course Sara told her everything,
and now she's quite sure she can't be mistaken in people. Really,
Miss Castleton, she's very amusing sometimes, mother is."

Hetty was looking straight ahead, her face set.

"What did Sara tell her about me?"

"Oh, all that was necessary to prove to mother that she was right.
As if it really made any difference, you know."

"Please explain."

"What is there to explain? She merely gave your pedigree, as we'd
say at the dog show, begging your pardon, ma'am. Pedigrees are a
sort of hobby with the mater. She collects 'em wherever she goes."

He gave his moustache a little twist.

"Then my references are satisfactory, so to speak," said she, with
a wry little smile.

"Perfectly," said he, with conviction; "if we are to put any
dependence in the intelligence office."

"Doesn't it stagger Mrs. Wrandall somewhat to reconcile my pedigree
to the position I occupy in Sara's household--that of companion,
so to say?" asked Hetty, a slight curl to her lip.

He looked rather blank. "I don't believe she looks at you in just
that light," said he uncomfortably.

"I fancy you'd better enlighten her."

"Let well enough alone," quoted he glibly.

"But I AM a companion," insisted Hetty, a little spot of red in
each cheek.

"In a sense, I suppose," said he affably. "Of course, Sara puts
you down as a friend."

"I think you'd better understand my real position, Mr. Wrandall,"
said she firmly.

"I do," said he. "You are Sara's friend. That's enough for me.
The fact that your father was or is a distinguished English army
officer, and some sort of a cousin to a lord, and that you have
the entre to fashionable London drawing-rooms, is quite enough for
mother. That qualifies you to be companion to anybody, she'd say.
And there's the end to it."

She was looking at him in amazement. Her lips were slightly parted
and her eyes were wide. For a moment she was puzzled. Then a swift
smile illumined her face. She understood.

"Of course, in London, it really isn't anything to boast about,
getting into drawing-rooms," she said, vastly amused.

"Well, it is over here," said he promptly.

"And it isn't always open sesame to be related to a peer."

"I suppose not."

"Nevertheless, I am glad that your mother and Miss Vivian take
me for what I am. Do you, by any chance, go in for pedigree, Mr.
Wrandall?"

The shaft of irony sped over his head.

"Only in dogs and horses," he replied promptly. "It means a lot
when it comes to buying a dog or a horse."

"How do you feel when you've been sold?"

"I take my medicine."

"As a good sportsman should."

"I dare say you think I'm a deuce of a prig for saying the things--"

"On the contrary, I appreciate your candour."

"Don't hesitate to say it. I'm used to being called a prig. My
brother Challis always considered me one. I think he meant snob.
But that was because our ideals weren't the same. By the way, you
ought to like Vivian."

"That depends."

"On Vivian, I suppose?"

"Not precisely. I should say it depends on your sister's attitude
toward Sara."

"Oh, she likes Sara well enough. Viv's not particularly narrow,
Miss Castleton."

Hetty bestowed a smile upon him.

"That's comforting, Mr. Wrandall," she said, and he was silent for
a moment, reflecting.

"Do you know," said he, as if a light had suddenly burst in upon
him, "you've got more poise than any girl I've ever seen?"

"It's my bringing up, sir," she said mockingly.

"Ancestral habit," he explained, with a polite bow.

"Pedigreeable manners, perhaps."

"I wish the mater could have heard you say that." admiringly.

"Don't you adore the country at this time of the year?"

"When I get to heaven I mean to have a place in the country the
year round," he said conclusively.

"And if you don't get to heaven?"

"I suppose I'll take a furnished flat somewhere."

Sara was waiting for them at the bottom of the terrace as they
drove up. He leaped out and kissed her hand.

"Much obliged," he murmured, with a slight twist of his head in
the direction of Hetty, who was giving orders to the chauffeur.

"You're quite welcome," said Sara, with a smile of understanding.
"She's lovely, isn't she?"

"Enchanting!" said he, almost too loudly.

Hetty walked up the long ascent ahead of them. She did not have
to look back to know that they were watching her with unfaltering
interest. She could feel their gaze.

"Absolutely adorable," he added, enlarging his estimate without
really being aware that he voiced it.

Sara shot a look at his rapt face, and turned her own away to hide
the queer little smile that flickered briefly and died away.

Hetty, pleading a sudden headache, declined to accompany them later
on in the day when they set forth in the car to "pick up" Brandon
Booth at the inn. They were to bring him over, bag and baggage, to
stay till Tuesday.

"He will be wild to paint her," declared Leslie when they were
out of sight around the bend in the road. He had waved his hat to
Hetty just before the trees shut off their view of her. She was
standing at the top of the steps beside one of the tall Italian
vases.

Sara did not respond.

"By the way, Sara, is she the niece or the grand-daughter of old
Lord Murgatroyd? I'm a bit mixed."

"Her father is Colonel Castleton, of the Indian Army, and he is the
eldest son of a second son, if you don't find that too difficult
to solve. The second son aforesaid mentioned, so to speak, was the
brother of Lord Murgatroyd. That would make Colonel Castleton his
Lordship's nephew, but utterly without prospects of coming into a
title, as there are several healthy British obstacles in the way.
I suppose one would call Hetty a grand-niece."

"Mother wasn't quite certain whether you said niece or grand-daughter,"
explained Leslie. "Her mother's dead, I take it.  Who was she?"

"Why are you so curious?"

"Isn't it quite natural?"

"Her mother was a Glynn. You have heard of the Glynns, of course?"
She trusted to his vanity and was rewarded. The question was a sort
of reproach.

"Certainly," he replied, without hesitation. The mere fact that she
spoke of them as "THE Glynns" was sufficient. It was proof enough
that they were people one ought to know, by name at least, if one
were to profess intelligence regarding the British aristocracy. As
a matter of fact, he had not heard of the Glynns, but that didn't
matter. "The Irish Glynns, you mean?" he ventured, taking a chance
at hitting the mark. He had a faint recollection of hearing her
say that Hetty was part Irish.

"You have only to look into her eyes to know she's Irish," she said
diplomatically.

"I've never seen such eyes," he exclaimed.

"She's a darling," said Sara and changed the subject, knowing full
well that he would come back to it before long. "Is it true that
Vivian and Mr. Booth are interested in each other?"

"Yes and no," he replied, with a profound sigh. "That is to say,
she's interested in him and he isn't interested in her--in the way
I take you to mean it. I suspect it's an easy matter for a girl to
fall in love with Brandy. He's a corking fine chap."

"Then it would be very nice for Vivian, eh?"

"Oh, quite so--quite so. His forbears came over with Noah, according
to mother. You know mother, Sara."

"Indeed I do," said she with conviction.

He laughed without restraint. "Mother can rattle off the best
families in the Bible without missing a name, beginning with the
Honourable Adam. Of course, she knows the Glynns and the Castletons
and the Murgatroyds, although I dare say they haven't had much to
do with the Bible. Come to think of it, she did go to the trouble
of looking up the Castleton family in the Debrett."

"She did?" exclaimed Sara, with a slight narrowing of the eyes.

"Yes. She established the connection all right enough. She's keen
for Miss Castleton."

"Oh," said she, relieved. After a moment: "And you?"

"I'm mad about her," he said simply, and then, for some unaccountable
reason, gave over being loquacious and lapsed into a state of almost
lugubrious quiet.

She glanced at his face, furtively at first, as if uncertain of
his mood, then with a prolonged stare that was frankly curious and
amused.

"Don't lose your head, Leslie," she said softly, almost purringly.

He started. "Oh, I say, Sara, I'm not likely to--"

"Stranger things have happened," she interrupted, with a shake of
her head. "I can't afford to have you making love to her and getting
tired of the game, as you always do, dear boy, just as soon as you
find she's in love with you. She is too dear to be hurt in that
way.  You mustn't--"

"Good Lord!" he cried; "what a bounder you must take me for! Why,
if I thought she'd--But nonsense! Let's talk about something else.
Yourself, for instance."

She leaned back with a smile on her lips, but not in her eyes; and
drew a long, deep breath. He was hard hit. That was what she wanted
to know.

They found Booth at the inn. He was sitting on the old-fashioned
porch, surrounded by bags and boys. As he climbed into the car after
the bags, the boys grinned and jingled the coins in their pockets
and ventured, almost in unison, the intelligence that they would
all be there if he ever came back again. Big and little, they had
transported his easel and canvases from place to place for three
weeks or more and his departure was to be regarded as a financial
calamity.

"I could go to ten circuses this summer if that many of 'em was
to come to town," said one small citizen as Croesus rode away in
a cloud of village dust.

"Gee, I wish to goodness he'd come back," was the soulful cry of
another.

"I don't like them pictures he paints, though, do you?" observed
another, more critical than avaricious.

"Naw!" was the scornful reply, also in unison.

From which it may be gathered that Mr. Brandon Booth was not
cherished for art's sake alone, but for its relation to Mammon.

The object of their comments was making himself agreeable to
the lady who was to be his hostess for the next few days. Leslie,
perhaps in the desire to be alone with his reflections, sat forward
with the chauffeur, and paid little or no heed to that unhappy person's
comments on the vile condition of ALL village thorough-fares, New
York City included.

"By the way, Sara," he said, suddenly breaking in on the conversation
that went on at his back, and thereby betraying a secret wish that
was taking shape in his mind, "what have you done with the little
red runabout you had a year or two ago?"

She started. "You mean--"

As she hesitated, he went on. "It would come in very handy for
twosome tours."

"I disposed of it some time ago, Leslie," said she. "I thought
you'd remember."

"Oh,--er--by Jove!" he stammered in confusion.

He remembered that she had GIVEN it away a day or two after that
awful night in March, and he recalled her reason for doing so. He
twisted the tiny end of his moustache with unnecessary vigour--I
might say fury. It was a most unhappy FAUX PAS.

"Softening of the brain," he muttered, in dismal apology to himself.

"And you painted those wretched little boys instead of the beautiful
things that Nature provides for us out here, Mr. Booth?" Sara was
saying to the artist beside her.

"Of course, I managed to get in a bit of Nature, even at that,"
said he, with a smile. "Boys are pretty close to earth, you know.
To be perfectly honest, I did it in order to get away from the
eminently beautiful but unnatural things I'm required to paint at
home."

"Your subjects wouldn't care for that," she warned him, in some
amusement.

"Oh, as to that, the comments of the boys on the things I did up
here weren't altogether flattering to me, so I'm chastened. They
were more than frank about them. We live to learn."

"Where are the canvases?"

"I immortalised them, one and all, by destroying them by fire and
sword, only the sword happened to be a penknife. They made a most
excellent bonfire."

"And so, you've nothing to show for your fortnight?"

"Oh, yes. A most desirable invitation to forget my failures at your
expense."

"<DW30>!"

"I don't blame you. It WAS inane. Still, I can't help saying, Mrs.
Wrandall, that it is a desirable invitation. You won't say '<DW30>'
to that, because I won't listen to it."

"On the other hand, it's very good of you to come."

"It seems to me I'm always in debt to Leslie, with slim prospect
of ever squaring accounts," said he whimsically. "But for him, I
couldn't have come."

"I suppose we will see you at the Wrandall place this summer."

"I'm coming out to paint Leslie's sister in June, I believe. And
that reminds me, I came upon an uncommonly pretty girl not far from
your place the other day--and yesterday, as well--some one I've
met before, unless I'm vastly mistaken. I wonder if you know your
neighbours well enough--by sight, at least--to venture a good guess
as to who I mean."

She appeared thoughtful.

"Oh, there are dozens of pretty girls in the neighbourhood. Can't
you remember where you met--" She stopped suddenly, a swift look
of apprehension in her eyes.

He failed to note the look or the broken sentence. He was searching
in his coat pocket for something. Selecting a letter from the middle
of a small pocket, he held it out to her.

"I sketched this from memory. She posed all too briefly for me,"
he said.

On the back of the envelope was a remarkably good likeness of Hetty
Castleton, done broadly, sketchily with a crayon point, evidently
drawn with haste while the impression was fresh, but long after
she had passed out of range of his vision.

"I know her," said Sara quietly. "It's very clever, Mr. Booth."

"There is something hauntingly familiar about it," he went on,
looking at the sketch with a frown of perplexity. "I've seen her
somewhere, but for the life of me I can't place her. Perhaps in a
crowded street, or the theatre, or a railway train--just a fleeting
glimpse, you know. But in any event, I got a lasting impression.
Queer things like that happen, don't you think so?"

Mrs. Wrandall leaned forward and spoke to Leslie. As he turned,
she handed him the envelope, without comment.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed.

"Mr. Booth is a mind reader," she explained. "He has been reading
your thoughts, dear boy."

Booth understood, and grinned.

"You don't mean to say--" began the dumfounded Leslie, still staring
at the sketch. "Upon my word, it's a wonderful likeness, old chap.
I didn't know you'd ever met her."

"Met her?" cried Booth, an amiable conspirator. "I've never met
her."

"See here, don't try anything like that on me. How could you do
this if you've never seen--"

"He IS a mind reader," cried Sara.

"Haven't you been thinking of her steadily for--well, we'll say
ten minutes?" demanded Booth.

Leslie reddened. "Nonsense!"

"That's a mental telepathy sketch," said the artist, complacently.

"When did you do it?"

"This instant, you might say. See! Here is the crayon point. I
always carry one around with me for just such--"

"All right," said Leslie blandly, at the same time putting the
envelope in his own pocket; "we'll let it go at that. If you're so
clever at mind pictures, you can go to work and make another for
yourself. I mean to keep this one."

"I say," began Booth, dismayed.

"One's thoughts are his own," said the happy possessor of the
sketch. He turned his back on them.

Sara was contrite. "He will never give it up," she lamented.

"Is he really hard hit?" asked Booth in surprise.

"I wonder," mused Sara.

"Of course, he's welcome to the sketch, confound him."

"Would you like to paint her?"

"Is this a commission?"

"Hardly. I know her, that's all. She is a very dear friend."

"My heart is set on painting some one else, Mrs. Wrandall."

"Oh!"

"When I know you better, I'll tell you who she is."

"Could you make a sketch of this other one from memory?" she asked
lightly.

"I think so. I'll show you one this evening. I have my trusty crayon
about me always, as I said before."

Later in the afternoon Booth came face to face with Hetty. He was
descending the stairs and met her coming up. The sun streamed in
through the tall windows at the turn in the stairs, shining full
in her uplifted face as she approached him from below. He could
not repress the start of amazement. She was carrying a box of roses
in her arms--red roses whose stems protruded far beyond the end of
the pasteboard box and reeked of a fragrant dampness.

She gave him a shy, startled smile as she passed. He had stopped
to make room for her on the turn. Somewhat dazed he continued on
his way down the steps, to suddenly remember with a twinge of dismay
that he had not returned her polite smile, but had stared at her
with most unblinking fervour. In no little shame and embarrassment,
he sent a swift glance over his shoulder. She was walking close to
the banister rail on the floor above. As he glanced up their eyes
met, for she too had turned to peer.

Leslie Wrandall was standing near the foot of the stairs. There
was an eager, exalted look in his face that slowly gave way to
well-assumed unconcern as his friend came upon him and grasped his
arm.

"I say, Leslie, is--is she staying here?" cried Booth, lowering
his voice to an excited half-whisper.

"Who?" demanded Wrandall vacantly. His mind appeared to be elsewhere.

"Why, that's the girl I saw on the road--Wake up! The one on the
envelope, you ass. Is she the one you were telling me about in the
club--the Miss What's-Her-Name who--"

"Oh, you mean Miss Castleton. She's just gone upstairs. You must
have met her on the steps."

"You know I did. So THAT is Miss Castleton."

"Ripping, isn't she? Didn't I tell you so?"

"She's beautiful. She IS a type, just as you said, old man,--a
really wonderful type. I saw her yesterday--and the day before."

"I've been wondering how you managed to get a likeness of her on
the back of an envelope," said Leslie sarcastically. "Must have had
a good long look at her, my boy. It isn't a snap-shot, you know."

Booth flushed. "It is an impression, that's all. I drew it from
memory, 'pon my soul."

"She'll be immensely gratified, I'm sure."

"For heaven's sake, Les, don't be such a fool as to show her the
thing," cried Booth in consternation. "She'd never understand."

"Oh, you needn't worry. She has a fine sense of humour."

Booth didn't know whether to laugh or scowl. He compromised with
himself by slipping his arm through that of his friend and saying
heartily:

"I wish you the best of luck, old boy."

"Thanks," said Leslie drily.




CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH HETTY IS WEIGHED


Booth and Leslie returned to the city on Tuesday. The artist left
behind him a "memory sketch" of Sara Wrandall, done in the solitude
of his room long after the rest of the house was wrapped in slumber
on the first night of his stay at Southlook. It was as sketchily
drawn as the one he had made of Hetty, and quite as wonderful in
the matter of faithfulness, but utterly without the subtle something
that made the other notable. The craftiness of the artist was there,
but the touch of inspiration was lacking.

Sara was delighted. She was flattered, and made no pretence of
disguising the fact.

The discussion which followed the exhibition of the sketch at
luncheon, was very animated. It served to excite Leslie to such a
degree that he brought forth from his pocket the treasured sketch
of Hetty, for the purpose of comparison.

The girl who had been genuinely enthusiastic over the picture of
Sara, and who had not been by way of knowing that the first sketch
existed, was covered with confusion. Embarrassment and a shy sense
of gratification were succeeded almost at once by a feeling of keen
annoyance. The fact that the sketch was in Leslie's possession--and
evidently a thing to be cherished--took away all the pleasure she
may have experienced during the first few moments of interest.

Booth caught the angry flash in her eyes, preceding the flush and
unaccountable pallor that followed almost immediately. He felt
guilty, and at the same time deeply annoyed with Leslie. Later on
he tried to explain, but the attempt was a lamentable failure. She
laughed, not unkindly, in his face.

Leslie had refused to allow the sketch to leave his hand. If she
could have gained possession of it, even for an instant, the thing
would have been torn to bits. But it went back into his commodious
pocket-book, and she was too proud to demand it of him.

She became oddly sensitive to Booth's persistent though inoffensive
scrutiny as time wore on. More than once she had caught him looking
at her with a fixedness that betrayed perplexity so plainly that
she could not fail to recognise an underlying motive. He was vainly
striving to refresh his memory: that was clear to her. There is no
mistaking that look in a person's eyes. It cannot be disguised.

He was as deeply perplexed as ever when the time came for him to
depart with Leslie. He asked her point blank on the last evening
of his stay if they had ever met before, and she frankly confessed
to a short memory for faces. It was not unlikely, she said, that
he had seen her in London or in Paris, but she had not the faintest
recollection of having seen him before their meeting in the road.

Urged by Sara, she had reluctantly consented to sit to him for a
portrait during the month of June. He put the request in such terms
that it did not sound like a proposition. It was not surprising
that he should want her for a subject; in fact, he put it in such
a way that she could not but feel that she would be doing him
a great and enduring favour. She imposed but one condition: the
picture was never to be exhibited. He met that, with bland magnanimity,
by proffering the canvas to Mrs. Wrandall, as the subject's "next
best friend," to "have and to hold so long as she might live," "free
gratis," "with the artist's compliments," and so on and so forth,
in airy good humour.

Leslie's aid had been solicited by both Sara and the painter in
the final effort to overcome the girl's objections. He was rather
bored about it, but added his voice to the general clamour. With
half an eye one could see that he did not relish the idea of Hetty
posing for days to the handsome, agreeable painter. Moreover, it
meant that Booth, who could afford to gratify his own whims, would
be obliged to spend a month or more in the neighbourhood, so that
he could devote himself almost entirely to the consummation of this
particular undertaking. Moreover, it meant that Vivian's portrait
was to be temporarily disregarded.

Sara Wrandall was quick to recognise the first symptoms of jealousy
on the part of her brother-in-law. She had known him for years.
In that time she had been witness to a dozen of his encounters in
the lists of love, or what he chose to designate as love, and had
seen him emerge from each with an unscarred heart and a smiling
visage.  Never before had he shown the slightest sign of jealousy,
even when the affair was at its rosiest. The excellent ego which
mastered him would not permit him to forget himself so far as to
consider any one else worthy of a feeling of jealousy. But now he
was flying an alien flag. He was turning against himself and his
smug convictions. He was at least annoyed, if not jealous. Doubtless
he was surprised at himself; perhaps he wondered what had come over
him.

Sara noted these signs of self-abasement (it could be nothing else
where a Wrandall was concerned), and smiled inwardly. The new idol
of the Wrandalls was in love, selfishly, insufferably in love as
things went with all the Wrandalls. They hated selfishly, and so
they loved. Her husband had been their king. But their king was
dead, long live the king! Leslie had put on the family crown,--a
little jauntily, perhaps,--cocked over the eye a bit, so to speak--but
it was there just the same, annoyingly plain to view.

Sara had tried to like him. He had been her friend, the only one she
could claim among them all. And yet, beneath his genial allegiance,
she could detect the air of condescension, the bland attitude of a
superior who defends another's cause for the reason that it gratifies
Nero. She experienced a thrill of malicious joy in contemplating
the fall of Nero. He would bring down his house about his head,
and there would be no Rome to pay the fiddler.

In the train that Tuesday morning, Booth elected to chaff his
friend on the progress of his campaign. They were seated opposite
to each other in the almost empty parlour car.

"Buck up, old chap," he counselled scoffingly. "Don't look so
disconsolate. You're coming out again at the end of the week."

Leslie had been singularly reticent for a matter of ten miles or
more after leaving the little station behind. His attention seemed to
be engaged strictly in the study of objects beyond the car window.

"What's that?" he demanded curtly.

"I say you're lucky enough to be asked again for the end of the--"

"I've got a standing invitation, if that's what you mean. Sara gives
me a meal ticket, as it were. Nothing extraordinary in my going
out whenever I like, is there?" His manner was a trifle offish.

Booth laughed. "In spite of your disagreeable remark, I wish you
good luck, old man."

"What the devil are you driving at, Brandy?"

"I only meant to cheer you up a bit, that's all."

"Thanks!"

There was another interval of silence. Leslie furtively studied
the face of his friend, who had resumed his dreamy contemplation
of the roof of the car, his hands clasped behind his head, his legs
outstretched.

"I say, Brandy," he ventured at last, a trace of embarrassment in
his manner, "if you've nothing better to do, come down and dine
with us to-night--en famille. Viv said over the 'phone this morning
that we are dining alone in state. Come along, old chap, and wake
us up.  What say?"

A clever mind-reader could have laid bare the motive in this cordial,
even eager invitation. He was seeking to play Vivian against Hetty
in the game, which seemed to have taken on a new turn.

Booth was not a mind-reader, although in jest he had posed as one.
"I'm quite sure I've nothing better to do," he said. "I'd suggest,
however, that you let the invitation come from some one in authority.
Your mother, for instance."

"Nonsense," cried the other blithely. "You know you've got a meal
ticket at our house, good for a million punches. Still I'll have
Vivian call you up this afternoon."

"If she wants me, I'll come," said Booth in the most matter-of-fact
way.

Leslie settled down with a secret sigh of relief. He regained his
usual loquaciousness. The points of his little moustache resumed
their uprightness.

"How do you like Sara?" he asked. It was a casual question, with
no real meaning behind it as it was uttered. No sooner had it left
his lips, however, than a new and rather staggering idea entered
his mind,--a small thing at first but one that grew with amazing
swiftness.

"She is splendid," said Booth warmly.

"I thought you'd like her," said Leslie, the idea growing apace:
It did not occur to him that he might be nurturing disloyalty to
the interests of his own sister. Things of that sort never bothered
Leslie. When all was said and done, Vivian had but a slim chance
at best, so why champion a faint hope? "Why don't you do a portrait
of her? It would be a wonderful thing, old chap."

He sat up a trifle straighter in his chair.

"She hasn't asked me to, which is the best reason in the world.

"Oh, I can fix that." His lively imagination was full of it now.

"Thanks. Don't bother."

"And there's this to be said for a portrait of Sara," went on Leslie,
rather too eagerly: "she wouldn't object to having it exhibited in
the galleries. 'Gad, it would do you a world of good, Brandy."

The other's eyes narrowed. "I suppose I am to infer that Mrs.
Wrandall courts publicity."

"Not at all," cried the other impatiently. "What I mean is this:
she's taken a fancy to you, and if her portrait could be the means
of helping you--"

"Oh, cut that out, Les,--cut it out," growled Booth coldly.

"Well, in any event, if you want to paint her, I can fix it for
you," announced his companion.

"If you don't mind, old chap, I'll tackle Miss Castleton first,"
said Booth, dismissing the matter with a yawn.

"I hate the word tackle," said Leslie.

On a bright, sunny afternoon two weeks later, Mrs. Redmond Wrandall
received her most intimate friend in her boudoir. They were both
in ample black. Mrs. Rowe-Martin, it seems, had suffered a recent
bereavement--with an aspect of permanency,--in the loss of a four
thousand dollar Airdale who had stopped traffic in Fifth Avenue for
twenty minutes while a sympathetic crowd viewed his gory remains,
and an unhappy but garrulous taxi-cab driver tried to account for
his crime. He never even thought of the insanity dodge. The Airdale
was given a most impressive funeral and was buried in pomp with
all his medals, ribbons, tags, collars and platinum leashes, but
minus a few of the uncollected parts of his anatomy. While it had
been a complete catastrophe, he was by no means a complete carcass.

Be that as it may, his mistress went into mourning, denying herself
so many diversions that not a few of her friends became alarmed
and advised her husband to put her in a sanitarium. He was willing,
poor chap, but not she. She couldn't see the sense of confining
her grief to the four walls of a sanitarium while the four winds
of heaven were at her disposal.

The most distressing feature of the great Airdale's taking-off
lay in the fact that his descendants--he had several sets of
great-grandchildren--appeared to be uncommonly ordinary brutes,
without a symptom of good breeding in the lot of them. They were
so undeviatingly gauche and middle-class, that already the spiteful
tongues of envy had begun to question his right to the medals and
ribbons acquired at the bench shows, where Mrs. Rowe-Martin was
considered one of the immortals. She could have got a blue ribbon
on a yellow dog any time. Of course, in defence of her exotic Airdale,
she unblinkingly fell back on the paraphrase: "It's a wise father
that knows his own son"; or the other way round, just as you please.

Mrs. Rowe-Martin professedly was middle-aged--that is to say, just
rounding fifty. As a woman is always fifty until she is sixty, just
as it is nine o'clock until the stroke of ten, there may be some
question as to which end of the middle-aged period she was rounding,
but as that isn't material to the development of this story, we
will give her the benefit of the doubt and merely say that sensibly
she dressed in black.

She was Mrs. Wrandall's closest friend and confidante. It was Mrs.
Rowe-Martin who rushed over and gave the smelling salts to Mrs.
Wrandall when that excellent lady collapsed on hearing that her son
Challis was going to marry the daughter of old Sebastian Gooch. It
was she who acted as spokeswoman for the distressed mother and told
the world--that is to say, THEIR world--that Sara was a scheming,
designing creature, whose sole aim in life was to get into the smart
set by the easiest way. It was she who comforted Mrs. Wrandall, after
the lamentable deed was done, by proclaiming from the house-tops
that old man Gooch's daughter should never enter society if she
could prevent it, and went so far as to invite Challis to all of
her affairs without asking his wife to accompany him, quite as if
she didn't know that he had a wife. (In speaking of her to Challis,
she invariably alluded to Sara as Miss Gooch, for something over
a year after the wedding--and might have gone on for ever had not
Mrs.  Wrandall, senior, upset everything by giving a reception in
honour of her daughter-in-law: a bolt from a clear sky, you may
be sure, that left Mrs. Rowe-Martin stunned and bleeding on the
battlefield of a mistaken cause.) She never quite got over that
bit of treachery on the part of her very best friend, although she
made the best of it by slyly confiding to other stupefied persons
that Challis's father had taken the bit in his mouth,--God knows
why!--and that Mrs. Wrandall thought best to humour him for the
time being, at least. And it was she who came to Mrs. Wrandall in
her greatest trial and performed the gentlest deeds that one woman
can do for another when all the world has gone black and hateful
to her. When you put her to the real test, a woman will always rise
above herself, no matter how lofty she may have considered herself
beforehand.

They were drinking tea, with the lemon left out.

"My dear," said Mrs. Rowe-Martin, "I quite agree with you. Leslie
should be thinking of it."

"It means so much to me, Harriet, his getting the right sort of girl.
I feel confident that he is interested--very deeply interested in
Miss Castleton."

"I am so glad you like her."

"She is a dear."

"My sister has met her in London, and at one or two of the country
places. I was inquiring only yesterday. When I mentioned that she
is related to Lord Murgatroyd, Frances remembered her quite well.
She sees a lot of them, you know, during the season," explained
Mrs.  Rowe-Martin affably.

Mrs. Wrandall concealed her curiosity. In the most casual way she
remarked:

"I must ask Miss Castleton if she remembers Mrs. Roodleigh."

"Oh, I fancy she won't recall her," her friend made haste to say.
"Young girls are not likely to remember elderly persons whom they
meet--Oh, you might say in passing, for that's what it really is,
you know."

"Still, if Frances knows the Murgatroyds so intimately it isn't
likely--"

"Did I say she knew them intimately?" protested the other, somewhat
plaintively. "How like me! So stupid! As a matter of fact, my dear,
I don't believe Frances knows them at all--except as one knows people
in a general sort of way. Drawing-rooms, you know, and all that
sort of thing. Of course, every one knows Lord and Lady Murgatroyd.
Just as they might know the Duke of--well any one of the great
dukes, for that matter."

"Or King George," added Mrs. Wrandall softly, without a perceptible
trace of spite.

"She has met them, of course," said Mrs. Rowe-Martin defensively.
Somehow, a defence was called for; she couldn't sit there and say
nothing.

Mrs. Wrandall changed the subject, or at least divided it. She put
the chaff aside, for that was what Mrs. Rowe-Martin's revelations
amounted to.

"Leslie is such a steady, unimpressionable boy, you see," she said,
apropos of nothing.

"And so good looking," added her friend beamingly.

"It wouldn't be like him to make a mistake where his own happiness
and welfare are concerned," said the subject's mother, speaking
more truth than she knew, but not more than Mrs. Rowe-Martin knew.
That lady knew Leslie like a book.

"And he is really devoted to her?"

"I fear so," said her hostess, with a faint sigh. The other sighed
also.

"My dear, it would be perfectly lovely. Why do you say that?"

"I suppose it's the way all mothers feel. Of course, I want to be
sure that he is to be very, very happy."

"That is perfectly natural. And he WILL be happy."

If either of them recalled the strenuous efforts Mrs. Wrandall
had made a couple of years before to get her only daughter married
off to a degenerate young English duke, the thought was submerged
in the present sea of sentimentality. It speaks well for Vivian's
character that she flatly refused to be given in marriage, although
it appeared to be the fashion at the time. It was the year of the
coronation.

"Miss Castleton is a most uncommon girl," said Mrs. Wrandall, again
apropos of nothing that had gone before.

"Most English girls are," agreed her friend, scenting something.

"I mean to say, she is so unlike the girls one sees in society. My
husband says she's level-headed. Sound as a rivet, he also says.
Nothing silly or flip about her, he adds when he is particularly
enthusiastic, and he knows I hate the word 'flip.' Of course he
means flippant. He is very much taken with her."

Mrs. Rowe-Martin pondered a moment before risking her next remark.

"I can't quite understand her taking up with Sara Gooch in this
fashion. You know what I mean. Sara is the last person in the world
you'd think a gently bred person would--" Here she pulled herself
up with a jerk. "I mean, of course, a gently bred girl. Naturally
she would appeal to men--and gently bred men, at that. But this
present intimacy--well, isn't it rather extraordinary?"

Mrs. Wrandall drained her cup, without taking her eyes from the
face of her friend.

"You must remember, my dear Harriet, that Miss Castleton looks upon
Sara as a Wrandall, not a Gooch. She was the wife of a Wrandall.
That covers everything so far as the girl is concerned. I dare say
she finds Sara amusing, interesting, and we all know she is kindness
itself. It doesn't surprise me that Miss Castleton admires her, or
that she loves her. Sara has improved in the last seven or eight
years." She said this somewhat loftily.

Mrs. Rowe-Martin was most amiable. "She has, indeed, thanks to
propinquity."

"And her own splendid intelligence," added Mrs. Wrandall.

"Isn't it wonderful how superior they are when it comes to
intelligence?" cried her friend, almost plaintively. "I've noticed
it in shop-girls and manicures, over and over again."

"Perhaps you got the effect by contrast," said Mrs. Wrandall,
pouring a little more tea into her friend's cup. Mrs. Rowe-Martin
was silent. "Sara deserves a lot of credit. She has made a position
for herself, a very decided position. We are all quite proud of
her."

Mrs. Rowe-Martin was on very intimate terms with the Wrandall family
skeleton. She could afford to be plain spoken.

"It is hard to reconcile your present attitude, my dear, to the
position you held a few years ago. Heaven knows you weren't proud
of her then. She was dirt beneath your feet."

"My dear Harriet," said Mrs. Wrandall, without so much as the
flutter of an eyelid, "I am not saying that I would select her as
a daughter-in-law, even to-day. Don't misunderstand me."

"I am not underestimating her splendid intelligence," said Mrs.
Rowe-Martin sharply, and her hostess was so long in working it out
that it was allowed to pass unresented. "I dare say she will marry
again," went on the speaker blandly.

Sara's mother-in-law was startled.

"It's rather early to suggest such a thing, isn't it?" she asked
reproachfully.

"Forgive me," cried Mrs. Rowe-Martin, but she did not attempt to
unsay the words. She meant them to sink in when she uttered them.
It was commonly predicted in society that Challis Wrandall's wife
would further elevate herself by wedding the most dependable nobleman
who came along, and without any appreciable consideration for the
feelings of her late husband's family.

"It is quite natural--and right--that she should marry," said Mrs.
Wrandall, after a moment's deliberation. "She is young and beautiful
and we sincerely hope she will find some one--But, my dear, aren't
we drifting? We were speaking of Leslie."

"And Miss Castleton. You are quite satisfied, then? You don't feel
that he would be making a mistake?"

Mrs. Wrandall touched her handkerchief to the corners of her eyes.

"We could not possibly raise any objection to Miss Castleton, if
that is what you mean, Harriet," she said.

"I am so glad you feel that way about it, my dear," said her friend,
touching her handkerchief to her lips. "It would grieve me more
than I can tell you if I thought you would have to go through with
another experience like that of--Forgive me! I won't distress you
by recalling those awful days. Poor, susceptible Challis!"

"No," said Mrs. Wrandall firmly; "Leslie is safe. We feel quite
sure of him."

The visitor was reflective. "I suppose there is no doubt that Miss
Castleton will accept him," she mused aloud.

"We are assuming, of course, that Leslie means to ask her," said
Leslie's mother, with infinite patience.

"I only mentioned it because it is barely possible she may have
other fish to fry."

"Fish?"

"A figure of speech, my dear."

And it set Mrs. Wrandall to thinking.




CHAPTER IX

HAWKRIGHT's MODEL


Brandon Booth took a small cottage on the upper road, half way
between the village and the home of Sara Wrandall, and not far from
the abhorred "back gate" that swung in the teeth of her connections
by marriage. He set up his establishment in half a day and, being
settled, betook himself off to dine with Sara and Hetty. All his
household cares, like the world, rested snugly on the shoulders of
an Atlas named Pat, than whom there was no more faithful servitor in
all the earth, nor in the heavens, for that matter, if we are to
accept his own estimate of himself. In any event, he was a treasure.
Booth's house was always in order. Try as he would, he couldn't
get it out of order. Pat's wife saw to that. She was the cook,
housekeeper, steward, seamstress, nurse and everything else except
the laundress, and she would have been that if Booth hadn't put
his foot down on it. He was rather finicky about his bosoms, it
seems--and his cuffs, as well.

Pat and Mary had been in the Booth family since the flood, so to
speak. As far back as Brandon could remember, the quaint Irishman
had been the same wrinkled, nut-brown, merry-eyed comedian that he
was to-day, and Mary the same serene, blarneying wife of the man.
They were not a day older than they were in the beginning. He
used to wonder if Methuselah knew them. When he set up bachelor
quarters for himself in New York, his mother bestowed these priceless
domestic treasures upon him. They journeyed up from Philadelphia
and complacently took charge of his destinies; no matter which
way they led or how diversified they may have been in conception,
Brandon's destinies always came safely around the circle to the
starting point with Pat and Mary atop of them, as chipper as you
please and none the worse for erosion.

They stoutly maintained that one never gets too old to learn, a
conclusion that Brandon sometimes resented.

He had been obliged to discharge three chauffeurs because Pat did
not get on well with them, and he had found it quite impossible
to keep a dog for the simple reason that Mary insisted on keeping
a cat--a most unamiable, belligerent cat at that. He would have
made home a hell for any well-connected dog.

As he swung jauntily down the tree-lined road that led to Sara's
portals, Booth was full of the joy of living. Dusk was falling.
A soft bronze glowed in the western sky. Over the earth lay the
tranquil purple of spent refulgence, the after-glow of a red day,
for the sun had shone hot since early morn through a queer, smoky
screen of haze. There was a deep stillness over everything. Indolent
Nature slept in the shadows, as if at rest after the weary day,
with scarcely a leaf stirring. And yet there was a subtle coolness
in the air, the feel of a storm that was yet unborn--the imperceptible
shudder of a tempest that was drawing its first breath.

Before the night was half gone, the storm would be upon them,
to revel for a while and then pass on, leaving behind it the dank
smell of a grateful earth.

But Booth had no thought for the thing that was afar off. He was
thinking of the quarter-of-an-hour that came next in the wheel of
time, whose minutes were to check off the results of a fortnight's
anticipation. He had not seen either of the ladies of Southlook
in the past two weeks, but he had been under the spell of them so
sharply that they were seldom out of his thoughts.

Sara was at the bottom of the terrace, moving among the flower
beds in the formal garden. He distinguished her from a distance: a
slender, graceful figure in black. A black scarf edged with maribou
covered her shoulders, the line of a white neck separating it from
the raven hue of her hair. He paused at the lower gate to look.
Then his gaze was drawn to the gleaming white figure at the top of
the terrace, outlined distinctly against the blue-black sky that
hung over the Sound. Hetty stood there, straight and motionless,
looking out over the water. So still was the evening wind that not
a flutter of her soft gown was noticeable. She was like a statue.

At the sound of his footsteps on the gravel, Sara looked up and
instantly smiled her welcome. When Sara smiled the heart of man
responded, long in advance of his lips. Hers was the inviting,
mysterious smile of the Orient, with the eyes half shaded by
drooping, languorous lids: dusky, shadowy eyes that looked at you
as through a veil, and yet were as clear as crystal once you lost
the illusion.

"It is so nice to see you again," she said, giving him her hand.

"'My heart's in the highlands,'" he quoted, waving a vague tribute
to the heavens. "And it's nice of you to see me," he added gracefully.
Then he pointed up the terrace. "Isn't she a picture?  'Gad, it's
lovely--the whole effect. That picture against the sky--"

He stopped short, and the sentence was never finished, although
she waited for him to complete it before remarking:

"Her heart is not in the highlands."

"You mean--something's gone wrong--"

"Oh, no," she said, still smiling; "nothing like that. Her heart
is in the lowlands. You would consider Washington Square to be in
the lowlands, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, I see," he said slowly. "You mean she's thinking of Leslie."

"Who knows? It was a venture on my part, that's all. She may be
thinking of you, Mr. Booth."

"Or some chap in old England, that's more like it," he retorted.
"She can't be thinking of me, you know. No one ever thinks of me
when I'm out of view. Out of sight, out of mind. No; she's thinking
of something a long way off--or some one, if you choose to have it
that way."

"In that case, it isn't good for her to be thinking of things so
remote. Shall we shout 'halloa the house'?"

He shot a glance at her and responded gallantly: "If she isn't
thinking of us, why should we be thinking of her? Is it too near the
dinner hour for you to let me sit here and rest before attempting
to climb all those steps? And will you sit beside me, as the good
Omar might have said?" He was fanning himself with his straw hat.

She searched his face for a second, a smiling but inscrutable
expression in her eyes, and then sat down on the rustic bench at
the foot of the terrace.

"Why didn't you let me send the motor for you?" she asked, as he
took his place beside her.

"I mean to have an appetite in the country," he said, taking a
deep, full breath. "Motors don't aid the appetite. Aeroplanes are
better.  I had a flight with a friend up in Westchester last week.
I was very hungry when I came down."

[Illustration: Hetty stood there, straight and motionless, looking
out over the water]

"We'll all be flying before we really know it," said she. "Hetty
tried it in France this spring. Have you seen Leslie this week?"

"I've been in Philadelphia for a few days. Is he coming out on
Friday?"

"Oh, yes. He comes so often nowadays that we call him a commuter."

"Attractive spot, this," said he, with a significant glance up the
terrace.

"So it would appear."

"He's really keen about her?"

She did not reply, but her smile meant more than words.

"I am eager to get at the portrait," said he, after a moment.

"Leslie tells me that you want to do me also," said she carelessly.

He flushed. "Confound him! I suppose it annoys you, Mrs. Wrandall.
He shouldn't carry tales."

"But do you?"

"I should say I do," he cried warmly. "For my own pleasure and
satisfaction, you understand. There's nothing I'd like better."

"We'll see how successfully you flatter Hetty," said she. "If it
is possible to make her prettier than she really is, you may paint
me.  I shall be the first to fall at your feet and implore you to
make me beautiful."

His eyes gleamed. "If I fail in that," said he warmly, "it will be
because I am without integrity."

Again she smiled upon him with half-closed, shadowy eyes, and shook
her head. Then she arose.

"Let us go in. Hetty is eager to see you again."

They started up the terrace. His face clouded.

"I have had a feeling all along that she'd rather not have this
portrait painted, Mrs. Wrandall. A queer sort of feeling that she
doesn't just like the idea of being put on canvas."

"Nonsense," she said, without looking at him.

"Of course, I could understand her not caring to give up the time
to it. It's a nuisance, I know. But it isn't that sort of feeling
I have about her attitude. There's something else. Doesn't she like
me?"

"Of course she does," she exclaimed. "How ridiculous. She will love
it, once the picture is under way. It is the beginning of it that
disturbs her. Isn't that always the way?"

"I am afraid you don't know women," said he banteringly.

"By the way, have you been able to recall where you first saw her,
or is your memory still a blank?" she asked suddenly.

"I can't think where it was or when," said he, "but I am absolutely
positive I've seen her before. Her face is not the kind one forgets,
you know."

"It may come to you unexpectedly."

"It's maddening, not to be able to remember."

The dusk of night hid the look of relief that came into her eyes.

Hetty met them at the top of the steps. The electric porch lights
had just been turned on by the butler. The girl stood in the path
of the light. Booth was never to forget the loveliness of her in
that moment. He carried the image with him on the long walk home
through the black night. (He declined Sara's offer to send him
over in the car for the very reason that he wanted the half-hour of
solitude in which to concentrate all the impressions she had made
on his fancy.)

The three of them stood there for a few minutes, awaiting the
butler's announcement. Sara's arm was about Hetty's shoulders. He
was so taken up with the picture they presented that he scarcely
heard their light chatter. They were types of loveliness so full of
contrast that he marvelled at the power of Nature to create women
in the same mould and yet to model so differently.

They were as near alike in height, figure and carriage as two
women could be, and yet there was a subtle distinction that left
him conscious of the fact that two vastly different strains of
blood ran through their veins. Apart, he would not have perceived
this marked difference in them. Hetty represented the violet, Sara
the <DW29>.  The distinction may be subtile. However, it was the
estimate he formed in that moment of comparison.

The English girl's soft white gown was cut low in the neck, her
shapely arms were bare. Sara's black covered her arms and shoulders,
even to the slender throat. The hair of both was black and rich
and alive with the gloss of health. The eyes of one were blue and
velvety, even in the glare of light that fell from above; those of
the other were black, Oriental, mysterious.

As they entered the vestibule, a servant came up with the word that
Miss Castleton was wanted at the telephone, "long distance from
New York."

The girl stopped in her tracks. Booth looked at her in mild surprise,
a condition which gave way an instant later to perplexity.  The
look of annoyance in her eyes could not be disguised or mistaken.

"Ask him to call me up later, Watson," she said quietly.

"This is the third time he has called, Miss Castleton," said the
man. "You were dressing, if you please, ma'am, the first time--"

"I will come," she interrupted sharply, with a curious glance at
Sara, who for some reason avoided meeting Booth's gaze.

"Tell him we shall expect him on Friday," said Mrs. Wrandall.

"By George!" thought Booth, as she left them. "I wonder if it can
be Leslie. If it IS--well, he wouldn't be flattered if he could
have seen the look in her eyes."

Later on, he had no trouble in gathering that it WAS Leslie Wrandall
who called, but he was very much in the dark as to the meaning of
that expressive look. He only knew that she was in the telephone
room for ten minutes or longer, and that all trace of emotion was
gone from her face when she rejoined them with a brief apology for
keeping them waiting.

He left at ten-thirty, saying good-night to them on the terrace.
Sara walked to the steps with him.

"Don't you think her voice is lovely?" she asked. Hetty had sung
for them.

"I dare say," he responded absently. "Give you my word, though, I
wasn't thinking of her voice. SHE is lovely."

He walked home as if in a dream. The spell was on him.

Far in the night, he started up from the easy chair in which he
had been smoking and dreaming and racking his brain by turns.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed aloud. "I remember! I've got it! And
to-morrow I'll prove it."

Then he went to bed, with the storm from the sea pounding about
the house, and slept serenely until Pat and Mary wondered whether
he meant to get up at all.

"Pat," said he at breakfast, "I want you to go to the city this
morning and fetch out all of the STUDIOS you can find about the
place. The old ones are in that Italian hall seat and the late ones
are in the studio. Bring all of them."

"There's a divvil of a bunch of thim," said Pat ruefully.

He was not to begin sketching the figure until the following day.
After luncheon, however, he had an appointment to inspect Hetty's
wardrobe, ostensibly for the purpose of picking out a gown for the
picture. As a matter of fact, he had decided the point to his own
satisfaction the night before. She should pose for him in the dainty
white dress she had worn on that occasion.

While they were going over the extensive assortment of gowns,
with Sara as the judge from whom there seemed to be no appeal, he
casually inquired if she had ever posed before.

Two ladies' maids were engaged in flinging the costly garments
about as if they represented so much rubbish. The floor was littered
with silks and satins and laces. He was accustomed to this ruthless
handling of exquisite fabrics by eager ladies of wealth: it was
one way these pampered women had of showing their contempt for
possession. Gowns came from everywhere by the armload; from closets,
presses and trunks, ultimately landing in a conglomerate heap on
the floor when cast aside as undesirable by the artist, the model
and the censor.

He watched her closely as he put the question. She was holding up
a beautiful point lace creation for his inspection, and there was
a pleading smile on her lips. It must have been her favourite gown.
The smile faded away. The hand that dangled the garment before
his eyes suddenly became motionless, as if paralysed. In the next
instant, she recovered herself, and, giving the lace a quick fillip
that sent its odour of sachet leaping to his nostrils, responded
with perfect composure.

"Isn't there a distinction between posing for an artist, and sitting
for one's portrait?" she asked.

He was silent. The fact that he did not respond seemed to disturb
her after a moment or two. She made the common mistake of pressing
the question.

"Why do you ask?" was her inquiry. When it was too late she wished
she had not uttered the words. He had caught the somewhat anxious
note in her voice.

"We always ask that, I think," he said. "It's a habit."

"Oh," she said doubtfully.

"And by the way, you haven't answered."

She was busy with the gown for a time. At last she looked him full
in the face.

"That's true," she agreed; "I haven't answered, have I? No, Mr.
Booth, I've never posed for a portrait. It is a new experience for
me. You will have to contend with a great deal of stupidity on my
part. But I shall try to be plastic."

He uttered a polite protest, and pursued the question no farther.
Her answer had been so palpably evasive that it struck him as bald,
even awkward.

Pat, disgruntled and irritable to the point of profanity,--he was
a privileged character and might have sworn if he felt like it
without receiving notice,--came shambling up the cottage walk late
that afternoon, bearing two large, shoulder-sagging bundles. He
had walked from the station,--a matter of half-a-mile,--and it was
hot.  His employer sat in the shady porch, viewing his approach.

"Have you got them?" he inquired.

Pat dropped the bundles on the lower step and stared, speechless.
Then he mopped his drenched, turkey-red face with his handkerchief.
He got his breath after a spell of contemptuous snorting.

"Have I got what?" he demanded sarcastically. "The measles?"

"The STUDIOS, Patrick," said Booth reprovingly.

"No, sor," said Pat; "I came absolutely empty-handed, as you may
have seen, sor."

"I knew I couldn't be mistaken. I was confident I saw nothing in
your hands."

"I kept thim closed, sor, so's you couldn't see what was r'ally
in thim. I've been wid you long enough, sor, to know how you hate
the sight av blisthers."

"They must be quite a novelty to you, Patrick. I should think you'd
be proud of them."

"Where am I to put them, sor?"

"The blisters?"

"Yis, sor."

"On this table, if you please. And you might cut the strings while
you're about it."

Pat put the bundles on the wicker table and cut the heavy twine
in dignified silence. Carefully rolling it up in a neat ball, he
stuck it in his pocket. Then he faced his employer.

"Is there annyt'ing else, sor?"

"I think not, at present."

"Not aven a cup av tea, sor?"

"No, thanks."

"Thin, if you will excuse me, I'll go about me work. I've had a
pleasant day off, sor, thanks to ye. It's hard to go back to work
afther such a splindid spell of idleness. Heigho! I'd like to be
a gintleman av leisure all the time, that I would, sor. The touch
I've had av it to-day may be the sp'iling av me. If you're a smart
man, Mr. Brandon Booth, ye'll not be letting me off for a holiday
like this again very soon."

Booth laughed outright. Pat's face wrinkled into a slow, forgiving
grin.

"I love you, Pat," cried the painter, "in spite of the way you bark
at me."

"It's a poor dog that don't know his own master," said Pat
magnanimously. "Whin you're t'rough wid the magazines, I'll carry
thim down to the cellar, sor."

"What's the matter with the attic?"

"Nothing at all, at all. I was only finking they'd be handier
for you to get at in the cellar. And it's a dom sight cooler down
there."

With that he departed, blinking slyly.

The young man drew a chair up to the table and began the task
of working out the puzzle that now seemed more or less near to
solution. He had a pretty clear idea as to the period he wanted to
investigate. To the best of his recollection, the Studios published
three or four years back held the key. He selected the numbers and
began to run through them. One after another they were cast aside
without result. In any other cause he would have tired of the quest,
but in this his curiosity was so commanding that he stuck to the
task without complaint. He was positive in his mind that what he
desired was to be found inside the covers of one of these magazines.
He was searching for a vaguely remembered article on one of the
lesser-known English painters who had given great promise at the
time it was published but who dropped completely out of notice soon
afterward because of a mistaken notion of his own importance. If
Booth's memory served him right, the fellow came a cropper, so to
speak, in trying to ride rough shod over public opinion, and went
to the dogs. He had been painting sensibly up to that time, but
suddenly went in for the most violent style of impressionism. That
was the end of him.

There had been reproductions of his principal canvases, with sketches
and studies in charcoal. One of these pictures had made a lasting
impression on Booth: the figure of a young woman in deep meditation
standing in the shadow of a window casement from which she looked
out upon the world apparently without a thought of it. A slender young
woman in vague reds and browns, whose shadowy face was positively
illuminated by a pair of wonderful blue eyes.

He came upon it at last. For a long time he sat there gazing at
the face of Hetty Castleton, a look of half-wonder, half-triumph
in his eyes. There could be no doubt as to the identity of the
subject. The face was hers, the lovely eyes were hers: the velvety,
dreamy, soulful eyes that had haunted him for years, as he now
believed. In no sense could the picture be described as a portrait.
It was a study, deliberately arranged and deliberately posed for in
the artist's studio. He was mystified. Why should she, the daughter
of Colonel Castleton, the grand-niece of an earl, be engaged in
posing for what evidently was meant to be a commercial product of
this whilom artist?

He remembered the painting itself as he had seen it in the
exhibition at the National Academy when this fellow--Hawkright was
his name--was at the top of his promise as a painter. He remembered
going back to it again and again and marvelling at the subtle,
delicate beauty of the thing. Now he knew that it was the face,
and not the art of the painter that had affected him so enduringly.
The fellow had shown other paintings, but he recalled that none
of them struck him save this one. After all, it WAS the face that
made the picture memorable.

Turning from this skilfully  full page reproduction,
he glanced at first casually over the dozen or more sketches and
studies on the succeeding pages. Many of them represented studies
of women's heads and figures, with little or no attempt to obtain
a likeness. Some were half-draped, showing in a sketchy way the
long graceful lines of the half-nude figure, of bare shoulders and
breasts, of gauze-like fabrics that but illy concealed impressive
charms. Suddenly his eyes narrowed and a sharp exclamation fell
from his lips. He bent closer to the pages and studied the drawings
with redoubled interest.

Then he whistled softly to himself, a token of simple amazement.
The head of each of these remarkable studies suggested in outline
the head and features of Hetty Castleton! She had been Hawkright's
model!

The next morning at ten he was at Southlook, arranging his easel
and canvas in the north end of the long living-room, where the light
from the tall French windows afforded abundant and well-distributed
light for the enterprise in hand. Hetty had not yet appeared. Sara,
attired in a loose morning gown, was watching him from a comfortable
chair in the corner, one shapely bare arm behind her head; the
free hand was gracefully employed in managing a cigarette. He was
conscious of the fact that her lazy, half-alert gaze was upon him
all the time, although she pretended to be entirely indifferent to
the preparations. Dimly he could see the faint smile of interest
on her lips.

"By Jove," he exclaimed with sudden fervour, "I wish I could get
you just as you are, Mrs. Wrandall. Do you mind if I sketch you
in--just to preserve the pose for the future--"

"Never!" she cried and forthwith changed her position. She laughed
at the look of disappointment in his face.

"You've no idea how--er--attractive--" he began confusedly, but
broke off with a laugh. "I beg your pardon. I couldn't help it."

"The potent appeal of a cigarette," she surmised shrewdly.

"Not at all," he said promptly. He was a bit red in the face as he
turned to busy himself with the tubes and brushes. When he glanced
at her again, he found that she had resumed her former attitude.

Hetty came in at that moment, calm, serene and lovelier than ever
in the clear morning light. She was wearing the simple white gown
he had chosen the day before. If she was conscious of the rather
intense scrutiny he bestowed upon her as she gave him her hand in
greeting, she did not appear to be in the least disturbed.

"You may go away, Sara," she said firmly. "I shall be too dreadfully
self-conscious if you are looking on."

Booth looked at her rather sharply. Sara indolently abandoned her
comfortable chair and left them alone in the room.

"Shall we try a few effects, Miss Castleton?" he inquired, after
a period of constraint that had its effect on both of them.

"I am in your hands," she said simply.

He made suggestions. She fell into the positions so easily, so
naturally, so effectively, that he put aside all previous doubts
and blurted out:

"You have posed before, Miss Castleton."

She smiled frankly. "But not for a really truly portrait," she
said.  "Such as this is to be."

He hesitated an instant. "I think I recall a canvas by Maurice
Hawkright," he said, and at once experienced a curious sense of
perturbation. It was not unlike fear.

Instead of betraying the confusion or surprise he expected, Miss
Castleton merely raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

"What has that to do with me, Mr. Booth?" she asked.

He laughed awkwardly.

"Don't you know his work?" he inquired, with a slight twist of his
lip.

"I may have seen his pictures," she replied, puckering her brow as
if in reflection.

He stared for a second.

"Why do you look at me in that way, Mr. Booth?" she cried, with a
nervous little laugh.

"Do you mean to say you--er--that is, you don't know Hawkright's
work?"

"Is that so very strange?" she inquired plaintively.

"By Jove," he muttered, quite taken aback. "I don't understand.
I'm flabbergasted."

"Please explain yourself," she said stiffly.

"You must have a double somewhere, Miss Castleton," said he, still
staring. "Some one who looks enough like you to be--"

"Oh," she cried, with a bright smile of understanding. "I see! Yes,
I have a double--a really remarkable double. Have you never seen
Hetty Glynn, the actress?"

"I am sure I have not," he said, taking a long breath. It was one
of relief, he remembered afterward. "If she is so like you as all
that, I COULDN'T have forgotten her."

"She is quite unknown, I believe," she went on, ignoring the implied
compliment. "A chorus-girl, or something like that. They say she
is wonderfully like me--or was, at least, a few years ago."

He was silent for a few minutes, studying her face and figure with
the critical eye of the artist. As he turned to the canvas with his
crayon point, he remarked, with an unmistakable note of relief in
his voice:

"That explains everything. It must have been Hetty Glynn who posed
for all those things of Hawkright's."

"I dare say," said she indifferently.




CHAPTER X

THE GHOST AT THE FEAST


The next day he appeared bright and early with his copy of the
Studio.

"There," he said, holding it before her eyes. She took it from his
hands and stared long and earnestly at the reproduction.

"Do you think it like me?" she inquired innocently.

"Amazingly like you," he declared with conviction.

She turned the page. He was watching her closely. As she looked upon
the sketches of the half-nude figure a warm blush covered her face
and neck. She did not speak for a full minute, and he was positive
that her fingers tightened their grasp on the magazine.

"The same model," he said quietly.

She nodded her head.

"Hetty Glynn, I am sure," she said, after a pause, without lifting
her eyes. Her voice was low, the words not very distinct.

He drew a long breath, and she looked up quickly. What he saw in
her honest blue eyes convicted her.

Sara Wrandall came into the room at that moment. Hetty hastily
closed the magazine and held it behind her. Booth had intended to
show the reproduction to Mrs. Wrandall, but the girl's behaviour
caused him to change his mind. He felt that he possessed a secret
that could not be shared with Sara Wrandall, then or afterward.
Moreover, he decided that he would not refer to the Hawkright
picture again unless the girl herself brought up the subject. All
this flashed through his mind as he stepped forward to greet the
newcomer.

When he turned again to Hetty, the magazine had disappeared. He
never saw it afterward, and, what is more to the point, he never
asked her to produce it.

There was a marked change in Hetty's manner after that when they
were left alone together. She seemed inert, distrait and at times
almost unfriendly. There were occasions, however, when she went to
the other extreme in trying to be at ease with him. These transitions
were singularly marked. He could not fail to notice them. As for
himself, he was uncomfortable, ill-at-ease. An obvious barrier had
sprung up between them.

When Sara was present, the girl seemed to be her old self, but at
no other time. Frequently during the sittings of the next few days
he caught her looking at him without apparently being aware of the
intensity of her gaze. He had the feeling that she was trying to
read his thoughts, but what impressed him more than anything else
was the increasing look of wonder and appeal that lurked in her
deep, questioning eyes. It seemed almost as if she were pleading
for mercy with them.

He thought hard over the situation. The obvious solution came to
him: she had been at one time reduced to the necessity of posing,
a circumstance evidently known to but few and least of all to Sara
Wrandall, from whom the girl plainly meant to keep the truth. This
conviction distressed him, but not in the way that might have been
expected. He had no scruples about sharing the secret or in keeping
it inviolate; his real distress lay in the fear that Mrs. Wrandall
might hear of all this from other and perhaps ungentle sources. As
for her posing for Hawkright, it meant little or nothing to him. In
his own experience, two girls of gentle birth had served as models
for pictures of his own making, and he fully appreciated the exigencies
that had driven them to it. One had posed in the "altogether." She
was a girl of absolutely irreproachable character, who afterwards
married a chap he knew very well, and who was fully aware of
that short phase in her life. That feature of the situation meant
nothing to him. He was in no doubt concerning Hetty. She was what
she appeared to be: a gentlewoman.

He began to experience a queer sense of pity for her. Her eyes
haunted him when they were separated; they dogged him when they
were together. More than once he was moved to rush over and take
her in his arms, and implore her to tell him all, to trust him with
everything. At such times the thought of holding the slim, warm,
ineffably feminine body in his arms was most distracting. He rather
feared for himself. If such a thing were to happen,--and it might
happen if the impulse seized him at the psychological moment of
least resistance,--the result in all probability would be disastrous.
She would turn on him like an injured animal and rend him! Alas,
for that leveller called reason! It spoils many good intentions.

He admitted to himself that he was under the spell of her. It was
not love, he was able to contend; but it was a mysterious appeal
to something within him that had never revealed itself before. He
couldn't quite explain what it was.

In his solitary hours at the cottage on the upper road, he was wont
to take his friend Leslie Wrandall into consideration. As a friend,
was it not his duty to go to him with his sordid little tale? Was
it right to let Wrandall go on with his wooing when there existed
that which might make all the difference in the world to him? He
invariably brought these deliberations to a close by relaxing into
a grim smile of amusement, as much as to say: "Serve him right,
anyway. Trust him to sift her antecedents thoroughly. He's already
done it, and he is quite satisfied with the result. Serve them all
right, for that matter."

But then there was Hetty Glynn. What of her? Hetty Glynn, real or
mythical, was a disturbing factor in his deductions. If there was
a real Hetty Glynn and she was Hetty Castleton's double, what then?

On the fifth day of a series of rather prolonged and tedious
sittings, he was obliged to confine his work to an hour and a half
in the forenoon. Mrs. Wrandall was having a few friends in for
auction-bridge immediately after luncheon. She asked him to stay
over and take a hand, but he declined. He did not play bridge.

Leslie was coming out on an evening train. Booth, in commenting
on this, again remarked a sharp change in Hetty's manner. They had
been conversing somewhat buoyantly up to the moment he mentioned
Leslie's impending visit. In a flash her manner changed. A quick
but unmistakable frown succeeded her smiles, and for some reason
she suddenly relapsed into a state of reserve that was little short
of sullen. He was puzzled, as he had been before.

The day was hot. Sara volunteered to take him home in the motor.
An errand in the village was the excuse she gave for riding over
with him. Heretofore she had sent him over alone with the chauffeur.

She looked very handsome, very tempting, as she came down to the
car.

"By Jove," he said to himself, "she is wonderful!"

He handed her into the car with the grace of a courtier, and she
smiled upon him serenely, as a princess might have smiled in the
days when knighthood was in flower.

When she sat him down at his little garden gate, he put the
question that had been seething in his mind all the way down the
shady stretch they had traversed.

"Have you ever seen Hetty Glynn, the English actress?"

Sara was always prepared. She knew the question would come when
least expected.

"Oh, yes," she replied, with interest. "Have you noticed the resemblance?
They are as like as two peas in a pod. Isn't it extraordinary?"

He was a bit staggered. "I have never seen Hetty Glynn," he replied.

"Oh? You have seen photographs of her?" she inquired casually.

"What has become of her?" he asked, ignoring her question. "Is she
still on the stage?"

"Heaven knows," she replied lightly. "Miss Castleton and I were
speaking of her last night. We were together the last time I saw
her. Who knows? She may have married into the nobility by this
time.  She was a very poor actress, but the loveliest thing in the
world--excepting OUR Hetty, of course."

If he could have seen the troubled look in her eyes as she was whirled
off to the village, he might not have gone about the cottage with
such a blithesome air. He was happier than he had been in days,
and all because of Hetty Glynn!

Leslie Wrandall did not arrive by the evening train. He telephoned
late in the afternoon, not to Hetty but to Sara, to say that he was
unavoidably detained and would not leave New York until the next
morning.

Something in his voice, in his manner of speaking, disturbed her.
She went to bed that night with two sources of uneasiness threatening
her peace of mind. She scented peril.

The motor met him at the station and Sara was waiting for him in the
cool, awning-covered verandah as he drove up. There was a sullen,
dissatisfied look in his face. She was stretched out comfortably,
lazily, in a great chaise-longue, her black little slippers peeping
out at him with perfect abandonment.

"Hello," he said shortly. She gave him her hand. "Sorry I couldn't
get out last night." He shook her hand rather ungraciously.

"We missed you," she said. "Pull up a chair. I was never so lazy
as now. Dear me, I am afraid I'll get stout and gross."

"Spring fever," he announced. He was plainly out of sorts. "I'll
stand, if you don't mind. Beastly tiresome, sitting in a hot, stuffy
train."

He took a couple of turns across the porch, his eyes shifting in
the eager, annoyed manner of one who seeks for something that, in
the correct order of things, ought to be plainly visible.

"Please sit down, Leslie. You make me nervous, tramping about like
that. We can't go in for half an hour or more."

"Can't go in?" he demanded, stopping before her. He began to pull
at his little moustache.

"No. Hetty's posing. They won't permit even me to disturb them."

He glared. With a final, almost dramatic twist he gave over jerking
at his moustache, and grabbed up a chair, which he put down beside
her with a vehemence that spoke plainer than words.

"I say," he began, scowling in the direction of the doorway, "how
long is he going to be at this silly job?"

"Silly job? Why, it is to be a masterpiece," she cried.

"I asked you how long?"

"Oh, how can I tell? Weeks, perhaps. One can't <DW8> a genius."

"It's all tommy-rot," he growled. "I suppose I'd better take the
next train back to town."

"Don't you like talking with me?" she inquired, with a pout.

"Of course I do," he made haste to say. "But do you mean to say
they won't let anybody in where--Oh, I say! This is rich!"

"Spectators upset the muse, or words to that effect."

He stared gloomily at his cigarette case for a moment. Then he
carefully selected a cigarette and tapped it on the back of his
hand.

"See here, Sara, I'm going to get this off my chest," he said
bluntly. "I've been thinking it over all week. I don't like this
portrait painting nonsense."

"Dear me! Didn't you suggest it?" she inquired innocently, but all
the time her heart was beating violent time to the song of triumph.

He was jealous. It was what she wanted, what she had hoped for all
along. Her purpose now was to encourage the ugly flame that tortured
him, to fan it into fury, to make it unendurable. She knew him
well: his supreme egoism could not withstand an attack upon its
complacency. Like all the Wrandalls, he had the habit of thinking
too well of himself. He possessed a clearly-defined sense of
humour, but it did not begin to include self-sacrifice among its
endowments.  He had never been able to laugh at himself for the
excellent reason that some things were truly sacred to him.

She realised this, and promptly laughed at him. He stiffened.

"Don't snicker, Sara," he growled. He took time to light his cigarette,
and at the same time to consider his answer to her question. "In
a way, yes. I suggested a sort of portrait, of course.  A sketchy
thing, something like that, you know. But not an all-summer
operation."

"But she doesn't mind," explained Sara. "In fact, she is enjoying
it. She and Mr. Booth get on famously together."

"She likes him, eh?"

"Certainly. Why shouldn't she like him? He is adorable."

He threw his cigarette over the railing. "Comes here every day, I
suppose?"

"My dear Leslie, he is to do me as soon as he has finished with
her.  I don't like your manner."

"Oh," he said in a dull sort of wonder. No one had ever cut him
short in just that way before. "What's up, Sara? Have I done anything
out of the way?"

"You are very touchy, it seems to me."

"I'm sore about this confounded portrait monopoly."

"I'm sorry, Leslie. I suppose you will have to give in, however.
We are three to one against you,--Hetty, Mr. Booth and I."

"I see," he said, rather blankly. Then he drew his chair closer.
"See here, Sara, you know I'm terribly keen about her. I think about
her, I dream about her, I--oh, well, here it is in a nutshell: I'm
in love with her. Now do you understand?"

"I don't see how you could help being in love with her," she said
calmly. "I believe it is a habit men have where she is concerned."

"You're not surprised?" he cried, himself surprised.

"Not in the least."

"I mean to ask her to marry me," he announced with finality. This
was intended to bowl her over completely.

She looked at him for an instant, and then shook her head. "I'd
like to be able to wish you good luck."

He stared. "You don't mean to say she'd be fool enough--" he began
incredulously, but caught himself up in time. "Of course, I'd have
to take my chances," he concluded, with more humility than she had
ever seen him display. "Do you know of any one else?"

"No," she said seriously. "She doesn't confide in me to that extent,
I fear. I've never asked."

"Do you think there was any one back there in England?" He put it
in the past tense, so to speak, as if there could be no question
about the present.

"Oh, I dare say."

He was regaining his complacency. "That's neither here nor there,"
he declared. "The thing I want you to do, Sara, is to rush this
confounded portrait. I don't like the idea, not a little bit."

"I don't blame you for being afraid of the attractive Mr. Booth,"
she said, with a significant lifting of her eyebrows.

"I'm going to have it over with before I go up to town, my dear
girl," he announced, in a matter-of-fact way. "I've given the whole
situation a deuce of a lot of thought, and I've made up my mind to
do it. I'm not the sort, you know, to delay matters once my mind's
made up. By Jove, Sara, YOU ought to be pleased. I'm not such a
rotten catch, if I do say it who shouldn't."

She was perfectly still for a long time, so still that she did
not appear to be breathing. Her eyes grew darker, more mysterious.
If he had taken the pains to notice, he would have seen that her
fingers were rigid.

"I AM pleased," she said, very softly, even gently.

She could have shrieked the words.

He showed no elation. Why should he? He took it as a matter of
course. Settling back in his chair, he lit another cigarette, first
offering the case to her, but she shook her head. Then he lapsed
into a satisfied discussion of the situation as it appeared to him.
All the while she was regarding him with a thoroughly aroused light
in her dark eyes. She was breathing quickly again, and there were
moments when she felt a shudder rush through her veins, as of
exquisite excitement.

How she hated all these smug Wrandalls!

"I came to the decision yesterday," he went on, tapping the arm of
the chair with his finger tips, as if timing his words with care
and precision. "Spoke to dad about it at lunch. I was for coming
out on the five o'clock, as I'd planned, but he seemed to think
I'd better talk it over with the mater first. Not that she would
be likely to kick up a row, you know, but--well, for policy's sake.
See what I mean? Decent thing to do, you know. She never quite got
over the way you and Chal stole a march on her. God knows I'm not
like Chal."

Her eyes narrowed again. "No," she said, "you are not like your
brother."

"Chal was all right, mind you, in what he did," he added hastily,
noting the look. "I would do the same, 'pon my soul I would, if there
were any senseless objections raised in my case. But, of course,
it WAS right for me to talk it over with her, just the same.  So
I stayed in and gave them all the chance to say what they thought
of me--and, incidentally, of Hetty. Quite the decent thing, don't
you think? A fellow's mother is his mother, after all. See what I
mean?"

"And she was appeased?" she said, in a dangerously satirical tone.

"Hardly the word, old girl, but we'll let it stand. She WAS appeased.
Wanted to be sure, of course, if I knew my own mind, and all that.
Just as if I didn't! Ha! Ha! I was considerate enough to ask her
if she was satisfied I wasn't marrying beneath the family dignity.
'Gad, she got off a rather neat one at that. Said I might marry under
the family tree if I felt like it. Rather good, eh, for mother? I
said I preferred a church. Nothing al fresco for me."

"She is quite satisfied, then, that you are not throwing yourself
away on Miss Castleton," said Sara, with a deep breath, which he
mistook for a sigh.

"Oh, trust mother to nose into things. She knows Miss Castleton's
pedigree from the ground up. There's Debrett, you see. What's more,
you can't fool her in a pinch. She knows blood when she sees it.
Father hasn't the same sense of proportion, however. He says you
never can tell."

Sara was startled. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, it's nothing to speak of; only a way he has of grinding mother
once in a while. He uses you as an example to prove that you never
can tell, and mother has to admit that he's right. You have upset
every one of her pet theories. She sees it now, but--whew! She
couldn't see it in the old days, could she?"

"I fear not," said she in a low voice. Her eyes smouldered. "It
is quite natural that she should not want you to make the mistake
your brother made."

"Oh, please don't put it that way, Sara. You make me feel like a
confounded prig, because that's what it comes to, with them, don't
you know. And yet my attitude has always been clear to them where
you're concerned. I was strong for you from the beginning. All that
silly rot about--"

"Please, please!" she burst out, quivering all over.

"I beg your pardon," he stammered. "You--you know how I mean it,
dear girl."

"Please leave me out of it, Leslie," she said, collecting herself.
After a moment she went on calmly: "And so you are going to marry
my poor little Hetty, and they are all pleased with the arrangement."

"If she'll have me," he said with a wink, as if to say there wasn't
any use doubting it. "They're tickled to death."

"Vivian?"

"Viv's a snob. She says Hetty's much too good for me, blood and bone.
What business, says she, has a Wrandall aspiring to the descendant
of Henry the Eighth."

"What!"

"The Murgatroyds go back to old Henry, straight as a plummet.
'Gad, what Vivvy doesn't know about British aristocracy isn't worth
knowing. She looked it up the time they tried to convince her she
ought to marry the duke. But she's fond of Hetty. She says she's
a darling. She's right: Hetty is too good for me."

Sara swished her gown about and rose gracefully from the chaise-longue.
Extending her hand to him she said, and he was never to forget the
deep thrill in her voice:

"Well, I wish you good luck, Leslie. Don't take no for an answer."

"Lord, if she SHOULD say no," he gasped, confronted by the possibility
of such stupidity on Hetty's part. "You don't think she will?"

Her answer was a smile of doubt, the effect of which was to destroy
his tranquillity for hours.

"It is time for luncheon. I suppose we'll have to interrupt them.
Perhaps it is just as well, for your sake," she said tauntingly.

He grinned, but it was a sickly effort.

"You're the one to spoil anything of that sort," he said, with some
ascerbity.

"I?"

"Certainly," he said with so much meaning in the word that she
flushed.

"Oh, I see," she mused, with understanding. "Can't you trust Vivian
to do that for you?" There was intense irony in the question.

He laughed disdainfully. "Vivvy wouldn't stand a ghost of a chance
with you, take it from me." He stopped abruptly at the doorway, a
frown of recollection creasing his seamless brow. "Oh, that reminds
me, there is something else I want to discuss with you, Sara. After
luncheon will be time enough. Remind me of it, will you?"

"Not if it is to be unpleasant," she replied, with a sudden chill
in her heart.

"It's this, in a word: Viv would like to have Miss Castleton over
to spend a month or so with her after the--well, after the house
is open." He came near to saying after the engagement was announced.

Sara's decision was made at once. Her face hardened.

"That is quite out of the question, Leslie," she said.

"We can discuss it, can't we?" he demanded loftily.

She did not condescend to reply. They were now in the wide hallway,
and she was a step or two ahead of him. Voices could be heard
in the recess at the lower end of the hall, beyond the staircase,
engaged in what appeared to be a merry exchange of opinions. He
caught the sound of a low laugh from Booth. There was something
acutely subdued about it, as if a warning had been whispered by
some one. Leslie's sensitive imagination pictured the unseen girl
with her finger to her lips.

He caught up with Sara, and, curiously red in the face, snapped
out with dogged insistence:

"Mother is set on having her come, Sara. Can't you see the way the
land lays? They--"

Hetty and Booth came into view at that instant, and his lips were
closed. The painter was laying a soft, filmy scarf over the girl's
bare shoulders as he followed close behind her.

"Hello!" he cried, catching sight of Wrandall. "Train late, old
chap? We've been expecting you for the last hour. How are you?"

He came up with a frank, genuine smile of pleasure on his lips,
his hand extended. Leslie rose to the occasion. His self-esteem was
larger than his grievance. He shook Booth's hand heartily, almost
exuberantly.

"Didn't want to disturb you, Brandy," he cried, cheerily. "Besides,
Sara wouldn't let me." He then passed on to Hetty, who had lagged
behind. Bending low over her hand, he said something commonplace in
a very low tone, at the same time looking slyly out of the corner
of his eye to see if Booth was taking it all in. Finding that his
friend was regarding him rather fixedly, he obeyed a sudden impulse
and raised the girl's slim hand to his lips. As suddenly he released
her fingers and straightened up with a look of surprise in his eyes;
he had distinctly heard the agitated catch in her throat. She was
staring at her hand in a stupefied sort of way, holding it rigid
before her eyes for a moment before thrusting it behind her back as
if it were a thing to be shielded from all scrutiny save her own.

"You must not kiss it again, Mr. Wrandall," she said in a low,
intense voice. Then she passed him by and hurried up the stairs,
without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

He blinked in astonishment. All of a sudden there swept over him
the unique sensation of shyness--most unique in him. He had never
been abashed before in all his life. Now he was curiously conscious
of having overstepped the bounds, and for the first time to be
shown his place by a girl. This to him, who had no scruples about
boundary lines!

All through luncheon he was volatile and gay. There was a bright
spot in his cheek, however, that betrayed him to Sara, who already
suspected the temper of his thoughts. He talked aeroplaning
without cessation, directing most of his conversation to Booth, yet
thrilled with pleasure each time Hetty laughed at his sallies. He
was beginning to feel like a half-baked schoolboy in her presence,
a most deplorable state of affairs he had to admit.

"If you hate the trains so much, and your automobile is out
of whack, why don't you try volplaning down from the Metropolitan
tower?" demanded Booth in response to his lugubrious wail against
the beastly luck of having to go about in railway coaches with a
lot of red-eyed, nose-blowing people who hadn't got used to their
spring underwear as yet.

"Sinister suggestion, I must say," he exclaimed. "You must be eager
to see my life blood scattered all over creation. But, speaking
of volplaning, I've had three lessons this week. Next week Bronson
says I'll be flying like a gull. 'Gad, it's wonderful. I've had two
tumbles, that's all,--little ones, of course,--net result a barked
knee and a peeled elbow."

"Watch out you're not flying like an angel before you get through
with it, Les," cautioned the painter. "I see that a well-known
society leader in Chicago was killed yesterday."

"Oh, I love the danger there is in it," said Wrandall carelessly.
"That's what gives zest to the sport."

"I love it, too," said Hetty, her eyes a-gleam. "The glorious feel
of the wind as you rush through it! And yet one seems to be standing
perfectly still in the air when one is half a mile high and going
fifty miles an hour. Oh, it is wonderful, Mr. Wrandall."

"I'll take you out in a week or two, Miss Castleton, if you'll
trust yourself with me."

"I will go," she announced promptly.

Booth frowned. "Better wait a bit," he counselled. "Risky business,
Miss Castleton, flying about with fledgelings."

"Oh, come now!" expostulated Wrandall with some heat. "Don't be a
wet blanket, old man."

"I was merely suggesting she'd better wait till you've got used to
your wings."

"Jimmy Van Wickle took his wife with him the third time up," said
Leslie, as if that were the last word in aeroplaning.

"It's common report that she keeps Jimmy level, no matter where
she's got him," retorted Booth.

"I dare say Miss Castleton can hold me level," said Leslie, with
a profound bow to her. "Can't you, Miss Castleton?"

She smiled. "Oh, as for that, Mr. Wrandall, I think we can all
trust you to cling pretty closely to your own level."

"Rather ambiguous, that," he remarked dubiously.

"She means you never get below it, Leslie," said Booth, enjoying
himself.

"That's the one great principle in aeroplaning," said Wrandall,
quick to recover. "Vivian says I'll break my neck some day, but
admits it will be a heroic way of doing it. Much nobler than pitching
out of an automobile or catapulting over a horse's head in Central
Park." He paused for effect before venturing his next conclusion.
"It must be ineffably sublime, being squashed--or is it squshed?--after
a drop of a mile or two, isn't it?"

He looked to see Miss Castleton wince, and was somewhat dashed to
find that she was looking out of the window, quite oblivious to
the peril he was in figuratively for her special consideration.

Booth was acutely reminded that the term "prig" as applied
to Leslie was a misnomer; he hated the thought of the other word,
which reflectively he rhymed with "pad."

It occurred to him early in the course of this rather one-sided
discussion that their hostess was making no effort to take part
in it, whether from lack of interest or because of its frivolous
nature he was, of course, unable to determine. Later, he was struck
by the curious pallor of her face, and the lack-lustre expression
of her eyes. She seldom removed her gaze from Wrandall's face,
and yet there persisted in the observer's mind the rather uncanny
impression that she did not hear a word her brother-in-law was
saying. He, in turn, took to watching her covertly. At no time did
her expression change. For reasons of his own, he did not attempt
to draw her into the conversation, fascinated as he was by the
study of that beautiful, emotionless face. Once he had the queer
sensation of feeling, rather than seeing, a haunted look in her eyes,
but he put it down to fancy on his part. Doubtless, he concluded,
the face or voice or manner of her husband's brother recalled
tragic memories from which she could not disengage herself. But
undoubtedly there was something peculiar in the way she looked at
Leslie through those dull, unblinking eyes. It was some time before
Booth realised that she made but the slightest pretence of touching
the food that was placed before her by the footman.

And Leslie babbled on in blissful ignorance of, not to say disregard
for, this strange ghost at the feast, for, to Booth's mind, the
ghost of Challis Wrandall was there.

Turning to Miss Castleton with a significant look in his eyes, meant
to call her attention to Mrs. Wrandall, he was amazed to find that
every vestige of colour had gone from the girl's face. She was
listening to Wrandall and replying in monosyllables, but that she
was aware of the other woman's abstraction was not for an instant
to be doubted. Suddenly, after a quick glance at Sara's face, she
looked squarely into Booth's eyes, and he saw in hers an expression
of actual concern, if not alarm.

Leslie was in the middle of a sentence when Sara laughed aloud,
without excuse or reason. The next instant she was looking from one
to the other in a dazed sort of way, as if coining out of a dream.

Wrandall turned scarlet. There had been nothing in his remarks to
call for a laugh, he was quite sure of that. Flushing slightly,
she murmured something about having thought of an amusing story,
and begged him to go on, she wouldn't be rude again.

He had little zest for continuing the subject and sullenly disposed
of it in a word or two.

"What the devil was there to laugh at, Brandy?" he demanded of his
friend after the women had left them together on the porch a few
minutes later. Hetty had gone upstairs with Mrs. Wrandall, her arm
clasped tightly about the older woman's waist.

"I dare say she was thinking about you falling a mile or two," said
Booth pleasantly.

But he was perplexed.




CHAPTER XI

MAN PROPOSES


The young men cooled their heels for an hour before word was
brought down to them that Mrs. Wrandall begged to be excused for
the afternoon on account of a severe headache. Miss Castleton was
with her, but would be down later on. Meanwhile they were to make
themselves at home, and so on and so forth.

Booth took his departure, leaving Leslie in sole possession of
the porch. He was restless, nervous, excited; half-afraid to stay
there and face Hetty with the proposal he was determined to make,
and wholly afraid to forsake the porch and run the risk of missing
her altogether if she came down as signified. Several things
disturbed him. One was Hetty's deplorable failure to hang on his
words as he had fondly expected her to do; and then there was that
very--disquieting laugh of Sara's. A hundred times over he repeated
to himself that sickening question: "What the devil was there to
laugh at?" and no answer suggested itself. He was decidedly cross
about it.

Another hour passed. His heels were quite cool by this time, but
his blood was boiling. This was a deuce of a way to treat a fellow
who had gone to the trouble to come all the way out in a stuffy
train, by Jove, it was! With considerable asperity he rang for a
servant and commanded him to fetch a time table, and to be quick
about it, as there might be a train leaving before he could get
back if it took him as long to find it as it took other people to
remember their obligations! His sarcasm failed to impress Murray,
who said he thought there was a schedule in Mrs. Wrandall's room,
and he'd get it as soon as the way was clear, if Mr. Wrandall didn't
mind waiting.

"If I minded waiting," snapped Leslie, "I wouldn't be here now."

"It's the thing most people object to in the country, sir," said
Murray consolingly. "Waiting for trains, sir."

"And the sunset," added Mr. Wrandall pointedly, with a westward
glare.

"We don't mind that, sir. We rather look forward to it. It means
one day less of waiting for the trains." It was rather cryptic,
but Leslie was too deeply absorbed in self-pity to take account of
the pathos in Murray's philosophy.

"What time is it, Murray?"

"Five-twenty, Mr. Wrandall."

"That's all, Murray."

"Thank you, sir."

As the footman was leaving, Sara's automobile whirled up to the
porte-cochere.

"Who is going out, Murray?" he called in surprise.

"Miss Castleton, sir. For the air, sir."

"The deuce you say!" gasped the harassed Mr. Wrandall. It was a
pretty kettle of fish!

Hetty appeared a few minutes later, attired for motoring.

"Oh, there you are," she said, espying him. "I am going for a spin.
Want to come along?"

He swallowed hard. The ends of his moustache described a pair of
absolutely horizontal exclamation points. "If you don't mind being
encumbered," he remarked sourly.

"I don't in the least mind," said she sweetly.

"Where are you going?" he asked without much enthusiasm. He wasn't
to be caught appearing eager, not he. Besides, it wasn't anything
to be flippant about.

"Yonder," she said, with a liberal sweep of her arm, taking in the
whole landscape. "And be home in time to dress for dinner," she
added, as if to relieve his mind.

"Good Lord!" he groaned, "do we have to eat again?"

"We have to dress for it, at least," she replied.

"I'll go," he exclaimed, and ambled off to secure a cap and coat.

"Sara has planned for a run to Lenox to-morrow if it doesn't rain,"
she informed him on his return.

"Oh," he said, staring. "Booth gets a day off on the portrait then."

"Being Sunday," she smiled. "We knock off on Sundays and bank
holidays. But, after all, he doesn't really get a holiday. He is
to go with us, poor fellow."

He looked as though he expected nothing. He could only sit back
and wonder what the deuce Sara meant by behaving like this.

It was not by way of being a profitable excursion, if we are to
judge by the amount of pleasure Leslie derived from the two hours'
spin through the cool, leafy byways of the forest with the object
of his heart's desire on the seat beside him. He tried to screw up
his courage to the point of asking her why he shouldn't kiss her
band, which might have opened the way to more profound interrogations,
but somehow he felt unable to cope with the serenity that confronted
him. Moreover, he had a horrible conviction that the chauffeur
was a brute with abnormally long ears and a correspondingly short
sense of honour. No, it was not the time or the place for love-making.
He would have to be content to bide his time till after dinner,
which now began to lose some of its disadvantages. There was a most
engaging nook, he remembered, in the corner of the garden facing
the Sound, where the shadows were deep; where sentiment could thrive
on its own ecstasy; where no confounded menial dared to show his
face--although he had to admit that the chauffeur was most punctilious
in that respect.

And so he was satisfied to sit back in the corner of the seat and
feed his senses on the lovely creature before him. He had never seen
her so beautiful, so utterly worth having as now. He was conscious
of a great, overwhelming sense of pride, somewhat smothering in
its vastness. She was a creature to be proud of! His heart was very
full.

They returned at seven. Dinner was unusually merry. Sara appeared
to have recovered from her indisposition; there was colour in her
cheeks and life in her smile. He took it to be an omen of good
fortune, and was immeasurably confident. The soft cool breezes of
the star-lit night blew visions of impending happiness across his
lively imagination; fanned his impatience with gentle ardour; filled
him with supressed sighs of contentment, and made him willing to
forego the delight of conquest that he might live the longer in
serene anticipation of its thrills.

Ten o'clock came. He arose and stretched himself in a sort of
ecstasy. His heart was thumping loudly, his senses swam. Walking
to the verandah rail he looked out across the moonlit Sound, then
down at the selected nook over against the garden wall--spot to
be immortalised!--and actually shivered. In ten minutes' time, or
even less, she would be down there in his arms! Exquisite meditations!

He turned to her with an engaging smile, in which she might have
discerned a prophecy, and asked her to come with him for a stroll
along the wall. And so he cast the die.

Hetty sent a swift, appealing look at Sara's purposely averted
face.  Leslie observed the act, but misinterpreted its meaning.

"Oh, it is quite warm," he said quickly. "You won't need a wrap,"
he added, and in spite of himself his voice trembled. Of course
she wouldn't need a wrap!

"I have a few notes to write," said Sara, rising. She deliberately
avoided the look in Hetty's eyes. "You will find me in the library."

She stood in the doorway and watched them descend to the terrace,
a sphinx-like smile on her lips. Hetty seemed very tall and erect,
as one going to meet a soldier's fate.

Then Sara entered the house and sat down to wait.

A long time after a door closed stealthily in a distant part of
the house--the sun-parlour door, she knew by direction.

A few minutes later an upstairs door creaked on its hinges. Some
one had come in from the mellow night, and some one had been left
outside.

Many minutes passed. She sat there at her father's writing table
and waited for the other to come in. At last quick, heavy footfalls
sounded on the tiled floor outside and then came swiftly down the
hall toward the small, remote room in which she sat. She looked up
as he unceremoniously burst into the room.

He came across and stood over her, an expression of utter bewilderment
in his eyes. There was a ghastly smile on his lips.

"Damn it all, Sara," he said shrilly, "she---she turned me down."

He seemed incapable of comprehension.

She was unmoved. Her eyes narrowed, but that was the only sign of
emotion.

"I--I can't believe--" he began querulously. "Oh, what's the use?
She won't have me. 'Gad! I'm trembling like a leaf. Where's Watson?
Have him get me something to drink. Never mind! I'll get it from
the sideboard. I'm--I'm damned!"

He dropped heavily into a chair at the end of the table and looked
at her with glazed eyes. As she stared back at him she had the
curious feeling that he had shrunk perceptibly, that his clothes
hung rather limply on him. His face seemed to have lost all of its
smart symmetry; there was a looseness about the mouth and chin that
had never been there before. The saucy, arrogant moustache sloped
dejectedly.

"I fancy you must have gone about it very badly," she said, pursing
her lips.

"Badly?" he gasped. "Why--why, good heavens, Sara, I actually pleaded
with her," he went on, quite pathetically. "All but got down on my
knees to her. Damn me, if I can understand myself doing it either.
I must have lost my head completely. Begged like a love-sick school-boy!
And she kept on saying no--no--no! And I, like a blithering ass,
kept on telling her I couldn't live without her, that I'd make her
happy, that she didn't know what she was saying, and--But, good
Lord, she kept on saying no! Nothing but no! Do--do you think she
meant to say no? Could it have been hysteria? She said it so often,
over and over again, that it might have been hysteria.  I never
thought of that. I--"

"No, Leslie, it wasn't hysteria, you may be sure of that," she said
deliberately. "She meant it, old fellow."

He sagged deeper in the chair.

"I--I can't get it through my head," he muttered.

"As I said before, you did it badly," she said. "You took too much
for granted. Isn't that true?"

"God knows I didn't EXPECT her to refuse me," he exclaimed, glaring
at her. "Would I have been such a fool as to ask her if I thought
there was the remotest chance of being--" The very thought of the
word caused it to stick in his throat. He swallowed hard.

"You really love her?" she demanded.

"Love her?" There was a sob in his voice. "I adore her, Sara. I
can't live without her. And the worst of it is, I love her now more
than I did before, Oh, it's appalling! It's horrible! What am I to
do, Sara? What AM I to do?"

"Be a man for a little while, that's all," she said coolly.

"Don't joke with me," he groaned.

"Go to bed, and when you see her in the morning tell her that you
understand. Thank her for what she has done for you. Be--"

"Thank her?" he almost shouted.

"Yes; for destroying all that is detestable in you, Leslie,--your
self-conceit, your arrogance, your false notions concerning
yourself,--in a word, your egotism."

He blinked incredulously. "Do you know what you're saying?" he
gasped.

She went on as if she hadn't heard him.

"Assure her that she is to feel no compunction for what she has
done, that you are content to be her loyal, devoted friend to the
end of your days."

"But, hang it, Sara, I LOVE her!"

"Don't let her suspect that you are humiliated. On the contrary,
give her to understand that you are cleansed and glorified."

"What utter tommy--"

"Wait! Believe me, it is your only chance. You will have to learn
some time that you can't ride rough-shod among angels. Think it
over, old fellow. You have had a good lesson. Profit by it."

"You mean I'm to sit down and twirl my thumbs and let some other
chap snap her up under my very nose? Well, I guess not!"

"Not necessarily. If you take it manfully, she may discover a new
interest in you. Don't breathe a word of love to her. Go on as if
nothing had happened. Don't forget that I told you in the beginning
not to take no for an answer."

He drooped once more, biting his lip. "I don't see how I can ever
tell mother that she refused--"

"Why tell her?" she inquired, rising.

His eyes brightened. "By Jove, I shan't," he exclaimed.

"I am going up to the poor child now," she went on. "I dare say
you have frightened her almost to death. Naturally she is in great
distress. I shall try to convince her that her decision does not
alter her position in this house. I depend on you to do your part,
Leslie. Make it easy for her to stay on with me."

He mellowed to the verge of tears.

"I can't keep on coming out here after this, as I've been doing,
Sara."

"Don't be silly! Of course you can. This will blow over."

"Blow over?" he almost gasped.

"I mean the first effects. Try being a martyr for a while, Leslie.
It isn't a bad plan, I can assure you. It may interest you to know
that Challis proposed to me three times before I accepted him, and
yet I--I loved him from the beginning."

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, coming to his feet with a new light in
his eyes. The hollows in his cheeks seemed to fill out perceptibly.

"Good-night!"

"I say, Sara dear, you'll--you'll help me a bit, won't you? I mean,
you'll talk it over with her and--"

"My sympathy is entirely with Miss Castleton," she said from the
doorway. His jaw dropped.

He was still ruminating over the callousness of the world in respect
to lovers when she mounted the stairs and tapped firmly on Hetty's
door.

His hopes began to revive. A new thought had entered in and lodged
securely among them, bracing them up amazingly. "By Jove," he said
to himself, staring hard at the floor, "I dare say I did go about
it badly. Sara was clever enough to see it. I must have taken her
off her feet with my confounded earnestness. Girls do lose their
heads, bless 'em, if you go at them with a rush. I'm sure she'll
look at it differently when she's had time to compose herself."
He was perplexed, however, over something he had not revealed to
Sara, and his sudden frown proved that it was still disturbing him.
"I can't for the life of me understand why she should have been so
damned horrified at the idea."

He started for the dining-room, recalling his need of a drink,
but changed his mind in the hall. Grabbing up his hat and stick,
he darted out of the house and was soon swinging briskly down the
moonlit avenue. He had come to the conclusion that a long walk
would prove settling; and moreover it wasn't a stupid idea to go
over and have his drink with Brandon Booth. The longer he walked,
the more springy his stride. Sara was quite right; he HAD gone
about it badly. He'd go about it differently next time.

Half way to Booth's cottage his pace slackened. A disconcerting
thought struck him, almost like a dash of cold water in the face:
Was she in love with Booth? He sat down on the rugged stone fence
to ponder. A cold perspiration broke out all over him. When he
next resumed his walk, his back was towards Booth's cottage. He
attributed the perspiration to the violence of his exercise.

Hetty Castleton was standing in the middle of her room when Sara
entered. From her position, it was evident that she had stopped
short in her nervous, excited pacing of the floor. She was very
pale but there was a dogged, set expression about her mouth.

"Come in, dear," she said, in a manner that showed she had been
expecting the visit. "Have you seen him?"

Sara closed the door, and then stood with her back against it,
regarding her agitated friend with serious, compassionate eyes.

"Yes. He is terribly upset. It was a blow to him, Hetty."

"I am sorry for him, Sara. He was so dreadfully in earnest. But,
thank God, it is over!" She threw back her head and breathed deeply.
"That horrible, horrible nightmare is ended. I suppose it had to
be.  But the mockery of it--think of it, Sara!--the damnable mockery
of it!"

"Poor Leslie!" sighed the other. "Poor old Leslie."

Hetty's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, I AM sorry for him. He didn't
deserve it. God in heaven, if he really knew everything! If he knew
why I could not listen to him, why I almost screamed when he held
my hands in his and begged--actually begged me to--Oh, it was
ghastly, Sara!"

She covered her face with her hands, and swayed as if about to fall.
Sara came quickly to her side. Putting an arm about the quivering
shoulders, she led the girl to the broad window seat and threw open
the blinds.

"Don't speak of it, dearest,--don't think of THAT. Sit here quietly
in the air and pull yourself together. Let me talk to you. Let me
tell you how deeply distressed I am, not only on your account, but
his."

They were silent for a long time, the girl lying still and almost
breathless against the other's shoulders. She was still wearing
the delicate blue dinner gown, but in her fingers was the exquisite
pearl necklace Sara had given her for Christmas. She had taken it
off and had forgotten to drop it in her jewel box.

"I suppose he will go up to the city early," she said monotonously.

"Leslie is a better loser than you think, my dear," said Sara,
looking out over the tops of the cedars. "He will not run away."

Hetty looked up in alarm. "You mean he will persist in--in his
attentions," she cried.

"Oh, no. I don't believe you will find him to be the bugbear you
imagine. He can take defeat like a man. He is devoted to you, he
is devoted to me. Your decision no doubt wrecks his fondest hope
in life, but it doesn't make a weakling of him."

"I don't quite understand--"

"He is sustained by the belief that he has paid you the highest
honour a man can pay to a woman. There is no reason why he should
turn his back on you, as a sulky boy might do. No, my dear, I think
you may count on him as your best, most loyal friend from this night
on. He has just said to me that his greatest pain lies in the fear
that you may not be willing to accept him as a simple, honest,
unpresuming friend since--"

"Oh, Sara, if he will only be that and nothing more!" cried the
girl wonderingly.

Sara smiled confidently. "I fancy you haven't much to fear in that
direction, my dear. It isn't in Leslie Wrandall's make-up to court
a second repulse. He is all pride. The blow it suffered to-night
can't be repeated--at least, not by the same person."

"I am so sorry it had to be Leslie," murmured Hetty.

"Be nice to him, Hetty. He deserves that much of you, to say the
least. I should miss him if he found it impossible to come here on
account of--"

"I wouldn't have that happen for the world," cried the girl
in distress. "He is your dearest friend. Send me away, Sara, if
you must. Don't let anything stand in the way of your friendship
for Leslie. You depend on him for so much, dear. I can't bear the
thought of--"

"Hush, dearest! You are first in my love. Better for me to lose
all the others and still have you."

The girl looked at her in wonder for a long time. "Oh, I know you
mean it, Sara, but--but how can it be true?"

"Put yourself in my place," was all that Sara said in reply, and
her companion had no means of translating the sentence.

She could only remain mute and wondering, her eyes fixed on that
other mystery: the cameo face in the moon that hung high above the
sombre forest.

"If it were not for the trip to Lenox," she murmured plaintively.

"The trip is off," announced Sara. She too was staring at the
cloudless sky. "There will be rain tomorrow."

"It is very clear to-night, Sara."

"Do you hear that little wail in the trees--as if a child were
whimpering out there? That is the plaint of the fairies who live
in the buds and twigs, in the flower cups and mosses. They famish,
their gods will hear. Their gods hear when ours is deaf. You will
see. There will be clouds over us to-morrow and we will breathe
the mist."

The girl shivered.

Many minutes afterward she said, as one who marvels: "I hear the
promise in the wind, Sara,--the new, cool wind."

"The gods are whispering. Soon the fairies and elves will come
forth to revel. Ah, what a wonderful thing the night is!"

"The fairies," mused the girl. "You believe in them?"

"Resolutely."

"And I too."

"We will never grow old, my dear," said Sara. "That is what the
fairies are for: to keep those who love them young."

Hetty had relaxed. Her soft young body was warm again; that ineffably
feminine charm was revived in her.

"Poor Leslie," murmured Sara, a long time afterward, a dreamy note
in her voice. "I can't put him out of my thoughts. He will never
get over it. I have never seen one so stricken and yet so brave.
He would have been more than a husband to you, Hetty. It is in him
to be a slave to the woman he loves. I know him well, poor boy."

Hetty was silent, brooding. Sara resumed her thoughtful observations.

"Why should you let what happened months ago stand in the way of--"

She got no farther than that. With an exclamation of horror, the
girl sprang away from her and glowered at her with dilated eyes.

"My God, Sara!" she whispered hoarsely. "Are you mad?"

The other sighed. "I suppose you must think it of me," she said
dismally. "We are made differently, you and I. If I cared for a man,
nothing in all this world could stand between me and him. My love
would fortify me against the enemy we are prone to call conscience.
It would justify me in slaying the thing we call conscience. In
your heart, Hetty, you have not wronged Leslie Wrandall by any act
of yours. You owe him no reparation. On the contrary, it is not far
out of the way to say that he owes you something, but of course it
is a claim for recompense and resolves itself into a sentimental
debt, so there's really no use discussing it."

Hetty was still staring. "You don't mean to say you would have me
marry Challis Wrandall's brother?" she said, in a sort of stupefaction.

Sara shook her head. "I mean this: you would be justified in
permitting Leslie to glorify that which his brother desecrated;
your womanhood, my dear."

"My God, Sara!" again fell in a hoarse whisper from the girl's
lips.

"I simply voice my point of view," explained Sara calmly. "As I
said before, we look at things differently."

"I can't believe you mean what you have said," cried Hetty.
"Why--why, if I loved him with all my heart, soul and body I could
not even think of--Oh, I shudder to think of it!"

"I love you," continued Sara, fixing her mysterious eyes on those
of the girl, "and yet you took from me something more than a brother.
I love you, knowing everything, and I am paying in full the debt
he owes to you. Leslie, knowing nothing, is no less your debtor.
All this is paradoxical, I know, my dear, but we must remember that
while other people may be indebted to us, we also owe something
to ourselves. We ought to take pay from ourselves. Please do not
conclude that I am urging or even advising you to look with favour
upon Leslie Wrandall's honourable, sincere proposal of marriage. I
am merely trying to convince you that you are entitled to all that
any man can give you in this world of ours,--we women all are, for
that matter."

"I was sure that you couldn't ask me to marry him. I couldn't
believe--"

"Forget what I have said, dearest, if it grieves you," cried Sara
warmly. She arose and drew the girl close to her. "Kiss me, Hetty."
Their lips met. The girl's eyes were closed, but Sara's were wide
open and gleaming. "It is because I love you," she said softly,
but she did not complete the sentence that burned in her brain.
To herself she repeated: "It is because I love you that I would
scourge you with Wrandalls!"

"You are very good to me, Sara," sobbed Hetty.

"You WILL be nice to Leslie?"

"Yes, yes! If he will only let me be his friend."

"He asks no more than that. Now, you must go to bed."

Suddenly, without warning, she held the girl tightly in her arms.
Her breathing was quick, as of one moved by some sharp sensation
of terror. When Hetty, in no little wonder, opened her eyes Sara's
face was turned away, and she was looking over her shoulder as if
cause for alarm had come from behind.

"What is it?" cried Hetty anxiously.

She saw the look of dread in her companion's eyes, even as it began
to fade.

"I don't know," muttered Sara. "Something, I can't tell what, came
over me. I thought some one was stealing up behind me. How silly
of me."

"Ah," said Hetty, with an odd smile, "I can understand how you
felt."

"Hetty, will you take me in with you to-night?" whispered Sara
nervously. "Let me sleep with you. I can't explain it, but I am
afraid to be alone to-night." The girl's answer was a glad smile
of acquiescence. "Come with me, then, to my bedroom while I change.
I have the queerest feeling that some one is in my room. I don't
want to be alone. Are you afraid?"

Hetty held back, her face blanching.

"No, I am not afraid," she cried at once, and started toward the
door.

"There IS some one in this room," said Sara a few moments later,
when they were in the big bedroom down the hall.

"I--I wonder," murmured Hetty.

And yet neither of them looked about in search for the intruder!

Far into the night Sara sat in the window of Hetty's dressing-room,
her chin sunk low in her hands, staring moodily into the now opaque
night, her eyes sombre and unblinking, her body as motionless as
death itself. The cooling wind caressed her and whispered warnings
into her unheeding ears, but she sat there unprotected against
its chill, her night-dress damp with the mist that crept up with
sinister stealth from the sea.

In the flats below, a vast army of frogs shrilled in ceaseless
chatter; night birds and insects responded to the bedlam challenge;
the hoarse monotonous grunts of a fog-horn came up from the Sound.
There were people out there, asleep in passage.

A cat mewed piteously somewhere in the garden. She was curiously
disturbed by this. She hated cats. There had never been one on the
place before.




CHAPTER XII

THE APPROACH OF A MAN NAMED SMITH


Mr. Redmond Wrandall, grey and gaunt and somewhat wistful, rode
slowly through the leafy lane, attended some little distance behind
by Griggs the groom, who slumped in the saddle and thought only of
the sylvan dell to curse it with poetic license. (Ever since Mr.
Wrandall had been thrown by his horse in the Park a few years
before his wife had insisted on having a groom handy in case he lost
his seat again: hence Griggs.) It sometimes got on Mr. Wrandall's
nerves, having Griggs lopping along like that, but there didn't
seem to be any way out of it, nor was there the remotest likelihood
that the groom himself might one day be spilled and broken in many
places while engaged in this obnoxious espionage.

Mr. Wrandall was grey because he was old, he was gaunt because he
was old, and he usually was somewhat wistful for the same reason.
He nourished the lament that he had grown old before his time,
despite the sixty odd years that lay behind him. He was always
a trifle annoyed with himself for not having demanded more of
his youth.  Griggs, therefore, was a physical insult, any way you
looked at him: his very presence in the road behind was a blatant,
house-top sort of proclamation that he, Redmond Wrandall, was in
his dotage, and that was something Mr. Wrandall would never have
admitted if he had had anything to say about it.

To-day he was riding over to Southlook to visit his daughter-in-law
and one whom he looked upon as a prospective daughter-in-law. It
was Wednesday and the family had been in the country since Monday.
His wife and Vivian had motored over on Tuesday. They were letting
no grass grow under their feet, notwithstanding a sudden and
unexplained period of procrastination on the part of Leslie, who
had gone off for a fortnight's fishing in Maine. Moreover, so far
as they knew, he had departed without proposing to Miss Castleton:
an oversight which deprived his mother of at least two weeks of
activity along obvious lines. Naturally, it was quite impossible
to discuss the future with Miss Castleton under the circumstances,
and it was equally out of the question to discuss it with security
in the very constricted circle that Mrs. Wrandall affected in the
country. It really was too bad of Leslie! He should have known
better.

Half way to Southlook, Mr. Wrandall, turning a bend in the road,
caught sight of two people walking some distance ahead: a man and
a woman. They were several hundred yards away, and travelling in
the direction he was going. He pulled his horse down to a walk, a
circumstance that for the moment escaped the attention of Griggs,
who rode alongside before he quite realised what had happened.

"Griggs," said his master, staring at the pedestrians, "when did
my son return?"

Griggs grasped the situation at a glance--a rather vague and imperfect
glance, however. "This morning, sir," he replied promptly, although
he was as much at sea as his master.

"I understood Mrs. Wrandall to say he was not expected before
Saturday."

"Yes, sir. He came unexpected, sir."

"Well," said Mr. Wrandall, with an indulgent smile, "we will not
ride them down."

"No, indeed, sir," consented Griggs, with a wink that Mr. Wrandall
did not see.

The pleased, satisfied smile grew on Redmond Wrandall's gaunt old
face: not reminiscent, I am bound to say, yet reflective.

The tall young man and the girl far ahead apparently were not aware
of the scrutiny. They appeared to be completely absorbed in each
other. At last, coming to a footpath diverging from the macadam, they
stopped and parleyed. Then they turned into this narrow, tortuous
path over the hillside and were lost to view.

Mr. Wrandall's smile broadened as he touched his horse lightly
with the crop. Coming to the obscure little bypath, he shot a
surreptitious glance into the fastnesses of the wood, but did not
slacken his speed. No one was in sight.

"I dare say the danger is past, Griggs," he said humorously. "They
are safe."

"I believe you, sir," said Griggs, also forgetting himself so far
as to steal a look over his right shoulder.

It was Mr. Wrandall's design to ride on to Southlook and surprise
Leslie and his inamorata at the lodge gates, where he would wait
for them. Arriving there, he dismounted and turned his steed over
to Griggs, with instructions to ride on. He would join Mr. Leslie
and Miss Castleton and walk with them for the remainder of the
distance.

He sat down on the rustic bench and lighted a cigar. The lodge-keeper
saluted him from the garden below. Later the keeper's small son
came up and from the opposite side of the roadway regarded him with
the wide, curious gaze of a four-year-old. Mr. Wrandall disliked
children. He made no friendly overtures. The child stood his
ground, which was in a sense disconcerting, although he couldn't
tell why. He felt like saying "shoo!" Presently the keeper's collie
came up and sniffed his puttees, all the while looking askance.
Mr. Wrandall said: "Away with you," and the dog retreated with some
dignity to the steps where he laid down and fixed his eyes on the
stranger.

Half-an-hour passed. Mr. Wrandall frowned as he looked at his watch.
Another quarter of an hour went by. He changed his position, and
the dog lifted his head, without wagging his tail.

"'Pon my soul," said Mr. Wrandall in some annoyance.

Just then the dog and the child deflected their common stare. He
was at first grateful, then interested. The child was beaming, the
dog's tail was thumping a merry tattoo on the wooden step. Footsteps
crunched on the gravel and he turned to look, although it was not
the direction from which he expected his son and Miss Castleton.

He came to his feet, plainly perplexed. Miss Castleton approached,
but the fellow beside her was not Leslie.

"How are you, Mr. Wrandall?" called out the young man cheerily,
crossing the road.

"Good afternoon, Brandon," said Mr. Wrandall, nonplussed. "How do
you do, Miss Castleton? Delighted to see you looking so well. Where
did you leave my son?"

"Haven't seen him," said Booth. "Is he back?"

Mr. Redmond Wrandall swallowed hard.

"I was so informed," he replied, with an effort.

"Are you not coming up to the house, Mr. Wrandall?" inquired Miss
Castleton, and he thought he detected a note of appeal in her voice.

"Certainly," he announced, taking his place beside her. To himself
he was saying: "This young blade has been annoying her, confound
him."

"Miss Castleton had a note from Leslie this morning, saying he
wouldn't start home till Friday," said Booth, puzzled. "You don't
mind my saying so, Miss Castleton?"

"Not at all. I am sure he said Friday."

"I fancy he did say Friday," said Mr. Wrandall. "I think Griggs
had been drinking."

"Griggs?" inquired the two in unison.

He volunteered no more than that. He was too busily engaged in wondering
what his son could be thinking of, to leave this delightful girl
to the tender mercies of a handsome, fascinating chap like Brandon
Booth. He didn't relish the look of things. She was agitated,
suspiciously so; and Booth wasn't what one would describe as perfectly
at ease. There was something in the air, concluded Leslie's father.

"I hear you are coming over to spend a fortnight with us, Miss
Castleton," said he pleasantly.

Hetty started. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Wrandall," she said, although
he had spoken very distinctly.

"Leslie mentioned it a--oh, some time ago, my dear. This is the
first time I have seen you, otherwise I should have added my warmest
appeal for you to come early and to stay late. Ha-ha! Hope you will
find your way to our place, Brandon. You are always a most welcome
visitor."

The girl walked on in silence, her lips set with curious firmness.
Booth looked at her and indulged in a queer little smile, to which
she responded with a painful flush.

"Vivian expects to have a few friends out at the same time--very
quietly, you know, and without much of a hurrah. Young ladies you
ought to know in New York, my dear Miss Castleton. I dare say you
will remember all of them, Brandon."

"I dare say," said Booth, without interest.

"I understand the portrait is finished," went on the old gentleman,
blissfully oblivious to the disturbance he had created. "Mrs.
Wrandall says it is wonderful, Brandon. You won't mind showing it
to me? I am very much interested."

"Glad to have you see it, sir."

"Thanks."

He slackened his pace, an uneasy frown appearing between his eyes.

"I am almost afraid to tell Sara the news we have had from town
this morning. She is so opposed to notoriety and all that sort of
thing.  Poor girl, she's had enough to drive one mad, I fear, with
all that wretched business of a year ago."

Hetty stopped in her tracks. She went very white.

"What news, Mr. Wrandall?"

"They say they have stumbled upon a clew,--an absolutely indisputable
clew. Smith had me on the wire this morning. He is the chief operative,
you understand, Miss Castleton. He informs me that his original
theory is quite fully substantiated by this recent discovery. If
you remember, he gave it as his opinion a year ago that the woman
was not--er--I may say, of the class catalogued as fast. He is
coming out to-morrow to see me."

Things went suddenly black before her eyes, but in an instant she
regained control of herself.

"They have had many clews, Mr. Wrandall," she complained, shaking
her head.

"I know," he replied; "and this one may be as futile as the rest.
Smith appears to be absolutely certain this time, however."

"I understood that Mrs. Wrandall--I mean Mrs. Challis Wrandall--refused
to offer a reward," said Booth. "These big detective agencies are
not keen about--"

"There is a ten thousand dollar reward still standing, Brandon,"
said Mr. Wrandall.

Again the girl started.

"That isn't generally known, sir," observed the painter. "Leslie
told me there was no reward."

"It was privately arranged," explained Leslie's father.

They came in sight of the house at that moment, and the subject
was dropped, for Sara was approaching them in earnest conversation
with Mr. Carroll, her lawyer.

They met at the edge of the lower basin, where the waters trickled
down from an imposing Italian fountain on the level above, forming
a deep, clear pool to which the lofty sky lent unfathomable depths.
To the left of the basin there was a small tea-house, snug in the
shadow of the cypresses that lined the crest of the hill. A series
of rough stone steps wound down to the water's edge and the boathouse.

"Mr. Carroll is the bearer of startling news, Mr. Wrandall," said
Sara, after the greetings. There was a trace of the sardonic in
her voice.

"Indeed?" said Mr. Wrandall gravely.

"I was not aware, sir," said the old lawyer stiffly, and with a
positive glare, "that your detectives were such unmitigated asses
as they now appear to be."

"I fail to understand, Mr. Carroll," with considerable loftiness.

"That confounded rascal Smith called to see me this morning, sir.
He is a rogue, sir. He--"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Carroll," protested Mr. Wrandall, in a far
from conciliatory manner.

"It seems, in short, that he has been working on a very intimate
clew," said Sara, staring fixedly at her father-in-law's face.

"So he informed me over the 'phone this morning," said he, rather
taken a-back. "However, he did not go into the details. I am here,
Sara, to tell you that he is coming out to-morrow. I want to ask
you to come over to my place at--"

"That is out of the question, sir," exclaimed Mr. Carroll vehemently.

"My dear Mr. Carroll--" began Wrandall angrily, but Sara interrupted
him to suggest that they talk it over in the tea-house. She would
ring for tea.

"If you will excuse me, Mrs. Wrandall, I think I will be off," said
Booth.

"Please stay, Mr. Booth," she urged. "I would like to have you
here."

She fell behind with Hetty. The girl's eyes were glassy.

"Don't be alarmed," she whispered.

Booth pressed the button for her. "Thank you. You will be surprised,
Mr. Wrandall, to hear that the new clew leads to a member of your
own family."

Mr. Wrandall was in the act of sitting down. At her words he dropped.
His eyes bulged.

"Good God!"

"It appears that Mr. Smith suspects--ME!" said she coolly.

Her father-in-law's lips moved, but no sound issued. His face was
livid.

"The stupid fool!" hissed the irate Mr. Carroll.

There was deathly silence for a moment following this outburst.
Every face was pale. In Hetty's there was an expression of utter
horror. Her lips too were moving.

"He has, it seems, put one thing and another together, as if it
were a picture puzzle," went on Sara. "His visit to Mr. Carroll
this morning was for the purpose of ascertaining how much it would
be worth to me if he dropped the case--NOW."

"The infernal blackmailer!" gasped Mr. Wrandall, finding his voice.
"I will have him kicked off the place if he comes to me with--My
dear, my dear! You cannot mean what you say."

He was in a shocking state of bewilderment.

"I'd advise you to call off your infernal blackmailer, Mr. Redmond
Wrandall," snarled Mr. Carroll, pacing back and forth.

"My dear sir," stammered the other, "I--I--do you mean to imply
that I know anything about this infamous business?"

"He is your dog, not ours," declared the lawyer, pacing the brick
floor.

"Peace, gentlemen," admonished Sara. "Let us discuss it calmly."

"Calmly?" gasped Mr. Wrandall.

"Calmly!" snapped the lawyer.

"At least deliberately. It appears, Mr. Wrandall, that Smith has
been working on the theory all along that it was I who went to the
inn with Challis. You recall the description given of the woman? She
was of my size and figure, they said at the time. Well, he has--"

"It is infamous!" shouted Mr. Wrandall, springing to his feet.
"He shall hear from me to-night. I shall have him lodged in jail
before--"

"You will do nothing of the sort," interrupted Sara firmly. "I think
you will do well to hear his side of the story. And remember, sir,
that it would be very difficult for me to establish an alibi."

"Bless me!" groaned the old man. Then his eyes brightened. "But
Miss Castleton can prove that for you, my dear. Don't forget Miss
Castleton."

"Miss Castleton did not come to me, you should remember, until after
the--the trouble. It occurred the second night after my arrival
from Europe. Mr. Smith has discovered that I was not in my rooms
at the hotel that night."

"You were not?" fell from Mr. Wrandall's lips. "Where were you?"

"I spent the night in our apartment--alone." She shivered as with
a chill as she uttered these words.

"What!"

"Leslie met me at the dock. He said that Challis had gone away
from town for a day or two. The next day I telephoned to the garage
and asked them to send the big car to me as I wanted to make some
calls.  They said that Mr. Wrandall had discharged the chauffeur
a week or two before and had been using my little French runabout
for a few days, driving it himself. I then instructed them to send
the runabout around with one of their own drivers. You can imagine
my surprise when I was told that Mr. Wrandall had taken the car
out that morning and had not returned with it."

"I see," said Mr. Wrandall, beads of perspiration standing on his
forehead.

"He had not left town. I will not try to describe my feelings. Late
in the afternoon, I called them up again. He had not returned. It
was then that I thought of going to the apartment, which had been
closed all winter. Watson and his wife were to go in the next day
by my instructions. Challis had been living at a club, I believe.
Somehow, I had the feeling that during the night my husband would
come to the apartment--perhaps not alone. You understand. I went
there and waited all night. That is the story. Of course, it is known
that I did not spend the night at the hotel. Mr. Smith evidently
has learned as much. It is on this circumstance that he bases his
belief."

Booth was leaning forward, breathless with interest.

"May I enquire, Mr. Carroll, how the clever Mr. Smith accounts for
the secrecy observed by Mr. Wrandall and his companion, if, as he
proclaims, you were the woman? Is it probable that husband and wife
would have been so mysterious?"

Mr. Carroll answered. "He is rather ingenious as to that, Mr.
Booth.  You must understand that he does not specifically charge
my cli--Mrs. Wrandall with the murder of her husband. He merely
arranges his theories so that they may be applied to her with
a reasonable degree of assurance. He only goes this far in his
deductions: If, as he has gleaned, Challis Wrandall was engaged
in an illicit--er--we'll say distraction--with some one unknown to
Sara his wife, what could be more spectacular than her discovery
of the fact and the subsequently inspired decision to lay a trap
for him? Of course, it is perfect nonsense, but it is the way he
goes about it. It has been established beyond a doubt that Wrandall
met the woman at a station four miles down the line from Burton's
Inn.  She came out on one of the local trains, got off at this
station as prearranged, and found him waiting for her. Two men,
you will recall, testified to that effect at the inquest sixteen
months ago.  She was heavily veiled. She got in the motor and drove
off with him.  This was at half past eight o'clock in the evening.
Smith makes this astounding guess; the woman instead of being the
person expected, was in reality his wife, who had by some means
intercepted a letter.  Our speculative friend Smith is not prepared
to suggest an arrest on these flimsy claims, but he believes it to
be worth Mrs. Wrandall's while to have the case permanently closed,
rather than allow these nasty conclusions to get abroad. They would
spread like wildfire. Do you see what I mean?"

"It is abominable!" cried Hetty, standing before them with flashing
eyes. "I KNOW she did not--"

"Hetty, my dear!" cried Sara sharply.

The girl looked at her for a moment in a frenzied way, and then
turned aside, biting her lips to keep back the actual confession
that had rushed up to them.

"It is blackmail," repeated Mr. Wrandall miserably.

"In the most diabolical form," augmented Carroll. "The worst of it
is, Wrandall, we can't stop his tongue unless we fairly choke him
with greenbacks. All he has to do is to give the confounded yellow
journals an inkling of his suspicions, and the job is done. It seems
to be pretty well understood that the crime was not committed by a
person in the ordinary walks of life, but by one who is secure in
the protection of mighty influences. There are those who believe
that his companion was one of the well-known and prominent young
matrons in the city, many of whom were at one time or another interested
in him in a manner not at all complimentary. Smith suggests--mind
you, he merely suggests--that the person who was to have met Wrandall
in the country that night was so highly connected that she does
not dare reveal herself, although absolutely innocent of the crime.
Or, it is possible on the other hand, he says, that she may consider
herself extremely lucky in failing to keep her appointment and
thereby alluring him to take up with another, after she had written
the letter breaking off the engagement,--said letter not having
been received by him because it had fallen into the hands of his
wife. Do you see? It is ingenious, isn't it?"

"What is to be done?" groaned Mr. Wrandall, in a state of collapse.
He was sitting limply back in the chair, crumpled to the chin.

"The sanest thing, I'd suggest," said Booth sarcastically, "is the
capture of the actual perpetrator of the deed."

"But, confound them," growled Carroll, "they say they can't."

"I shall withdraw my offer of reward," proclaimed the unhappy
father, struggling to his feet. "I never dreamed it could come to
such a pass as this. You DO believe me, don't you, Sara, my child--my
daughter? God hear me, I never--"

"Oh," said she cuttingly, "you, at least, are innocent, Mr.
Wrandall."

He looked at her rather sharply.

"The confounded fellow is coming to see me to-morrow," he went on
after a moment of indecision. "I shall be obliged to telephone to
the city for my attorney to come out also. I don't believe in taking
chances with these scoundrels. They--"

"May I enquire, sir, why you entrusted the matter to a third rate
detective agency when there are such reputable concerns as the
Pinkertons or--" began Mr. Carroll bitingly.

Mr. Wrandall held up his hand deprecatingly.

"We had an idea that an unheard of agency might accomplish more
than one of the famous organisations."

"Well, you see what has come of it," growled the other.

"I was opposed to the reward, sir," declared Mr. Wrandall with some
heat. "Not that I was content to give up the search, but because I
felt sure that the guilty person would eventually reveal herself.
They always do, sir. It is the fundamental principle of criminology.
Soon or late they falter. My son Leslie is of a like opinion. He
has declared all along that the mystery will be cleared up if we
are quiescent. A guilty conscience takes its own way to relieve
itself.  If you keep prodding it with sharp sticks you encourage
fear, and stealth, and all that sort of thing, without really
getting anywhere in the end. Give a murderer a free rope and he'll
hang himself, is my belief. Threaten him with that self-same rope,
and he'll pay more attention to dread than to conscience, and your
ends are defeated."

Sara was inwardly nervous. She stole a glance at the white, emotionless
face of the girl across the table, and was filled with apprehension.

"Can you be sure, Mr. Wrandall," she began earnestly, "that justice
isn't the antidote for the poisonous thing we call a conscience?
Suppose this woman to have been fully justified in doing what she
did, does it follow that conscience can force her to admit, even
to herself, that she is morally guilty of a crime against man? I
doubt it, sir."

She was prepared for a subtle change in Hetty's countenance and was
not surprised to see the light of hope steal back into her eyes.

"Fully justified?" murmured the old gentleman painfully.

"Perhaps we would better not go into that question too intimately,"
suggested Mr. Carroll.

"My son Leslie has peculiar views along the very line--" began Mr.
Wrandall, in great distress of mind. He fell into a reflective mood
and did not finish the sentence.

"I shall see this man Smith," announced Sara calmly.

Her father-in-law stood over her, his face working. "My dear,"
he said, "I promise you this absurd business shall go no farther.
Don't let it trouble you in the least. I will attend to Smith. If
there is no other way to check his vile insinuations, I will pay
his price.  You are not to be submitted to these dreadful--"

She interrupted him. "You will do nothing of the kind, Mr.  Wrandall,"
she said levelly. "Do you want to convince him that I AM guilty?"

"God in heaven, no!"

"Then why pay him the reward you have offered for the person who
is guilty?"

"It is an entirely different propo--"

"It amounts to the same thing, sir. He tells you he has discovered
the woman you want and you fulfil your part of the bargain by
paying him for his services. That closes the transaction, so far
as he is concerned. He goes his way fully convinced that he has
put his hands on the criminal, and then proceeds to wash them in
private instead of in public. No. Let me see this man. I insist."

"He will be at my place to-morrow at eleven," said Wrandall
resignedly. "I wish Leslie were here. He is so level-headed."

Sara laid her hand on his arm. He looked up and found her regarding
him rather fixedly.

"It would be just as well as to keep this from Mrs. Wrandall and
Vivian," she said meaningly.

"You are right, Sara. It would distress them beyond words."

She smiled faintly. "May I enquire whether Mr. Smith is to report
to you or to Mrs. Wrandall?"

He flushed. "My wife--er--made the arrangements with him, Sara," he
said, but added quickly: "With my sanction, of course. He reports
to me. As a matter of fact, now that I think of it, he advised me
to say nothing to my wife until he had talked with me."

"Inasmuch as he has already talked it over with me, through counsel,
I don't see any reason why we should betray his gentle confidence,
do you?"

"I--I suppose not," said he uncomfortably.

"Then, bring him here at eleven, Mr. Wrandall," said she serenely.
"He has already paved the way. I imagine he expects to find me at
home. Put the things here, Watson."

Watson had appeared with the tray. It being a very hot day, he did
not bring tea.




CHAPTER XIII

MR. WRANDALL PERJURES HIMSELF


Smith arrived at eleven, somewhat after the fashion of the Hawkshaws
of "yellow back" fame, who, if our memory serves us right, were so
punctual that their appearance anywhere was described as being in
the "nick o' time," only in this instance he was expected and did
not "drop from the sky," as the saying goes.

Mr. Wrandall met him at the station and escorted him in a roundabout
way to Southlook, carefully avoiding the main village thoroughfare
and High street, where the fashionable colony was intrenched. Mr.
Smith, being an experienced detective, was not surprised to find
(after the introduction), that Mr. Wrandall's attorney had been a
fellow-passenger from town. If he was impressed, he did not once
betray the fact during the four mile spin to Sara's. On the contrary,
he seemed to be entirely absorbed in the scenery.

Mr. Wrandall had said, without shaking hands: "We will repair at
once to Mrs. Challis Wrandall's house, Mr. Smith. She is expecting
you. I have informed her of your mission."

"I think we'd better discuss the matter between ourselves, Mr.
Wrandall, before putting it up to--"

"There is nothing in connection with this unhappy affair, sir, that
cannot be discussed first-hand with her," said his employer stiffly.

"Just as you like, sir," said Smith indifferently. "I have talked
it over with old man Carroll. He understands."

"I am quite sure he does, Mr. Smith," said the other, with emphasis.
Mr. Smith successfully hid a smile.

He took his seat beside the chauffeur.

"I am surprised," he observed to the driver, as a "feeler," "that
you haven't changed bodies."

"Mr. Wrandall ordered the limousine, sir," said the chauffeur.

"Oh, I see. Keeps it on hand for rainy days, I suppose."

"It's Mrs. Wrandall's idea," explained the man. "Women are fussy
about their hair. We always have a limousine handy."

"It is a handy thing to have about," said Mr. Smith drily, as he
looked out of the corner of his eye and remarked the two men behind
him. They were in very close conversation.

"The boss usually takes the other car. He likes the wind in his
face, he says. I don't know why he ordered the limousine to-day."

"Probably there's something in the wind to-day he doesn't like,"
remarked Smith, after which he devoted himself assiduously to the
road ahead, not being a practiced motorist.

As they were ascending the steps in Sara's exotic garden, Smith
ventured a somewhat sinister remark.

"These steps are not good for a man with a weak heart, Mr. Wrandall.
I hope yours is sound."

"Quite, Mr. Smith. Have no fear," said Mr. Wrandall, with an acute
sense of divination. "You will also find it to be in the right
place."

"Umph," said Mr. Smith.

Sara did not keep them waiting long in the morning room. She came
in soon after they were announced, followed by Mr. Carroll, who had
spent the night at Southlook. Hetty Castleton was not in evidence.

She motioned them to seats after Mr. Wrandall had ceremoniously
introduced his lawyer, and as unceremoniously neglected to do as
much for Smith.

"This is Mr. Smith, I presume," said she, with a slight uplifting
of her eyebrows. She took a chair facing the detective.

"Yes, my dear," said her father-in-law. "Joseph Smith."

"Benjamin, if you please," corrected Mr. Smith.

"I regret to state that my memory for names does not go back to
the Old Testament," said Wrandall, with a frosty smile.

"There are no Smiths in the Old Testament," said the detective
grimly.

"I understand, Mr. Smith, that you are prepared to charge me with
the murder of my husband."

She said it very quietly, very levelly. Smith was a bit staggered.

"Well, I--er--hardly that, Mrs. Wrandall," he said, disconcerted.

"Will you be good enough to come to the point at once?"

"My report in this matter, madam, is to be made to Mr. Wrandall
here, as I understand it," said the detective, his jaw stiffening.
"We don't, as a rule, report our findings to--well, to the person
we suspect. It isn't what you'd call regular. Mr. Wrandall has
employed me to make the investigation. He can hardly expect me to
reveal my findings to you."

"My dear Sara--" began Mr. Wrandall.

"As this is a rather intimate conference, Mr. Smith," interrupted
Sara, with a gracious smile for her father-in-law, "I fancy we have
nothing to gain, one way or another, by recriminations. You have
already consulted Mr. Carroll, and I have talked it over with Mr.
Wrandall. That was to have been expected, I believe. As I understand
the situation, you are somewhat curious to know just how much it
is worth to me to have the matter dropped."

Smith eyed her steadily.

"That is the case, precisely," he said briefly.

"Then you are not really interested in having the guilty person
brought to justice?"

"I am not an officer of the law, madam. I am a private individual,
working for private ends. It is for Mr. Wrandall to say whether my
discoveries shall be related in court. I respectfully submit that
I am acting within my rights. My deductions have been formed.
That is as far as I can go without his authority. He has offered a
reward, and he has gone farther than that by engaging us to devote
our time, brains and energies to the case. I am in this position at
present: our firm cannot accept the reward he has offered without
deliberately declaring to the world that we can put our hand on
the slayer of his son. As I cannot produce the actual proof that
we have found that person, I am in honour compelled to submit our
findings so far as they have gone, and then either to withdraw from
the matter or carry it on to the end, as he may elect. Our time
is worth something, madam. We have made a careful and exhaustive
investigation. We have come to the point where we can go no farther
without more or less publicly associating you with our theories.
I spoke to Mr. Carroll yesterday, it is true, and I am here to-day
to lay my facts before Mr. Wrandall--and his attorney, I see. Mr.
Carroll chose to call me a blackmailer. He may be correct in his
legal way of looking at it. But he is wrong in assuming that MY
motives are criminal. I submit that they are fair, open and above
board."

There was a moment's silence following this astonishingly succinct
summing up of his position. The three men had not taken their eyes
from his shrewd, frank face during that clever speech. They had
nothing to say. It had been agreed among them that Sara was to do
the talking. They were to do the watching.

"You put the case very fairly, Mr. Smith," said she seriously. "I
think your position is clear enough, assuming of course that you
have any real evidence to support your theories, whatever they may
be. I am perfectly free to say that you interest me."

"Interest you?" he said, in some exasperation. He had expected her
to fly into a passion. "Don't you take me seriously, madam?"

"As far as you have gone, yes."

Mr. Wrandall could hold in no longer. He was most uncomfortable.

"See here, Smith, out with it. Let us have your story. My
daughter-in-law is not in the least alarmed. You've been on the
wrong track, of course. But that isn't the point. What we want now
is to find out just where we stand."

"You put it in a rather compromising way, Mr. Wrandall. The pronoun
'we' is somewhat general, if you will permit me to say so. Do you
expect me to discuss my findings in the presence of Mrs. Wrandall
and her counsel?"

"Certainly, sir, certainly. You need have no hesitancy on that
score. I dare say you came here knowing that what you were to say
would go no further than these four walls."

"Would you say that, sir, if I were to submit proof that would
make it look so black for Mrs. Wrandall that you couldn't very well
doubt her complicity in the crime, even though you saw fit to let
it go no further than these four walls?"

Mr. Wrandall hesitated. A heavy frown appeared between his eyes;
his fingers worked nervously on the arm of the chair.

"I may say to you, Mr. Smith, that if you produce conclusive proof
I shall do my duty as a law-respecting citizen. I would not hesitate
on that score."

Sara looked at him through half-closed lids. His jaws were firmly
set.

Smith seemed to be reflecting. He did not speak for a long interval.

"In the first place, it struck me as odd that the man's wife did
not take more interest in the search that was made immediately
after the kill--after the tragedy. Not only that, but it is of
record that she deliberately informed the police that she didn't
care whether they caught the guilty party or not. Isn't that true?"

The question was directed to no one in particular.

It was Sara who answered.

"Quite true, Mr. Smith. And if it will interest you in the least,
I repeat that I don't care even now."

"You were asked if you would offer a reward in addition to the small
one announced by the authorities. Why didn't you offer a reward?"

"Because I did not care to make it an object for well-meaning
detectives to pry into the affairs of indiscreet members of society,"
she said.

"I see," said he reflectively. "May I be so bold as to ask why you
don't want to have the guilty punished?"

She looked at Mr. Wrandall before offering a reply to this direct
question.

"I can't answer that question without publicly wounding Mr.
Wrandall."

"We understand each other, Sara," said the old man painfully. "I
think you would better answer his question."

"Because my husband courted the fate that befell him, Mr. Smith.
That is my reply. While I do not know what actually transpired at
the inn, I am reasonably certain that my husband's life was taken
by some one who had suffered at his hands. I can say no more."

"The eye for an eye principle, eh?" There was deep sarcasm in the
way he said it. As she did not respond to the challenge, he abruptly
changed tactics. "Where were you on the night of the murder, Mrs.
Wrandall?"

She smiled. "I thought you knew, Mr. Smith."

"I have reason to believe that you were at Burton's Inn," he said
bluntly.

"But you wouldn't be at all sure about it if I said I wasn't there,
would you, Mr. Smith?"

"I don't quite get you, Mrs. Wrandall."

"I mean to say, if I made it worth your while to change your
opinion," she said flatly.

He cleared his throat. "You couldn't change my opinion, so there's
an end to that. You could stop me right where I am, if that's what
you mean. I'm perfectly frank about it, gentlemen. You needn't
look as if you'd like to kill me. I'm not anxious to go on with
the investigation. I don't know enough up to date to be sure of a
conviction, but I guess I could get the proof if it is to be found.
This is a family affair, I take it. Mr. Wrandall here doesn't want
to--"

Mr. Wrandall struck the arm of his chair a violent blow with his
clenched fist.

"You have no authority, sir, to make such a statement!" he exclaimed.
"I want it distinctly understood that I would give half of what I
possess to have the slayer of my son brought to justice."

"But you don't want this thing to go any further so far as Mrs.
Challis Wrandall is concerned," said Smith coolly.

"Of course not, you miserable scoundrel!" cried the other in a
rage.  "She's no more guilty than I am."

"Don't call names, Mr. Wrandall," said Smith, a steely glitter in
his eyes. "I am prepared to lay before you certain facts that I
have unravelled, but I am not willing to give them to Mrs. Wrandall."

"My daughter-in-law spent the night at her own apartment, waiting
for my son," said Wrandall, regaining control of himself. "That is
positively known to me, sir. Positively!"

"How can you be sure of that, Mr. Wrandall?" asked Smith sharply.

The gaunt old face, suddenly very much older than it had been
before, took on a stern, defiant expression.

"I spoke with her over the telephone at half past nine o'clock that
night," said he steadily.

Smith was not the only one to be surprised by this startling
declaration. Sara Wrandall's eyes widened ever so slightly, and
one might have detected a sharp catch in her breath.

"She called you up?" asked Smith, after a moment to collect his
wits.

Mr. Wrandall was not to be trapped. He had made up his mind to
lie for Sara in this hour of need, and he had considered well his
methods.

"No. I called up the apartment."

"How did you know she was at her apartment?"

"I did not know it. I called up to speak with my son. She answered
the call, Mr. Smith."

He arose from the chair. Smith also came slowly to his feet, the
look of astonishment still on his face.

"And now, sir," went on the old man, levelling a bony finger at
him, "I think we can dispense with your services. I will give you
credit for one thing: you are plain-spoken and above board. You
want money and you don't beat about the bush. If you will instruct
your office to send to me a bill for services, I will pay it. I
engaged you, and I am ready to pay for my stupidity. My car will
take you back to the station."

Smith picked up his hat and fumbled with it for a moment, plainly
dismayed.

"If I have been on the wrong lead, Mr. Wrandall, I am willing
to drop it and start all over again. I suppose your reward still
stands. I am sure we can--"

"It does not stand, sir. I shall withdraw it this very day. God
knows if I had thought it would lead us to this pass, it should
never have been offered. Now, go, sir."

Smith held his ground doggedly. "There are a few points I'd like
to--"

"No!"

"For the sake of justice and--"

Sara interrupted the man. She had crossed to Mr. Wrandall's side,
a queer light in her eyes. Her hand fell upon his trembling old
arm and he felt a thrill pass from her warm, strong fingers into
the very core of his body.

"Mr. Smith, will you give me an off-hand estimate of what your
services amount to in dollars and cents up to date?"

"You don't owe me anything, Mrs. Wrandall," said Smith, flushing
a dull red.

"You came here to give me a chance, Mr. Smith, feeling that I was
actually implicated. You had a price fixed in your mind. You still
have your doubts, in spite of what Mr. Wrandall says. It occurred
to you that it would be worth considerable to me if the investigation
went no farther. You realised that you could not have brought this
crime home to me, because you could not have found REAL, satisfying
evidence. But you could have gone to the newspapers with your
suspicions, and you could have made one-half the world believe that
an innocent person was guilty of a foul crime. The world loves its
sensations. It would have gloated over the little you could have
given it, and it would have damned me unheard. I owe you something
for sparing me a fate so wretched as that. Your price: What is it?"

"Sara!" cried Mr. Wrandall, aghast.

"My dear Mrs. Wrandall," cried Carroll, blinking his eyes, "you
are not thinking of--"

"I am thinking of paying Mr. Smith his price," said Sara calmly.

"Why, damn it all," roared Carroll, "you countenance his ridiculous
assertions--"

"No; I do nothing of the sort, Mr. Carroll, and Mr. Smith knows it
quite as well as you do. He still has it in his power to set the
tongues to wagging. We can't get around that, gentlemen. I want to
pay him to drop the case entirely. The reward has been withdrawn.
Will it satisfy your cupidity, Mr. Smith, if I agree to pay to you
a like amount?"

"Good Lord!" gasped Smith, staggered.

"I cannot permit--" began Mr. Wrandall.

She looked him squarely in the eye and the words died on his lips.

"I prefer to have it my way," she said. "I will not accept favours
from Mr. Smith--nor any other man." Wrandall alone caught the
significance of the last four words. She would not accept the favour
of a lie from him! And yet she would not humiliate by denying him
in the presence of others. "Mr. Carroll will attend to this matter for
me, Mr. Smith, if you will call at his office at your convenience.
I shall make but a single stipulation in addition to the one
involved: you are to drop the case altogether. Mr. Wrandall has
already dismissed you. You are under no further obligations to him
or his family. I respectfully submit to all of you, gentlemen, that
when the investigations go so far astray as they have gone in this
instance, it isn't safe to let them continue with the possible chance
of proving unwholesome to other innocent persons, toward whom, in
some justice, attention might be drawn. The young woman now in the
far West is a sickening example. I refer to the Ashtley girl.  If,
by any chance, the right person should be taken, I will do my part,
Mr. Wrandall, with the same purpose if not the same spirit that
actuates you, but I am opposed to baring skeletons to gratify
the morbid curiosity of a public that despises all of us because,
unhappily, we are what we are. I trust I make myself plain to you.
I loved my husband. I have no desire to know the names of women
who were his--we will say--who were in love with him."

Mr. Wrandall bowed his head and said not a word. His attorney, who
had been a silent listener from the beginning, spoke for the first
time.

"If Mr. Smith will call at my office to-morrow, I will attend to
the closing of this matter to his entire satisfaction. Mr. Wrandall
has already authorised me to settle in full for his time and--patience."

"I don't like to take money in this way--"

"We won't discuss ethics, Mr. Smith."

"Just as you like, then. I'm only too happy to be off the job. Good
morning, madam. Good morning, gentlemen."

He stalked from the room. Watson was waiting in the hall.

"This way," he said, indicating the big front door.

Smith grinned sheepishly. "'Gad, they don't even think I can find
a front door," he said.

Redmond Wrandall turned to the two men after he heard the door of
his automobile slam in the porte-cochere.

"Gentlemen, I believe it is unnecessary to announce to you that I
did not speak over the telephone with my daughter-in-law on that
wretched night," he said slowly.

They nodded their heads.

"I am not a good liar. Do you think the fellow believed me?"

"No," said Sara instantly. "He is accustomed to better lying than
you can supply. But it doesn't in the least matter. He knows, however,
that you spoke the truth when you said I was in my apartment, even
though you are not sure of it yourself, Mr.  Wrandall. I will not
presume to thank you for what you did, but I shall never forget
it, sir."

He regarded her rather austerely for a moment. "I am glad you do
not thank me, Sara," he said. "You are not to feel that you are
under the slightest obligation to me."

"I regret that you felt it necessary to perjure yourself," she
said levelly, and then broke into a soft little laugh as she laid
her hand on his arm once more. "Come! Let us have a semi-public
view of Hetty's portrait."

He looked up alertly at the mention of the girl's name.

"By the way, where is Miss Castleton?" he asked, drawing a long
breath as if the air had suddenly become wholesome.

"She is back yonder in the living-room, having her last sitting
to Brandon Booth. Just a few finishing touches, that's all. I hear
them laughing. The day's work is done."

She led the way down the long hall, followed by the old gentlemen,
who came three abreast, hoary retainers at the heels of youth.




CHAPTER XIV

IN THE SHADOW OF THE MILL


Later on Sara, in sober reflection, endorsed what had appeared at
the time to be a whimsical, quixotic proceeding on her part. She
brought herself completely to the point where she could view her
action with complacency. At first, there was an irritating, nagging
fear that Mr. Wrandall had been genuinely soul-sacrificing in his
effort to defend her; that his decisive falsehood was a sincere
declaration of loyalty to her and not the transparent outburst of
one actuated by a sort of fanatical selfishness, in that he dreaded
the further dragging in the dust of the name of Wrandall, and all
that in spite of his positive belief that she was being wrongly,
unfairly attacked. She knew that her father-in-law had no doubt in
his mind that she could successfully combat any charge Smith might
bring against her; that her innocence would prevail even in the
opinion of the scheming detective. But behind all this was the
Wrandall conclusion that a skin was to be saved, and that skin the
one which covered the Wrandall pride.

His lie was not glorifying. She even consented that it might
be the first deliberate falsehood this honourable, discriminating
gentleman had told in all his life. At the moment, he may have
been actuated by a motive that deceived him, but even unknown to
him the Wrandall self-interest was at work. He was not lying for
her, but for the Wrandalls! And she would have to remain his debtor
all her life because of that amiable falsehood!

She intuitively felt the force of that secret motive almost
the instant it found expression, and she resented it even as she
applauded it in the first wave of inward enthusiasm. She might
have marked it down to his credit, and loved him a little for it,
had not his rather distorted integrity impelled him to confess his
transgression to the lawyers, whereas it was perfectly plain that
they appreciated his distortion of the truth without having it
explained to them in so many words. That virtuous little speech
of his was all-illuminating; it let in a great light and laid bare
the weakness that was too strong for him.

Her abrupt change of front, her suddenly formed resolve to pay the
man his price, was the result of a natural opposition to the elder
Wrandall. She acted hastily, even ruthlessly, in direct contradiction
to her original intentions, but she now felt that she had acted
wisely. There could be no doubt in the mind of the keen-witted
Smith that Mr. Wrandall had lied; his lips therefore were sealed,
not by the declaration, but by her own surprising offer to remunerate.

When she told Hetty what she had done, the girl, who had been
tortured by doubts and misgivings, threw herself into her arms and
sobbed out her gratitude.

"I could die for you, Sara. I could die a thousand deaths," she
cried.

"Oh, I dare say Smith is quite delighted," said Sara carelessly.
"He had come up against a brick wall, don't you see. He could go
no further. There was but one thing for him to do and he did it.
He had no case, but he felt that he ought to be paid just the same.
Mr.  Wrandall would never have paid him, he was sure of that. His
game failed. He thinks better of me now than he ever did before,
and I have made a friend of him, strange as it may appear."

"Oh, I hope so."

Sara stroked her cheek gently. "Don't be afraid, Hetty. We are
quite safe."

Hetty secretly gloated over that little pronoun 'we.' It spelt
security.

"And wasn't it splendid of Mr. Wrandall to say what he did?" she
mused, lying back among the cushions with a sigh of relaxation.

Sara did not at once reply. She smiled rather oddly.

"It was," she said succinctly. "I am sure Leslie will go into
raptures over his father's decline and fall."

"Must he be told?" in some dismay.

"Certainly. Every son should know his own father," she explained,
with a quiet laugh.

The next day but one was overcast. On cloudy, bleak days Hetty
Castleton always felt depressed. Shadowless days, when the sun was
obscured, filled her with a curious sense of apprehension, as if
when the sun came out again he would not find the world as he had
left it. She did not mope; it was not in her nature. She was more
than ever mentally alert on such days, for the very reason that
the world seemed to have lapsed into a state of indifference, with
the sun nowhere to be seen. There was a queer sensation of dread
in knowing that that great ball of fire was somewhere in the vault
above her and yet unlocated in the sinister pall that spread over
the skies. Her fancy ofttimes pictured him sailing in the west when
he should be in the east, dodging back and forth in impish abandon
behind the screen, and she wondered at such times if he would be
where he belonged when the clouds lifted.

Leslie was to return from the wilds on the following day. Early
in the morning Booth had telephoned to enquire if she did not want
to go for a long walk with him before luncheon. The portrait was
finished, but he could not afford to miss the morning hour with
her.  He said as much to her in pressing his invitation.

"To-morrow Leslie will be here and I shan't see as much of you as
I'd like," he explained, rather wistfully. "Three is a crowd, you
know. I've got so used to having you all to myself, it's hard to
break off suddenly."

"I will be ready at eleven," she said, and was instantly surprised
to find that her voice rang with new life, new interest. The greyness
seemed to lift from the view that stretched beyond the window; she
even looked for the sun in her eagerness.

It was then that she knew why the world had been bleaker than usual,
even in its cloak of grey.

A little before eleven she set out briskly to intercept him at
the gates. Unknown to her, Sara sat in her window, and viewed her
departure with gloomy eyes. The world also was grey for her.

They came upon each other unexpectedly at a sharp turn in the
avenue. Hetty  with a sudden rush of confusion, and had
all she could do to meet his eager, happy eyes as he stood over her
and proclaimed his pleasure in jerky, awkward sentences. Then they
walked on together, a strange shyness attending them. She experienced
the faintness of breath that comes when the heart is filled with
pleasant alarms. As for Booth, his blood sang. He thrilled with
the joy of being near her, of the feel of her all about him, of
the delicious feminine appeal that made her so wonderful to him.
He wanted to crush her in his arms, to keep her there for ever, to
exert all of his brute physical strength so that she might never
again be herself but a part of him.

They uttered commonplaces. The spell was on them. It would lift,
but for the moment they were powerless to struggle against it. At
length he saw the colour fade from her cheeks; her eyes were able
to meet his without the look in them that all men love. Then he
seemed to get his feet on the ground again, and a strange, ineffably
sweet sense of calm took possession of him.

"I must paint you all over again," he said, suddenly breaking in
on one of her remarks. "Just as you are to-day,--an outdoor girl,
a glorious outdoor girl in--"

"In muddy boots," she laughed, drawing her skirt away to reveal a
shapely foot in an American walking shoe.

He smiled and gave voice to a new thought. "By Jove, how much better
looking our American shoes are than the kind they wear in London!"

"Sara insists on American shoes, so long as I am with her. I don't
think our boots are so villainous, do you?"

"Just the same, I'm going to paint you again, boots and all. You--"

"Oh, how tired you will become of me!"

"Try me!"

"Besides, you are to do Sara at once. She has consented to sit to
you. She will be wonderful, Mr. Booth, oh, how wonderful!"

There was no mistaking the sincerity of this rapt opinion.

"Stunning," was his brief comment. "By the way, I've hesitated
about asking how she and Mr. Wrandall came out with the detective
chap."

Her face clouded. "It was so perfectly ridiculous, Mr. Booth. The
man is satisfied that he was wrong. The matter is ended."

"Pure blackmail, I'd call it. I hope it isn't ended so far as she
is concerned. I'd have him in jail so quick his--"

"She's tender-hearted, and sensitive. No real harm has been done.
She refuses to prosecute him."

"You can't mean it."

"If you knew her as I do, you would understand."

"But her lawyer, what had he to say about it? And Mr. Wrandall? I
should have thought they--"

"I believe they quite approve of what she has done. Nothing will
come of it."

He walked on in silence for a couple of rods. "I have a feeling
they will never know who killed Challis Wrandall," he said. "It is
a mystery that can't be solved by deduction or theory, and there
is nothing else for them to work on, as I understand the case. The
earth seems to have been generous enough to swallow her completely.
She's safe unless she chooses to confess, and that isn't likely.
To be perfectly frank with you, Miss Castleton, I rather hope they
never get her. He was something of a beast, you know."

She was looking straight ahead. "You used the word generous, Mr.
Booth. Do you mean that she deserves pity?"

"Without knowing all the circumstances, I would say yes. I've had
the feeling that she was more sinned against than sinning."

"Would you believe that she acted in self-defence?"

"It is quite possible."

"Then, will you explain why she does not give herself up to the
authorities and assert her innocence? There is no proof to the
contrary." She spoke hurriedly, with an eagerness which he mistook
for doubt.

"For one reason, she may be a good woman who was indiscreet. She
may have some one else to think of besides herself. A second reason:
she may lack moral courage."

"Moral courage!"

"It is one thing to claim self-defence and another thing to get
people to believe in it. I suppose you know what Leslie thinks
about it?"

"He has not discussed it with me."

"He believes his brother deserved what he got."

"Oh!"

"For that reason he has not taken an active part in hounding her
down."

She was silent for a long time, so long indeed that he turned to
look at her.

"A thoroughly decent, fair-minded chap is Leslie Wrandall," he
pronounced, for want of something better to say. "Still, I'm bound
to say, I'm sorry he is coming home to-morrow."

The red crept into her cheeks again.

"I thought you were such pals," she said nervously.

"I expect to be his best man if he ever marries," said he, whacking
a stone at the road-side with his walking stick. Then he looked
up at her furtively and added, with a quizzical smile: "Unless
something happens."

"What COULD happen?"

"He MIGHT marry the girl I'm in love with, and, in that case, I'd
have to be excused."

"Where shall we walk to this morning?" she asked abruptly. He had
drawn closer to her in the roadway. "Is it too far to the old stone
mill? That's where I first saw you, if you remember."

"Yes, let us go there," she said, but her heart sank. She knew what
was coming. Perhaps it were best to have it over with; to put it
away with the things that were to always be her lost treasures. It
would mean the end of their companionship, the end of a love dream.
She would have to lie to him: to tell him she did not love him.

One would go many a fruitless day in quest of a more attractive pair
than they as they strode swiftly down the shady road. They lagged
not, for they were strong and healthy, and walking was a joy
to them, not an exercise. She kept pace beside him, with her free
stride; half a head shorter than he, she did not demand it of him
that he should moderate his stride to suit hers. He was tall and
long-limbed, but not camel-like in his manner of walking, as so many
tall men are apt to be. His eyes were bright with the excitement
that predicted a no uncertain encounter, although he had no
definite purpose in mind. There was something singularly wistful,
unfathomable, in her velvety blue eyes that gave him hope, he knew
not why.

Coming to the jog in the broad macadam, they were striking off
into the narrow road that led to the quaint old mill, long since
abandoned in the forest glade beyond, when their attention was drawn
to a motor-car, which was slowing down for the turn into Sara's
domain. A cloud of dust swam in the air far behind the machine.

A bare-headed man on the seat beside the driver, waved his hand to
them, and two women in the tonneau bowed gravely. Both Hetty and
Booth flushed uncomfortably, and hesitated in their progress up
the forest road.

The man was Leslie Wrandall. His mother and sister were in the back
seat of the touring car.

"Why--why, it was Leslie," cried Booth, looking over his shoulder
at the rapidly receding car. "Shall we turn back, Miss Castleton?"

"No," she cried instantly, with something like impatience in her
voice. "And spoil our walk?" she added in the next breath, adding
a nervous little laugh.

"It seems rather--" he began dubiously.

"Oh, let us have our day," she cried sharply, and led the way into
the by-road.

They came, in the course of a quarter-of-an-hour, to the bridge over
the mill-race. Beyond, in the mossy shades, stood a dilapidated,
centurion structure known as Rangely's Mill, a landmark with
a history that included incidents of the revolutionary war, when
eager patriots held secret meetings inside its walls and plotted
under the very noses of Tory adherents to the crown.

Pausing for a few minutes on the bridge, they leaned on the rail
and looked down into the clear, mirror-like water of the race. Their
own eyes looked up at them; they smiled into their own faces. And
a fleecy white cloud passed over the glittering stream and swept
through their faces, off to the bank, and was gone for ever.

Suddenly he looked up from the water and fixed his eyes on her
face.  He had seen her clear blue eyes fill with tears as he gazed
into them from the rail above.

"Oh, my dear!" he cried. "What is it?"

She put her handkerchief to her eyes as she quickly turned away.
In another instant, she was smiling up at him, a soft, pleading
little smile that went straight to his heart.

"Shall we start back?" she asked, a quaver in her voice.

"No," he exclaimed. "I've got to go on with it now, Hetty. I didn't
intend to, but--come, let us go up and sit on that familiar old
log in the shade of the mill. You must, dear!"

She suffered him to lead her up the steep bank beyond and through
the rocks and rotten timbers to the great beam that protruded
from the shattered foundations of the mill. The rickety old wheel,
weather-beaten and sad, rose above them and threatened to topple
over if they so much as touched its flimsy supports.

He did not release her hand after drawing her up beside him.

"You must know that I love you," he said simply.

She made no response. Her hand lay limp in his. She was staring
straight before her.

"You DO know it, don't you?" he went on.

"I--God knows I don't want you to love me. I never meant that you
should--" she was saying, as if to herself.

"I suppose it's hopeless," he said dumbly, as her voice trailed
off in a whisper.

"Yes, it is utterly hopeless," she said, and she was white to the
lips.

"I--I shan't say anything more," said he. "Of course, I understand
how it is. There's some one else. Only I want you to know that I
love you with all my soul, Hetty. I--I don't see how I'm going to
get on without you. But I--I won't distress you, dear."

"There isn't any one else, Brandon," she said in a very low voice.
Her fingers tightened on his in a sort of desperation. "I know what
you are thinking. It isn't Leslie. It never can be Leslie."

"Then,--then--" he stammered, the blood surging back into his
heart--"there may be a chance--"

"No, no!" she cried, almost vehemently. "I can't let you go on
hoping. It is wrong---so terribly wrong, You must forget me. You
must--"

He seized her other hand and held them both firmly, masterfully.

"See here, my--look at me, dearest! What is wrong? Tell me! You
are unhappy. Don't be afraid to tell me. You--you DO love me?"

She drew a long breath through her half-closed lips. Her eyes
darkened with pain.

"No. I don't love you. Oh, I am so sorry to have given you--"

He was almost radiant. "Tell me the truth," he cried triumphantly.
"Don't hold anything back, darling. If there is anything troubling
you, let me shoulder it. I can--I will do anything in the world
for you. Listen: I know there's a mystery somewhere. I have felt it
about you always. I have seen it in your eyes, I have always sensed
it stealing over me when I'm with you--this strange, bewildering
atmosphere of--"

"Hush! You must not say anything more," she cried out. "I cannot
love you. There is nothing more to be said."

"But I know it now. You do love me. I could shout it to--" The
miserable, whipped expression in her eyes checked this outburst.
He was struck by it, even dismayed. "My dearest one, my love," he
said, with infinite tenderness, "what is it? Tell me!"

He drew her to him. His arm went about her shoulders. The final
thrill of ecstasy bounded through his veins. The feel of her! The
wonderful, subtle, feminine feel of her! His brain reeled in a new
and vast whirl of intoxication.

She sat there very still and unresisting, her hand to her lips,
uttering no word, scarcely breathing. He waited. He gave her time.
After a little while her fingers strayed to the crown of her limp,
rakish panama. They found the single hat-pin and drew it out. He
smiled as he pushed the hat away and then pressed her dark little
head against his breast. Her blue eyes were swimming.

"Just this once, just this once," she murmured with a sob in
her voice. Her hand stole upward and caressed his brown cheek and
throat. Tears of joy started in his eyes--tears of exquisite delight.

"Good God, Hetty, I--I can't do without you," he whispered, shaken
by his passion. "Nothing can come between us. I must have you always
like this."

"Che sara, sara," she sighed, like the breath of the summer wind
as it sings in the trees.

The minutes passed and neither spoke. His rapt gaze hung upon the
glossy crown that pressed against him so gently. He could not see
her eyes, but somehow he felt they were tightly shut, as if in
pain.

"I love you, Hetty. Nothing can matter," he whispered at last.
"Tell me what it is."

She lifted her head and gently withdrew herself from his embrace.
He did not oppose her, noting the serious, almost sombre look in
her eyes as she turned to regard him steadfastly, an unwavering
integrity of purpose in their depths.

She had made up her mind to tell him a part of the truth. "Brandon,
I am Hetty Glynn."

He started, not so much in surprise as at the abruptness with which
she made the announcement.

"I have been sure of it, dear, from the beginning," he said quietly.

Then her tongue was loosed. The words rushed to her lips. "I was
Hawkright's model for six months. I posed for all those studies,
and for the big canvas in the academy. It was either that or
starvation.  Oh, you will hate me--you must hate me."

He laid his hand on her hair, a calm smile on his lips. "I can't love
and hate at the same time," he said. "There was nothing wrong in
what you did for Hawkright. I am a painter, you know. I understand.
Does--does Mrs. Wrandall know all this?"

"Yes--everything. She knows and understands. She is an angel, Brandon,
an angel from heaven. But," she burst forth, "I am not altogether
a sham. I AM the daughter of Colonel Castleton, and I AM the cousin
of all the Murgatroyds,--the poor relation. It isn't as if I were
the scum of the earth, is it? I AM a Castleton. My father comes
of a noble family. And, Brandon, the only thing I've ever done in
my life that I am really ashamed of is the deception I practised
on you when you brought that magazine to me and faced me with it.
I did not lie to you. I simply let you believe I was not the--the
person you thought I was. But I deceived you--"

"No, you did not deceive me," he said gently. "I read the truth in
your dear eyes."

"There are other things, too. I shall not speak of them, except
to repeat that I have not done anything else in all my life that I
should be ashamed of." Her eyes were burning with earnestness. He
could not but understand what she meant.

Again he stroked her hair. "I am sure of that," he said.

"My mother was Kitty Glynn, the actress. My father, a younger son,
fell in love with her. They were married against the wishes of his
father, who cut him off. He was in the service, and he was brave
enough to stick. They went to one of the South African garrisons,
and I was born there. Then to India. Then back to London, where an
aunt had died, leaving my father quite a comfortable fortune. But
his old friends would have nothing to do with him. He had lived--well,
he had made life a hell for my mother in those frontier posts.  He
deserted us in the end, after he had squandered the fortune. My
mother made no effort to compel him to provide for her or for me.
She was proud. She was hurt. To-day he is in India, still in the
service, a martinet with a record for bravery on the field of battle
that cannot be taken from him, no matter what else may befall. I
hear from him once or twice a year. That is all I can tell you about
him. My mother died three years ago, after two years of invalidism.
During those years I tried to repay her for the sacrifice she had
made in giving me the education, the--" She choked up for a second,
and then went bravely on. "Her old manager made a place for me in one
of his companies. I took my mother's name, Hetty Glynn, and--well,
for a season and a half I was in the chorus. I could not stay there.
I COULD not," she repeated with a shudder. "I gave it up after my
mother's death. I was fairly well equipped for work as a children's
governess, so I engaged myself to--"

She stopped in dismay for he was laughing.

"And now do you know what I think of you, Miss Hetty Glynn?" he
cried, seizing her hands and regarding her with a serious, steadfast
gleam in his eyes. "You are the pluckiest, sandiest girl I've ever
known. You are the kind that heroines are made of. There is nothing
in what you've told me that could in the least alter my regard for
you, except to increase the love I thought could not be stronger.
Will you marry me, Hetty?"

She jerked her hands away, and held them clenched against her
breast.

"No! I cannot. It is impossible, Brandon. If I loved you less than
I do, I might say yes, but--no, it is impossible."

His eyes narrowed. A grey shadow crept over his face.

"There can be only one obstacle so serious as all that," he said
slowly. "You--you are already married."

"No!" she cried, lifting her pathetic eyes to his. "It isn't that.
Oh, please be good to me! Don't ask me to say anything more. Don't
make it hard for me, Brandon. I love you--I love you. To be your
wife would be the most glorious--No, no! I must not even think of
it. I must put it out of my mind. There IS a barrier, dearest. We
cannot surmount it. Don't ask me to tell you, for I cannot. I--I
am so happy in knowing that you love me, and that you still love
me after I have told you how mean and shameless I was in deceiving--"

He drew her close and kissed her full on the trembling lips. She
gasped and closed her eyes, lying like one in a swoon. Soft, moaning
sounds came from her lips. He could not help feeling a vast pity
for her, she was so gentle, so miserably hurt by something he could
not understand, but knew to be monumental in its power to oppress.

"Listen, dearest," he said, after a long silence; "I understand
this much, at least: you can't talk about it now. Whatever it is,
it hurts, and God knows I don't want to make it worse for you in
this hour when I am so selfishly happy. Time will show us the way.
It can't be insurmountable. Love always triumphs. I only ask you to
repeat those three little words, and I will be content. Say them."

"I love you," she murmured.

"There! You are mine! Three little words bind you to me for ever.
I will wait until the barrier is down. Then I will take you."

"The barrier grows stronger every day," she said, staring out beyond
the tree-tops at the scudding clouds. "It never can be removed."

"Some day you will tell me--everything?"

She hesitated long. "Yes, before God, Brandon, I will tell you.
Not now, but--some day. Then you will see why--why I cannot--" She
could not complete the sentence.

"I don't believe there is anything you can tell me that will
alter my feelings toward you," he said firmly. "The barrier may be
insurmountable, but my love is everlasting."

"I can only thank you, dear, and--love you with all my wretched
heart."

"You are not pledged to some one else?"

"No."

"That's all I want to know," he said, with a deep breath. "I thought
it might be--Leslie."

"No, no!" she cried out, and he caught a note of horror in her
voice.

"Does--does he know this--this thing you can't tell me?" he demanded,
a harsh note of jealousy in his voice.

She looked up at him, hurt by his tone. "Sara knows," she said.
"There is no one else. But you are not to question her. I demand
it of you."

"I will wait for you to tell me," he said gently.




CHAPTER XV

SARA WRANDALL FINDS THE TRUTH


Sara had kept the three Wrandalls over for luncheon.

"My dear," said Mrs. Redmond Wrandall, as she stood before Hetty's
portrait at the end of the long living-room, "I must say that Brandon
has succeeded in catching that lovely little something that makes
her so--what shall I say?--so mysterious? Is that what I want?  The
word is as elusive as the expression."

"Subtle is the word you want, mother," said Vivian, standing beside
Leslie, tall, slim and aristocratic, her hands behind her back, her
manner one of absolute indifference. Vivian was more than handsome;
she was striking.

"There isn't anything subtle about Hetty," said Sara, with a laugh.
"She's quite ingenuous."

Leslie was pulling at his moustache, and frowning slightly. The
sunburn on his nose and forehead had begun to peel off in chappy
little flakes.

"Ripping likeness, though," was his comment.

"Oh, perfect," said his mother. "Really wonderful. It will make
Brandon famous."

"She's so healthy-looking," said Vivian.

"English," remarked Leslie, as if that covered everything.

"Nonsense," cried the elder Mrs. Wrandall, lifting her lorgnette
again. "Pure, honest, unmixed blood, that's what it is. There is
birth in that girl's face."

"You're always talking about birth, mother," said her son sourly,
as he turned away.

"It's a good thing to have," said his mother with conviction.

"It's an easy thing to get in America," said he, pulling out his
cigarette case. "Have a cigarette, mother? Sara?"

"I'll take one, Les," said Vivian. She selected one and passed the
case on to her mother. Sara shook her head.

"No, thanks," she said.

Mrs. Redmond Wrandall laid her cigarette down without attempting
to light it, a sudden frostiness in her manner. Vivian and Leslie
blew long plumes of smoke from the innermost recesses of their
lungs.

"Nerves?" asked Vivian mildly.

"I don't like Leslie's brand," explained Sara.

"They're excellent, I think," said Mrs. Wrandall, and thereupon
accepted a light from Leslie.

"Well, let's be off," said he, somewhat irritably. "Tell Miss
Castleton we're sorry to have missed her."

It was then that Sara prevailed upon them to stop for luncheon.
"She always takes these long walks in the morning, and she will be
disappointed if she finds you haven't waited--"

"Oh, as for that--" began Leslie and stopped, but he could not have
been more lucid if he had uttered the sentence in full.

"Why didn't you pick her up and bring her home with you?" asked
Sara, as they moved off in the direction of the porch.

"She seemed to be taking Brandy out for his morning exercise," said
he surlily. "Far be it from me to--Umph!"

Sara repressed the start of surprise. She thought Hetty was alone.

"She will bring him in for luncheon, I suppose," she said carelessly,
although there was a slight contraction of the eyelids.  "He is a
privileged character."

It was long past the luncheon hour when Hetty came in, flushed and
warm. She was alone and she had been walking rapidly.

"Oh, I am so sorry to be late," she apologised, darting a look of
anxiety at Sara. "We grew careless with time. Am I shockingly late?"

She was shaking hands with Mrs. Redmond Wrandall as she spoke.
Leslie and Vivian stood by, rigidly awaiting their turn. Neither
appeared to be especially cordial.

"What is the passing of an hour, my dear," said the old lady, "to
one who is young and can spare it?"

"I did not expect you--I mean to say, nothing was said about
luncheon, was there, Sara?" She was in a pretty state of confusion.

"No," said Leslie, breaking in; "we butted in, that's all. How are
you?" He clasped her hand and bent over it. She was regarding him
with slightly dilated eyes. He misinterpreted the steady scrutiny.
"Oh, it will all peel off in a day or two," he explained, going a
shade redder.

"When did you return?" she asked. "I thought to-morrow was--"

"Leslie never has any to-morrows, Miss Castleton," explained Vivian.
"He always does to-morrow's work to-day. That's why he never has
any troubles ahead of him."

"What rot!" exclaimed Leslie.

"Where is Mr. Booth?" inquired Sara. "Wouldn't he come in, Hetty?"

"I--I didn't think to ask him to stop for luncheon," she replied,
and then hurried off to her room to make herself presentable.

"Don't be long," called out Sara.

"We are starving," added Vivian.

"Vivian!" exclaimed her mother, in a shocked voice.

"Well, _I_ am," declared her daughter promptly.

"You know you NEVER eat anything in the middle of the day," said
her mother, frowning. As Sara was paying no attention to their
remarks, Mrs. Wrandall was obliged to deliver the supplemental
explanation to Leslie, who hadn't the remotest interest in the
matter. "She's so silly about getting fat."

Hetty was in a state of nervous excitement during the luncheon.
The encounter with Booth had not resulted at all as she had fancied
it would. She had betrayed herself in a most disconcerting manner,
and now was more deeply involved than ever before. She had been
determined at the outset, she had failed, and now he had a claim--an
incontestable claim against her. She found it difficult to meet
Sara's steady, questioning gaze. She wanted to be alone.

"I suppose you have heard nothing recent from poor Lord Murgatroyd,"
Mrs. Wrandall was saying to her, in a most sympathetic tone.

Hetty scarcely grasped the importance of the remark. She looked
rather blankly at their guest.

Sara stepped into the breach. "What do the morning despatches say,
Mrs. Wrandall?"

"He is sinking rapidly, I fear. Of course, his extreme age is
against him. How old is he, Miss Castleton?"

"I--I haven't the remotest idea, Mrs. Wrandall," said the girl.
"He is very, very old."

"Ninety-two, the Sun says," supplied Vivian.

There was an unaccountable silence.

"I suppose there is--ah--really no hope," said Mrs. Redmond Wrandall
at last.

"I fear not," said Hetty composedly. "Except for the heirs-at-law."

Mrs. Wrandall sat up a little straighter in her chair. "Dear me,"
she said.

"They've been waiting for a good many years," commented Hetty,
without emotion. "Of course, Mrs. Wrandall, you understand that
I am not one of those who will profit by his death. The estate is
entailed. I am quite outside the walls."

"I did not know the--ah--"

"My father may come in for a small interest. He is in England at
present on furlough. But there are a great many near relatives to
be fed before the bowl of plenty gets to him."

"Dear, dear!" murmured Mrs. Wrandall, quite appalled by her way
of putting it. Leslie looked at her and coughed. "What a delicious
dressing you have for these alligator pears, Sara," she went on,
veering quickly. "You must tell me how it is made."

After luncheon, Leslie drew Sara aside.

"I must say she doesn't seem especially overjoyed to see me," he
growled. "She's as cool as ice."

"What do you expect, Leslie?" she demanded with some asperity.

"I can't stand this much longer, Sara," he said. "Don't you see
how things are going? She's losing her heart to Booth."

"I don't see how we can prevent it."

"By gad, I'll have another try at it--to-night. I say, has she
said--anything?"

"She pities you," said she, a malicious joy in her soul. "That's
akin to something else, you know."

"Confound it all, I don't want to be pitied!"

"Then I'd advise you to defer your 'try' at it," she remarked.

"I'm mad about her, Sara. I can't sleep, I can't think, I can't--yes,
I CAN eat, but it doesn't taste right to me. I've just got to have
it settled. Why, people are beginning to notice the change in me.
They say all sorts of things. About my liver, and all that sort
of thing. I'm going to settle it to-night. It's been nearly three
weeks now. She's surely had time to think it over; how much better
everything will be for her, and all that. She's no fool, Sara. And
do you know what Vivian's doing this very instant over there in the
corner? She's inviting her to spend a fortnight over at our place.
If she comes,--well, that means the engagement will be announced
at once."

Sara did not marvel at his assurance in the face of what had gone
before. She knew him too well. In spite of the original rebuff,
he was thoroughly satisfied in his own mind that Hetty Castleton
would not be such a fool as to refuse him the second time.

"It is barely possible, Leslie," she said, "that she may consider
Brandon Booth quite as good a catch as you, and infinitely better
looking at the present moment."

"It's this beastly sunburn," he lamented, rubbing his nose gently,
thinking first of his person. An instant later he was thinking
of the other half of the declaration. "That's just what I've been
afraid of," he said. "I told you what would happen if that portrait
nonsense went on for ever. It's your fault, Sara."

"But I have reason to believe she will not accept him, if it goes
so far as that. You are quite safe in that direction."

"'Gad, I'd hate to risk it," he muttered. "I have a feeling she's
in love with him."

Vivian approached. "Sara, you must let me have Miss Castleton for
the first two weeks in July," she said serenely.

"I can't do it, Vivian," said the other promptly. "I can't bear
the thought of being alone in this big old barn of a place. Nice
of you to want her, but--"

"Oh, don't be selfish, Sara," cried Vivian.

"You don't know how much I depend on her," said Sara.

"I'd ask you over, too, dear, if there weren't so many others coming.
I don't know where we're going to put them. You understand, don't
you?"

"Perfectly," said her sister-in-law, smiling.

"But I've been counting on--Hetty."

"I say, Sara," broke in Leslie, "you COULD go up to Bar Harbour
with the Williamsons at that time. Tell her about the invitation,
Vivie."

"It isn't necessary," said Sara coldly. "I scarcely know the
Williamsons." She hesitated an instant and then went on with sardonic
dismay: "They're in trade, you know."

"That's nothing against 'em," protested he. "Awfully jolly
people--really ripping. Ain't they, Viv?"

"I don't know them well enough to say," said Vivian, turning away.
"I only know we're all snobs of the worst sort."

"Just a minute, Viv," he called out. "What does Miss Castleton
say about coming?" It was an eager question. Much depended on the
reply.

"I haven't asked her," said his sister succinctly. "How could I,
without first consulting Sara?"

"Then, you don't intend to ask her?"

"Certainly not."

"Oh, I'll fix it up with Sara," said he confidently.

"Eh, Sara?"

"I'd suggest that you 'fix it up' with Miss Castleton," said Sara
pointedly.

Vivian shot a swift glance over her shoulder at her sister-in-law,
and then broke into a good-humoured laugh. She joined Hetty and
Mrs.  Redmond Wrandall.

"Sometimes I feel that I really like Vivian," observed Sara, as
much to herself as to Leslie. "She's above the board, at least."

"Disagreeable as the devil at times, though," said he, biting his
lip.

After the Wrandalls had departed, Sara took Hetty off to her room.
The girl knew what was coming.

"Hetty," said the older woman, facing her after she had closed
the door of her boudoir, "what is going on between you and Brandon
Booth? I must have the truth. Are you doing anything foolish?"

"Foolish? Heaven help me, no! It--it is a tragedy," cried Hetty,
meeting her gaze with one of utter despair.

"What has happened? Tell me!"

"What am I to do, Sara darling? He--he has told me that he--he--"

"Loves you?"

"Yes."

"And you have told him that his love is returned?"

"I couldn't help it. I was carried away. I did not mean to let him
see that I--"

"You are such a novice in the business of love," said Sara sneeringly.
"You are in the habit of being carried away, I fear."

"Oh, Sara!"

"You must put a stop to all this at once. How can you think of
marrying him, Hetty Glynn? Send him--"

"I do not intend to marry him," said the girl, suddenly calm and
dignified.

"I am to draw but one conclusion, I suppose," said the other,
regarding the girl intently.

"What do you mean?"

"Is it necessary to ask that question?"

The puzzled expression remained in the girl's eyes for a time, and
then slowly gave way to one of absolute horror.

"How dare you suggest such a thing?" she cried, turning pale, then
crimson. "How dare you?"

Sara laughed shortly. "Isn't the inference a natural one? You are
forgetting yourself."

"I understand," said the girl, through pallid lips. Her eyes were
dark with pain and misery. "You think I am altogether bad." She
drooped perceptibly.

"You went to Burton's Inn," sententiously.

"But, Sara, you must believe me. I did not know he was--married.
For God's sake, do me the justice to--"

"But you went there with him," insisted the other, her eyes hard
as steel. "It doesn't matter whether he was married--or free. You
WENT."

Hetty threw herself upon her companion's breast and wound her strong
young arms about her.

"Sara, Sara, you must let me explain--you must let me tell you
everything. Don't stop me! You have refused to hear my plea--"

"And I still refuse!" cried Sara, throwing her off angrily. "Good
God, do you think I will listen to you? If you utter another word,
I will--strangle you!"

Hetty shrank back, terrified. Slowly she moved backward in the
direction of the door, never taking her eyes from the impassioned
face of her protector.

"Don't, Sara, please don't!" she begged. "Don't look at me like
that! I promise--I promise. Forgive me! I would not give you an
instant's pain for all the world. You would suffer, you would--"

Sara suddenly put her hands over her eyes. A single moan escaped
her lips--a hoarse gasp of pain.

"Dearest!" cried Hetty, springing to her side.

Sara threw her head up and met her with a cold, repelling look.

"Wait!" she commanded. "The time has come when you should know what
is in my mind, and has been for months and months. It concerns you.
I expect you to marry Leslie Wrandall."

Hetty stopped short.

"How can you jest with me, Sara?" she cried, suddenly indignant.

"I am not jesting," said Sara levelly.

"You--you--really mean--what you have just said?" The puzzled look
gave way to one of revulsion. A great shudder swept over her.

"Leslie Wrandall must pay his brother's debt to you."

"My God!" fell from the girl's stiff lips. "You--you must be going
mad--mad!"

Sara laughed softly. "I have meant it almost from the beginning,"
she said. "It came to my mind the day that Challis was buried. It
has never been out of it for an instant since that day. Now you
understand."

If she expected Hetty to fall into a fit of weeping, to collapse,
to plead with her for mercy, she was soon to find herself mistaken.
The girl straightened up suddenly and met her gaze with one in
which there was the fierce determination. Her eyes were steady,
her bosom heaved.

"And I have loved you so devotedly--so blindly," she said, in low
tones of scorn. "You have been hating me all these months while I
thought you were loving me. What a fool I have been! I might have
known. You COULDN'T love me."

"When Leslie asks you to-night to marry him, you are to say that
you will do so," said Sara, betraying no sign of having heard the
bitter words.

"I shall refuse, Sara," said Hetty, every vestige of colour gone
from her face.

"There is an alternative," announced the other deliberately.

"You will expose me to--him? To his family?"

"I shall turn you over to them, to let them do what they will with
you. If you go as his wife, the secret is safe. If not, they may
have you as you really are, to destroy, to annihilate. Take your
choice, my dear."

"And you, Sara?" asked the girl quietly. "What explanation will
you have to offer for all these months of protection?"

Her companion stared. "Has the prospect no terror for you?"

"Not now. Not since I have found you out. The thing I have feared
all along has come to pass. I am relieved, now that you show me
just where I truly stand. But, I asked: what of you?"

"The world is more likely to applaud than to curse me, Hetty. It
likes a new sensation. My change of heart will appear quite natural."

"Are you sure that the world will applaud your real design? You
hate the Wrandalls. Will they be charitable toward you when the
truth is given out? Will Leslie applaud you? Listen, please: I am
trying to save you from yourself, Sara. You will fail in everything
you have hoped for. You will be more accursed than I. The world
will pity me, it may even forgive me. It will listen to my story,
which is more than you will do, and it will believe me. Ah, I am
not afraid now.  At first I was in terror. I had no hope of escape.
All that is past.  To-day I am ready to take my chances with the
big, generous world.  Men will try me, and men are not made of
stone and steel. They punish but they do not avenge when they sit
in jury boxes. They are not women! Good God, Sara, is there a man
living to-day who could have planned this thing you have cherished
all these months? Not one! And all men will curse you for it, even
though they send me to prison or to the--chair. But they will not
condemn me. They will hear my story and they will set me free. And
then, what of you?"

Sara stood perfectly rigid, regarding this earnest reasoner with
growing wonder.

"My dear," she said, "you would better be thinking of yourself,
not of me."

"Why, when I tell my story, the world will hate you, Sara Wrandall.
You have helped me, you have been good to me, no matter what sinister
motive you may have had in doing so. It is my turn to help you."

"To help me!" cried Sara, astonished in spite of herself.

"Yes. To save you from execration--and even worse."

"There is no moral wrong in marriage with Leslie Wrandall," said
Sara, returning to her own project.

"No moral wrong!" cried Hetty, aghast. "No, I suppose not," she
went on, a moment later. "It is something much deeper, much blacker
than moral wrong. There is no word for it. And if I marry him,
what then?  Wherein lies your triumph? You can't mean that--God
in Heaven! You would not go to them with the truth when it was too
late for him to--to cast me off!"

"I am no such fool as that. The secret would be for ever safe in
that event. My triumph, as you call it, we will not discuss."

"How you must hate me, to be willing to do such an infamous thing
to me!"

"I do not hate you, Hetty."

"In heaven's name, what do you call it?"

"Justification. Listen to me now. I am saying this for your good
sense to seize and appreciate. Would it be right in me to allow
you to marry any other man, knowing all that I know? There is but
one man you can in justice marry: the one who can repair the wreck
that his own blood created. Not Brandon Booth, nor any man save
Leslie Wrandall. He is the man who must pay."

"I do not intend to marry," said Hetty.

"But Leslie will marry some one, and I intend that it shall be you.
He shall marry the ex-chorus girl, the artist's model, the--the
prostitute! Wait! Don't fly at me like that! Don't assume that
look of virtuous horror! Let me say what I have to say. This much
of your story shall they know, and no more. They will be proud of
you!"

Hetty's eyes were blazing. "You use that name--you call me THAT--and
yet you have kissed me, caressed me--loved me!" she cried hoarse
with passion.

"He will ask you to-night for the second time. You will accept him.
That is all."

"You must take back what you have just said to me--of me,--Sara
Wrandall. You must unsay it! You must beg my pardon for THAT!"

"I draw no line between mistress and prostitute."

"But I--"

"Enough!"

"You wrong me vilely! You must let me--"

"I have an excellent memory, and it serves me well."

Hetty suddenly threw herself upon the couch and buried her face in
her arms. Great sobs shook her slender frame.

Sara stood over her and watched for a long time with pitiless eyes.
Then a queer, uneasy, wondering light began to develop in those
dark, ominous eyes. She leaned forward the better to listen to the
choked, inarticulate words that were pouring from the girl's lips.
At last, moved by some power she could not have accounted for,
she knelt beside the quivering body, and laid her hand, almost
timorously, upon the girl's shoulder.

"Hetty,--Hetty, if I have wronged you in--in thinking that of
you,--I--I--" she began brokenly. Then she lifted her eyes, and
the harsh light tried to steal back into them. "No, no! What am I
saying? What a fool I am to give way--"

"You have wronged me--terribly, terribly!" came in smothered tones
from the cushions. "I did not dream you thought that of me."

"What was I to think?"

Hetty lifted her head and cried out: "You would not let me speak!
You refused to hear my story. You have been thinking this of me all
along, holding it against me, damning me with it, and I have been
closer to you than--My God, what manner of woman are you?"

Sara seized her hands and held them in a fierce, tense grip. Her
eyes were glowing with a strange fire.

"Tell me--tell me now, on your soul, Hetty;--were you--were you--"

"No! No! On my soul, no!"

"Look into my eyes!"

The girl's eyes did not falter. She met the dark, penetrating
gaze of the other and, though dimmed by tears, her blue eyes were
steadfast and resolute. Sara seemed to be searching the very soul
of her, the soul that laid itself bare, denuded of every vestige
of guile.

"I--I think I believe you," came slowly from the lips of the
searcher. "You are looking the truth. I can see it. Hetty, Hetty,
I--I don't understand myself. It is so--so overwhelming, so
tremendous. It is so incredible. Am I really believing you? Is it
possible that I have been wrong in--"

"Let me tell you everything," cried the girl, suddenly throwing
her arms about her.

"Not now! Wait! Give me time to think. Go away now. I want to be
alone." She arose and pushed the girl toward the door. Her eyes
were fixed on her in a wondering, puzzled sort of way, and she was
shaking her head as if trying to discredit the new emotion that
had come to displace the one created ages ago.

Slowly Hetty Castleton retreated toward the door. With her hand on
the knob, she paused.

"After what has happened, Sara, you must not expect me to stay with
you any longer. I cannot. You may give me up to the law, but--"

Some one was tapping gently on the door.

"Shall I see who it is?" asked the girl, after a long period of
silence.

"Yes."

It was Murray. "Mr. Leslie has returned, Miss Castleton, and asks
if he may see you at once. He says it is very important."

"Tell him I will be down in a few minutes, Murray."

After the door closed, she waited until the footman's steps died
away on the stairs.

"I shall say no to him, Sara, and I shall say to him that you
will tell him why I cannot be his wife. Do you understand? Are you
listening to me?"

Sara turned away without a word or look of response.

Hetty quietly opened the door and went out.




CHAPTER XVI

THE SECOND ENCOUNTER


Booth trudged rapidly homeward after leaving Hetty at the lodge. He
was throbbing all over with the love of her. The thrill of conquest
was in his blood. She had raised a mysterious barrier; all the more
zest to the inevitable victory that would be his. He would delight
in overcoming obstacles--the bigger the better,--for his heart
was valiant and the prize no smaller than those which the ancient
knights went out to battle for in the lists of love. He had held
her in his arms, he had kissed her, he had breathed of her fragrant
hair, he had felt the beating of her frightened heart against his
body. With the memory of all this to lift him to the heights of
divine exaltation, he was unable to conjure up a finer triumph than
the winning of her after the manner of the knights of old, to whom
opposition was life, denial a boon.

It was enough for the present to know that she loved him.

What if she were Hetty Glynn? What if she had been an artist's
model? The look he had had into the soul of her through those pure
blue eyes was all-convincing. She was worthy of the noblest love.

After luncheon--served with some exasperation by Patrick an hour
and a half later than usual--he smoked his pipe on the porch and
stared reminiscently at the shifting clouds above the tree-tops,
and with a tenderness about the lips that must have surprised and
gratified the stubby, ill-used brier, inanimate confederate in many
a lofty plot.  He recalled all she had said to him in that sylvan
confessional, and was content. His family? Pooh! He had a soul of
his own. It needed its mate.

He did not see the Wrandall motor at his garden gate until a lusty
voice brought him down from the clouds into the range of earthly
sounds. Then he dashed out to the gate, bareheaded and coatless,
forgetting that he had been sitting in the obscurity of trailing
vines and purple blossoms the while he thought of her.

Leslie was sitting on the wide seat between his mother and sister.

"Glad to see you back, old man," said Booth, reaching in to shake
hands with him. "Day early, aren't you? Good-afternoon, Mrs.
Wrandall. Won't you come in?"

He looked at Vivian as he gave the invitation.

"No, thanks," she replied. "Won't you come to dinner this evening?"

He hesitated. "I'm not quite sure whether I can, Vivian. I've got
a half-way sort of--"

"Oh, do, old chap," cut in Leslie, more as a command than an
entreaty. "Sorry I can't be there myself, but you'll fare quite as
well without me. I'm dining at Sara's. Wants my private ear about
one thing and another--see what I mean?"

"We shall expect you, Brandon," said Mrs. Wrandall, fixing him with
her lorgnette.

"I'll come, thank you," said he.

He felt disgustingly transparent under that inquisitive glass.

Wrandall stepped out of the car. "I'll stop off for a chat with
Brandy, mother."

"Shall I send the car back, dear?"

"Never mind. I'll walk down."

The two men turned in at the gate as the car sped away.

"Well," said Booth, "it's good to see you. Pat!" He called through
a basement window. "Come up and take the gentleman's order."

"No drink for me, Brandy. I've been in the temperance State of Maine
for two weeks. One week more of it and I'd have been completely
pickled. I shall always remember Maine." He dropped into a broad
wicker chair and felt tenderly of his nose. "'Gad, I'm not quite
sure that the sun did it, old man. It was dreadful."

Booth grinned. "Do any fishing?"

"Yes. The first day. Oh, you needn't look at me like that. I'm
back in the narrow path." After a moment of painful reflection, he
added, "We didn't see water after the first day. I'm just beginning
to get used to the taste of it again."

"Never mind, Pat," said Booth, as the servant appeared in the
doorway. "Mr. Wrandall is not suffering."

"You know I'm not a drinking man," declared Leslie, a pathetic note
of appeal in his voice. "I hate the stuff."

"It is a good thing to let alone."

"And don't I let it alone? You never saw me tight in your life."

Booth sat down on the porch rail, hooked his toes in the supports
and proceeded to fill his pipe. Then he struck a match and applied
it, Leslie watching him with moody eyes.

"How do you like the portrait, old man?" he inquired between
punctuating puffs.

"It's bully. Sargent never did anything finer. Ripping."

"I owe it all to you, Les."

"To me?"

"You induced her to sit to me."

"So I did," said Leslie sourly. "I was Mr. Fix-it sure enough."
He allowed a short interval to elapse before taking the plunge. "I
suppose, old chap, if I should happen to need your valuable services
as best man in the near future, you'd not disappoint me?"

Booth eyed him quizzically. "I trust you're not throwing yourself
away, Les," he said drily. "I mean to say, on some one--well, some
one not quite up to the mark."

Leslie regarded him with some severity. "Of course not, old chap.
What the devil put that into your head?"

"I thought that possibly you'd been making a chump of yourself up
in the Maine woods."

"Piffle! Don't be an ass. What's the sense pretending you don't
know who she is?"

"I suppose it's Hetty Castleton," said Booth, puffing away at his
pipe.

"Who else?"

"Think she'll have you, old man?" asked Booth, after a moment.

"I don't know," replied the other, a bit dashed. "You might wish
me luck, though."

Booth knocked the burnt tobacco from the bowl of his pipe. A serious
line appeared between his eyes. He was a fair-minded fellow, without
guile, without a single treacherous instinct.

"I can't wish you luck, Les," he said slowly. "You see I'm--I'm in
love with her myself."

"The devil!" Leslie sat bolt upright and glared at him. "I might
have known! And--and is SHE in love with you?"

"My dear fellow, you reveal considerable lack of tact in asking
that question."

"What I want to know is this," exclaimed Wrandall, very pale but
very hot: "is she going to marry you?"

Booth smiled. "I'll be perfectly frank with you. She says she
won't."

Leslie gulped. "So you've asked her?"

"Obviously."

"And she said she wouldn't? She refused you? Turned you down?"
His little moustache shot up at the ends and a joyous, triumphant
laugh broke from his lips. "Oh, this is rich! Ha, ha! Turned you
down, eh?  Poor old Brandy! You're my best friend, and dammit I'm
sorry. I mean to say," he went on in some embarrassment, "I'm sorry
for you. Of course, you can hardly expect me to--er--"

"Certainly not," accepted Booth amiably. "I quite understand."

"Then, since she's refused you, you might wish ME better luck."

"That would mean giving up hope."

"Hope?" exclaimed Leslie quickly. "You don't mean to say you'll
annoy her with your--"

"No, I shall not annoy her," replied his friend, shaking his head.

"Well, I should hope not," said Leslie with a scowl. "Turned you
down, eh? 'Pon my soul!" He appeared to be relishing the idea of
it.  "Sorry, old chap, but I suppose you understand just what that
means."

Booth's lips hardened for an instant, then relaxed into a queer,
almost pitying smile.

"And you want me to be your best man?" he said reflectively.

Leslie arose. His chest seemed to swell a little; assuredly he was
breathing much easier. He assumed an air of compassion.

"I shan't insist, old fellow, if you feel you'd rather not--er--See
what I mean?" It then occurred to him to utter a word or two of
kindly advice. "I shouldn't go on hoping if I were you, Brandy.
'Pon my soul, I shouldn't. Take it like a man. I know it hurts
but--Pooh!  What's the use aggravating the pain by butting against
a stone wall?"

His companion looked out over the tree-tops, his hands in his
trouser pockets, and it must be confessed that his manner was not
that of one who is oppressed by despair.

"I think I'm taking it like a man, Les," he said. "I only hope
you'll take it as nicely if she says nay to you."

An uneasy look leaped into Leslie's face. He seemed noticeably
less corpulent about the chest. He wondered if Booth knew anything
about his initial venture. A question rose to his lips, but he
thought quickly and held it back. Instead, he glanced at his watch.

"I must be off. See you to-morrow, I hope."

"So long," said Booth, stopping at the top of the steps while his
visitor skipped down to the gate with a nimbleness that suggested
the formation of a sudden resolve.

Leslie did not waste time in parting inanities; he strode off briskly
in the direction of home, but not without a furtive glance out of
the tail of his eye as he disappeared beyond the hedge-row at the
end of Booth's garden. That gentleman was standing where he had
left him, and was filling his pipe once more.

The day was warm, and Leslie was in a dripping perspiration when
he reached home. He did not enter the house but made his way direct
to the garage.

"Get out the car at once, Brown," was his order.

Three minutes later he was being driven over the lower road toward
Southlook, taking good care to avoid Booth's place by the matter
of a mile or more. He was in a fever of hope and eagerness. It was
very plain to him why she had refused to marry Booth. The iron was
hot.  He didn't intend to lose any time in striking.

And now we know why he came again to Sara's in the middle of
a blazing afternoon, instead of waiting until the more seductive
shades of night had fallen, when the moon sat serene in the seat
of the Mighty.

He didn't have to wait long for Hetty. Up to the instant of
her appearance in the door, he had revelled in the thought that
the way was now paved with roses. But with her entrance, he felt
his confidence and courage slipping. Perhaps that may explain the
abruptness with which he proceeded to go about the business in
hand.

"I couldn't wait till to-night," he explained as she came slowly
across the room toward him. She was half way to him before he awoke
to the fact that he was standing perfectly still. Then he started
forward, somehow impelled to meet her at least half-way. "You'll
forgive me, Hetty, if I have disturbed you."

"I was not lying down, Mr. Wrandall," she said quietly. There was
nothing ominous in the words, but he experienced a sudden sensation
of cold. "Won't you sit down? Or would you rather go out to the
terrace?"

"It's much more comfortable here, if you don't mind. I--I suppose
you know what it is I want to say to you. You--"

"Yes," she interrupted wearily; "and knowing as much, Mr. Wrandall,
it would not be fair of me to let you go on."

"Not fair?" he said, in honest amazement. "But, my dear, I--"

"Please, Mr. Wrandall," she exclaimed, with a pleading little smile
that would have touched the heart of any one but Leslie. "Please
don't go on. It is quite as impossible now as it was before. I have
not changed."

He could only say, mechanically: "You haven't?"

"No. I am sorry if you have thought that I might come to--"

"Think, for heaven's sake, think what you are doing!" he cried,
feeling for the edge of the table with a support-seeking hand.
"I--I had Sara's word that you were not--"

"Unfortunately Sara cannot speak for me in a matter of this kind.
Thank you for the honour you would--"

"Honour be hanged!" he blurted out, losing his temper. "I love you!
It's a purely selfish thing with me, and I'm blowed if I consider
it an honour to be refused by any woman. I--"

"Mr. Wrandall!" she cried, fixing him with her flashing, indignant
eyes. "You are forgetting yourself." She was standing very straight
and slim and imperious before him.

He quailed. "I--I beg your pardon. I--I--"

"There is nothing more to be said," she went on icily. "Good-bye."

"Would you mind telling me whether there is any one else?" he asked,
as he turned toward the door.

"Do you really feel that you have the right to ask that question,
Mr. Wrandall?"

He wet his lips with his tongue. "Then, there IS some one!"
he cried, rapping the table with his knuckles. He didn't realise
till afterward how vigorously he rapped. "Some confounded English
nobody, I suppose."

She smiled, not unkindly. "There is no English nobody, if that
answers your question."

"Then, will you be kind enough to offer a reason for not giving me
a fair chance in a clear field? I think it's due--"

"Can't you see how you are distressing me? Must I again go through
that horrid scene in the garden? Can't you take a plain no for an
answer?"

"Good Lord!" he gasped, and in those two words he revealed the
complete overturning of a life-long estimate of himself. It seemed
to take more than his breath away.

"Good-bye," she said with finality.

He stared at the door through which she disappeared, his hopes,
his conceit, his self-regard trailing after her with shameless
disloyalty to the standards he had set for them, and then, with a
rather ghastly smile of self-commiseration on his lips, he slipped
out of the house, jumped into the motor car, and gave a brief but
explicit command to the chauffeur, who lost no time in assisting
his master to turn tail in ignominious flight.

Hetty was gloomily but resolutely employed in laying out certain of
her personal belongings, preparatory to packing them for departure,
when Sara entered her room.

They regarded each other steadily, questioningly for a short space
of time.

"Leslie has just called up to ask 'what the devil' I meant by
letting him make a fool of himself," said Sara, with a peculiar
little twisted smile on her lips.

Hetty offered no comment, but after a moment gravely and rather
wistfully called attention to her present occupation by a significant
flaunt of her hand and a saddened smile.

"I see," said Sara, without emotion. "If you choose to go, Hetty,
I shall not oppose you."

"My position here is a false one, Sara. I prefer to go."

"This morning I should have held a sword over your head."

"It is very difficult for me to realise all that has happened."

"You are free to depart. You are free in every sense of the word.
Your future rests with yourself, my dear."

"It hurts me more than I can tell to feel that you have been hating
me all these months."

"It hurts me--now."

Hetty walked to the window and looked out.

"What are your plans?" Sara inquired, after an interval.

"I shall seek employment--and wait for you to act."

"I? You mean?"

"I shall not run away, Sara. Nor do I intend to reveal myself to
the authorities. I am not morally guilty of crime. A year ago I
feared the consequences of my deed, but I have learned much since
then. I was a stranger in a new world. In England we have been led
to believe that you lynch women here as readily as you lynch men.
I now know better than that. From you alone I learned my greatest
lesson.  You revealed to me the true meaning of human kindness.
You shielded me who should not. Even now I believe that your first
impulse was a tender one. I shall not forget it, Sara. You will
live to regret the baser thought that came later on. I have loved
you--yes, almost as a good dog loves his master. It is not for me
to tell the story of that night and all these months to the world.
I would not be betraying myself, but you. You would be called upon
to explain, not I. And you would be the one to suffer. When you met
me on the road that night I was on my way back to the inn to give
myself into custody. You have made it impossible for me to do so
now. My lips are sealed. It rests with you, Sara."

Sara joined her in the broad window. There was a strangely exalted
look in her face. A gilded bird-cage hung suspended in the casement.
Without a word, she threw open the window screen. The gay little
canary in the gilded cage cocked his head and watched her with
alert eyes. Then she reached up and gently removed the cage from
its fastenings. Putting it down upon the window sill, she opened
the tiny door. The bird hopped about his prison in a state of great
excitement.

Hetty looked on, fascinated.

At last a yellow streak shot out through the open door and an instant
later resolved itself into the bobbing, fluttering dicky-bird that
had lived in a cage all its life without an hour of freedom. For
a few seconds it circled over the tree-tops and then alighted on
one of the branches. One might well have imagined that he could
hear its tiny heart beating with terror. Its wings were half-raised
and fluttering, its head jerking from side to side in wild
perturbation. Taking courage, Master Dicky hopped timorously to a
nearby twig, and then ventured a flight to a tree-top nearer the
window casement. Perched in its topmost branches he cheeped shrilly,
as if there was fear in his little breast.

In silence the two women in the window watched the agitated movements
of the bird. The same thought was in the mind of each, the same
question, the same intense wish.

A brown thrush sped through the air, close by the timid canary. Like
a flash it dropped to the twigs lower down, its wings palpitating
in violent alarm.

"Dicky!" called Sara Wrandall, and then cheeped between her teeth.

A moment later Dicky was fluttering about the eaves; his circles
grew smaller, his winging less rhythmic, till at last with a nervous
little flutter he perched on the top of the window shutter, so
near that they might have reached to him with their hands. He sat
there with his head cocked to one side.

"Dicky!" called Sara again. This time she held out her finger. For
some time he regarded it with indifference, not to say disfavour.
Then he took one more flight, but much shorter than the first,
bringing up again at the shutter-top. A second later he hopped down
and his little talons gripped Sara's finger with an earnestness
that left no room for doubt.

She lowered her hand until it was even with the open door of the
gilded cage. He shot inside with a whir that suggested a scramble.
With his wings folded, he sat on his little trapeze and cheeped.
She closed and fastened the door, and then turned to Hetty.

"My symbol," she said softly.

There were tears in Hetty's eyes.

Leslie did not turn up at his father's place in the High Street
that night until Booth was safely out of the way. He spent a dismal
evening at the boat club.

His father and mother were in the library when he came in at
half-past ten. From a dark corner of the garden he had witnessed
Booth's early departure. Vivian had gone down to the gate in the
low-lying hedge with her visitor. She came in a moment after Leslie's
entrance.

"Hello, Les," she said, bending an inquiring eye upon him. "Isn't
this early for you?"

Her brother was standing near the fireplace.

"There's a heavy dew falling, Mater," he said gruffly. "Shan't I
touch a match to the kindling?"

His mother came over to him quickly, and laid her hand on his arm.

"Your coat is damp," she said anxiously. "Yes, light the fire."

"It's very warm in this room," said Mr. Wrandall, looking up from
his book. They were always doing something for Leslie's comfort.

No one seemed to notice him. Leslie knelt and struck a match.

"Well?" said Vivian.

"Well what?" he demanded without looking up.

His sister took a moment for thought. "Is Hetty coming to stay with
us in July?"

He stood erect, first rubbing his knee to dislodge the dust,--then
his palms.

"No, she isn't coming," he said. He drew a very long breath--the
first in several hours--and then expelled it vocally. "She has
refused to marry me."

Mr. Wrandall turned a leaf in his book; it sounded like the crack
of doom, so still had the room become.

Vivian had the forethought to push a chair toward her mother. It
was a most timely act on her part, for Mrs. Wrandall sat down very
abruptly and very limply.

"She--WHAT?" gasped Leslie's mother.

"Turned me down--cold," said Leslie briefly.

Mr. Wrandall laid his book on the table without thinking to put the
bookmark in place. Then he arose and removed his glasses, fumbling
for the case.

"She--she--WHAT?" he demanded.

"Sacked me," replied his son.

"Please do not jest with me, Leslie," said his mother, trying to
smile.

"He isn't joking, mother," said Vivian, with a shrug of her fine
shoulders.

"He--he MUST be," cried Mrs. Wrandall impatiently. "What did she
REALLY say, Leslie?"

"The only thing I remember was 'good-bye,'" said he, and then blew
his nose violently.

"Poor old Les!" said Vivian, with real feeling.

"It was Sara Gooch's doing!" exclaimed Mrs. Wrandall, getting her
breath at last.

"Nonsense," said Mr. Wrandall, picking up his book once more and
turning to the place where the bookmark lay, after which he proceeded
to re-read four or five pages before discovering his error.

No one spoke for a matter of five minutes or more. Then Mrs.  Wrandall
got up, went over to the library table and closed with a snap the
bulky blue book with the limp leather cover, saying as she held
it up to let him see that it was the privately printed history of
the Murgatroyd family:

"It came by post this evening from London. She is merely a fourth
cousin, my son."

He looked up with a gleam of interest in his eye.




CHAPTER XVII

CROSSING THE CHANNEL


Booth, restless with a vague uneasiness that had come over him
during the night, keeping him awake until nearly dawn, was hard put
during the early hours of the forenoon to find occupation for his
interest until a seasonable time arrived for appearing at Southlook.  He
was unable to account for this feeling of uncertainty and irritation.

At nine he set out to walk over to Southlook, realising that he should
have to spend an hour in profitless gossip with the lodge-keeper
before presenting himself at the villa, but somehow relishing the
thought that even so he would be nearer to Hetty than if he remained
in his own door-yard.

Half-way there he was overtaken by Sara's big French machine returning
from the village. The car came to a standstill as he stepped aside
to let it pass, and Sara herself leaned over and cordially invited
him to get in and ride home with her.

"What an early bird you are," he exclaimed as he took his seat
beside her.

She was not in a mood for airy persiflage, as he soon discovered.

"Miss Castleton has gone up to town, Mr. Booth," she said rather
lifelessly. "I have just taken her to the station. She caught the
eight-thirty."

He was at once solicitous. "No bad news, I hope?" There was no
thought in his mind that her absence was other than temporary.

"She is not coming back, Brandon." She had not addressed him as
Brandon before.

He stared. "You--you mean--" The words died on his lips.

"She is not coming back," she repeated.

An accusing gleam leaped into his eyes.

"What has happened, Mrs. Wrandall?" he asked.

She was quick to perceive the change in his voice and manner.

"She prefers to live apart from me. That is all."

"When was this decision reached?"

"But yesterday. Soon after she came in from her walk with you."

"Do--do you mean to imply that THAT had anything to do with her
leaving your home?" he demanded, with a flush on his cheek.

She met his look without flinching. "It was the beginning."

"You--you criticised her? You took her to task--"

"I notified her that she was to marry Leslie Wrandall, if she
marries any one at all," she said in a perfectly level tone.

"Good Lord, Mrs. Wrandall!"

"But she is not going to marry Leslie."

"I know it--I knew it yesterday," he cried triumphantly. "She loves
me, Sara. Didn't she say as much to you?"

"Yes, Brandon, she loves you. But she will not be your wife."

"What is all this mystery? Why can't she be my wife? What is there
to prevent?"

She regarded him with dark, inscrutable eyes. Many seconds passed
before she spoke.

"Would you want her for your wife if you knew she had belonged to
another man?"

He turned very cold. The palms of his hands were wet, as with
ice-water. Something dark seemed to flit before his eyes.

"I will not believe that of her," he said, shaking his head with
an air of finality.

"That is not an answer to my question."

"Yes, I would still want her," he declared steadily.

"I merely meant to put you to the harshest test," she said, and
there was relief in her voice. "She is a good girl, she is pure.
I asked my question because until yesterday I had reason to doubt
her."

"Good heavens, how could you doubt those honest, guiltless eyes
of--"

She shook her head sadly. "To answer you I would have to reveal
the secret that makes it impossible for her to become your wife,
and that I cannot, will not do."

"Is it fair to me?"

"Perhaps not, but it is fair to her, and that is why I must remain
silent."

"Before God, I shall know the truth,--from her, if not from
you,--and--"

"If you love her, if you will be kind to her, you will let her go
her way in peace."

He was struck by the somewhat sinister earnestness of her words.

"Tell me where I may find her," he said, setting his jaw.

"It will not be difficult for you to find her," she said, frowning,
"if you insist on pursuing her."

"You drive her away from your house, Sara Wrandall, and yet expect
me to believe that your motives are friendly. Why should I accept
your word as final?"

"I did not drive her away, nor did I ask her to stay."

He stared hard at her.

"Good Lord, what is the meaning of all this?" he cried in perplexity.
"What am I to understand?"

The car had come to a stop under the porte cochere. She laid her
hand on his arm.

"If you will come in with me, Brandon, I will try to make some
things clear to you."

He left in half-an-hour, walking rapidly down the drive, his coat
buttoned closely, although the morning was hot and breathless. He
held in his hand a small scrap of paper on which was written: "If
I loved you less, I would come to you now and lie to you. If you
love me, Brandon, you will let me go my way. It is the only course.
Sara is my friend, and she is yours. Be guided by her, and believe
in my love for you. Hetty."

And now, as things go in fairy stories, we should prepare ourselves
to see Hetty pass through a season in drudgery and hardship, with
the ultimate quintessence of joy as the reward for her trials and
tribulations. Happily, this is not a fairy tale. There are some
things more fantastic than fairy tales, if they are not spoiled in
the telling. Hetty did not go forth to encounter drudgery, disdain
and obloquy. By no manner of means! She went with a well-filled
purse, a definite purpose ahead and a determined factor behind.

In a manner befitting her station as the intimate friend of Mrs.
Challis Wrandall, as the cousin of the Murgatroyds, as the daughter
of Colonel Castleton of the Indian Corps, as a person supposed to
be possessed of independent means withal, she went, with none to
question, none to cavil.

Sara had insisted on this, as much for her own sake as for Hetty's;
she argued, and she had prevailed in the end. What would the world
think, what would their acquaintances think, and above all what
would the high and mighty Wrandalls think if she went with meek
and lowly mien?

Why should they make it possible for any one to look askance?

And so it was that she departed in state, with a dozen trunks and
boxes; an obsequiously attended seat in the parlour-car was hers;
a telegram in her bag assured her that rooms were being reserved
for herself and maid at the Ritz-Carlton; alongside it reposed a
letter to Mr. Carroll, instructing him to provide her with sufficient
funds to carry out the plan agreed upon; and in the seat behind
sat the lady's maid who had served her for a twelve-month and more.

The timely demise of the venerable Lord Murgatroyd afforded the
most natural excuse for her trip to England. The old nobleman gave
up the ghost, allowing for difference in time, at the very moment
when Mrs.  Redmond Wrandall was undoing a certain package from
London, which turned out to be a complete history of what his
forebears had done in the way of propagation since the fourteenth
century.

Hetty did not find it easy to accommodate her pride to the plan
which was to give her a fresh and rather imposing start in the
world. She was to have a full year in which to determine whether she
should accept toil and poverty as her lot, or emulate the symbolic
example of Dicky the canary bird. At the end of the year, unless she
did as Dicky had done, her source of supplies would be automatically
cut off and she would be entirely dependent upon her own wits and
resources. In the interim, she was a probationary person of leisure.
It had required hours of persuasion on the part of Sara Wrandall
to bring her into line with these arrangements.

"But I am able and willing to work for my living," had been Hetty's
stubborn retort to all the arguments brought to bear upon her.

"Then let me put it in another light. It is vital to me, of course,
that you should keep up the show of affluence for a while at least.
I think I have made that clear to you. But here is another side to
the matter; the question of recompense."

"Recompense?" cried Hetty sharply.

"Without your knowing it, I have virtually held you a prisoner all
these months, condemned in my own judgment if not in the sight of
the law. I have taken the law unto myself. You were not convicted
of murder in this Unitarian court of mine, but of another sin. For
fifteen months you have been living under the shadow of a crime you
did not commit. I was reserving complete punishment for you in the
shape of an ignoble marriage, which was to have served two bitter
ends. Well, I have had the truth from you. I believe you to
be absolutely innocent of the charge I held over you, for which I
condemned you without a hearing. Then, why should I not employ my
own means of making restitution?"

"You have condescended to believe in me. That is all I ask."

"True, that is all you ask. But is it altogether the fair way out of
it? To illustrate: our criminal laws are less kind to the innocent
than to the guilty. Our law courts find a man guilty and he is
sent to prison. Later on, he is found to be innocent--absolutely
innocent. What does the State do in the premises? It issues
a formal pardon,--a mockery, pure and simple,--and the man is set
free. It all comes to a curt, belated apology for an error on the
part of justice. No substantial recompense is offered. He is merely
pardoned for something he didn't do. The State, which has wronged
him, condescends to pardon him! Think of it! It is the same as if
a man knocked another down and then said, before he removed his
foot from the victim's neck: 'I pardon you freely.' My father was
opposed to the system we have--that all countries have--of pardoning
men who have been unjustly condemned. The innocent victim is pardoned
in the same manner as the guilty one who comes in for clemency. I
accept my father's contention that an innocent man should not be
shamed and humiliated by a PARDON. The court which tried him should
re-open the case and honourably ACQUIT him of the crime. Then
the State should pay to this innocent man, dollar for dollar, all
that he might have earned during his term of imprisonment, with an
additional amount for the suffering he has endured. Not long ago in
an adjoining State a man, who had served seventeen years of a life
sentence for murder, was found to be wholly innocent. What happened?
A PARDON was handed to him and he walked out of prison, broken
in spirit, health and purse. His small fortune had been wiped out
in the futile effort to prove his innocence. He gave up seventeen
years of his life and then WAS PARDONED for the sacrifice. He
should have been paid for every day spent in prison. That was the
very least they could have done."

"I see now what you mean," mused Hetty. "I have never thought of
it in that way before."

"Well, it comes to this in our case, Hetty: I have tried you all
over again in my own little court and I have acquitted you of the
charge I had against you. I do not offer you a silly pardon. You
must allow me to have my way in this matter, to choose my own means
of compensating you for--"

"You saved my life," protested Hetty, shaking her head obstinately.

"My dear, I appreciate the fact that you are English," said Sara,
with a weary smile, "but won't you PLEASE see the point?"

Then Hetty smiled too, and the way was easier after that for Sara.
She gained her quixotic point, and Hetty went away from Southlook
feeling that no woman in all the world was so bewildering as Sara
Wrandall.

When she sailed for England, two days later, the newspapers announced
that the beautiful and attractive Miss Castleton was returning to
her native land on account of the death of Lord Murgatroyd, and
would spend the year on the Continent, where probably she would
be joined later on by Mrs. Wrandall, whose period of mourning and
distress had been softened by the constant and loyal friendship of
"this exquisite Englishwoman."

Four hundred miles out at sea, she was overtaken by wireless messages
from three persons.

Brandon Booth's message said: "I am sailing to-morrow on a faster
ship than yours. You will find me waiting for you on the landing
stage." Her heart gave a leap to dizzy heights, and, try as she
would, she could not crush it back to the depths in which it had
dwelt for days.

The second bit of pale green paper contained a cry from a most
unexpected source: "Cable your London address. S. refuses to give it
to me. I think I understand the situation. We want to make amends
for what you have had to put up with during the year. She has shown
her true nature at last." It was signed "Leslie."

From Sara came these cryptic words: "For each year of famine there
will come seven years of plenty."

All the way across the Atlantic she lived in a state of subdued
excitement. Conflicting emotions absorbed her waking hours but
her dreams were all of one complexion: rosy and warm and full of
a joyousness that distressed her vastly when she recalled them to
mind in the early morning hours. During the day she intermittently
hoped and feared that he would be on the landing stage. In any event,
she was bound to find unhappiness. If he were there her joy would
be short-lived and blighting; if he were not there, her disappointment
would be equally hard to bear.

He was there. She saw him from the deck of the tender as they
edged up to the landing. His tall figure loomed in the front rank
against the rail that held back the crowd; his sun-bronzed face
wore a look of eager expectancy; from her obscured position in the
shadow of the deck building, purposely chosen for reasons only too
obvious, she could even detect the alert, swift-moving scrutiny
that he fastened upon the crowd.

Later on, he stood looking down into her serious blue eyes; her hands
were lying limp in his. His own eyes were dark with earnestness,
with the restraint that had fastened itself upon him.  Behind her
stood the respectful but immeasurably awed maid, who could not,
for the life of her, understand how a man could be on both sides
of the Atlantic at one and the same time.

"Thank the Lord, Hetty, say I, for the five day boats," he was
saying.

"You should not have come, Brandon," she cried softly, and the
look of misery in her eyes was tinged with a glow she could not
suppress.  "It only makes everything harder for me. I--I--Oh, I
wish you had not come!"

"But isn't it wonderful?" he cried, "that I should be here and
waiting for you! It is almost inconceivable. And you were in the
act of running away from me, too. Oh, I have that much of the tale
from Sara, so don't look so hurt about it."

"I am so sorry you came," she repeated, her lip trembling.

Noting her emotion, he gave her hands a fierce, encouraging pressure
and immediately released them.

"Come," he said gently; "I have booked for London. Everything is
arranged. I shall see to your luggage. Let me put you in the carriage
first."

As she sat in the railway carriage, waiting for him to return,
she tried in a hundred ways to devise a means of escape, and yet
she had never loved him so much as now. Her heart was sore, her
desolation never so complete as now.

He came back at last and took his seat beside her in the compartment,
fanning himself with his hat. The maid very discreetly stared out
of the window at the hurrying throng of travellers on the platform.
One other person occupied the compartment with them, a crabbed
Englishman who seemed to resent the fact that his seat was not next
the window, and that maids should be encouraged to travel first
class.

"Isn't it really wonderful?" whispered Booth once more, quite as
if he couldn't believe it himself. She smiled rather doubtfully.
He was sitting quite close to her and leaning forward.

The Englishman got up and went into the corridor to consult the
conductor. One might have heard him say he'd very much prefer going
into another compartment where it wouldn't be necessary for him
to annoy a beastly American bride and groom--her maid and perhaps
later on his man--all the way up to London.

"How I love you--Hetty--how I adore you!" Booth whispered passionately.

"Oh, Brandon!"

"And I don't mean to give you up," he added, his lean jaw setting
hard.

"You must--oh, you must," she cried miserably. "I mean it, Brandon--"

The Englishman came back and took his seat. He glared at Booth
through his eye-glass, and that young gentleman sat up in sudden
embarrassment.

"What are your plans?" asked he, turning his back on their
fellow-passenger.

"Please don't ask me," she pleaded. "You must give it up, Brandon.
Let me go my own way."

"Not until I have the whole story from you. You see, I am not
easily thwarted, once I set my heart on a thing. I gathered this
much from Sara: the obstacle is NOT insurmountable."

"She--said--that?"

"In effect, yes," he qualified.

"What did she tell you?" demanded Hetty, laying her hand on his
arm.

"I will confess she didn't reveal the secret that you consider a
barrier, but she went so far as to say that it was very dark and
dreadful," he said lightly. They were speaking in very low tones.
"When I pinned her down to it, she added that it did not in any
sense bear upon your honour. But there is time enough to talk about
this later on. For the present, let's not discuss the past. I know
enough of your history from your own lips as well as what little I
could get out of Sara, to feel sure that you are, in a way, drifting.
I intend to look after you, at least until you find yourself. Your
sudden break with Sara has been explained to me.  Leslie Wrandall
is at the back of it. Sara told me that she tried to force you to
marry him. I think you did quite right in going away as you did,
but, on the other hand, was it quite fair to me?"

"Yes, it was most fair," she said, compressing her lips.

He frowned.

"We can't possibly be of the same opinion," he said seriously.

"You wouldn't say that if you knew everything."

"How long do you intend to stay in London?"

"I don't know. When does this train arrive there?"

"At four o'clock, I think. Will you go to an hotel or to friends?"
He put the question very delicately.

She smiled faintly. "You mean the Murgatroyds?"

"Your father is here, I am informed. And you must have other friends
or relatives who--"

"I shall go to a small hotel I know near Trafalgar Square," she
interrupted quietly. "You must not come there to see me, Brandon."

"I shall expect you to dine with me at--say Prince's this evening,"
was his response to this.

She shook her head and then turned to look out of the window. He
sat back in his seat and for many miles, with deep perplexity in his
eyes, studied her half-averted face. The old uneasiness returned.
Was this obstacle, after all, so great that it could not be overcome?

They lunched together, but were singularly reserved all through the
meal. A plan was growing in her brain, a cruel but effective plan
that made her despise herself and yet contained the only means of
escape from an even more cruel situation.

He drove with her from the station to the small hotel off Trafalgar
Square. There were no rooms to be had. It was the week of Ascot and
the city was still crowded with people who awaited only the royal
sign to break the fetters that bound them to London. Somewhat
perturbed, she allowed him to escort her to several hotels of a
like character. Failing in each case, she was in despair. At last
she plucked up the courage to say to him, not without constraint
and embarrassment:

"I think, Brandon, if you were to allow me to apply ALONE to one
of these places I could get in without much trouble."

"Good Lord!" he gasped, going very red with dismay. "What a fool
I--"

"I'll try the Savoy," she said quickly, and then laughed at him.
His face was the picture of distress.

"I shall come for you at eight," he said, stopping the taxi at
once.  "Good-bye till then."

He got out and gave directions to the chauffeur. Then he did a very
strange thing. He hailed another taxi and, climbing in, started
off in the wake of the two women. From a point of vantage near
the corridor leading to the "American bar," he saw Hetty sign her
slips and move off toward the lift. Whereupon, seeing that she was
quite out of the way, he approached the manager's office and asked
for accommodations.

"Nothing left, sir."

"Not a thing?"

"Everything has been taken for weeks, sir. I'm sorry."

"Sorry, too. I had hoped you might have something left for a friend
who expects to stop here--a Miss Castleton."

"Miss Castleton has just applied. We could not give her anything."

"Eh?"

"Fortunately we could let her have rooms until eight this evening.
We were more than pleased to offer them to her for a few hours,
although they are reserved for parties coming down from Liverpool
tonight."

Booth tried the Cecil and got a most undesirable room. Calling up
the Savoy on the telephone, he got her room. The maid answered.
She informed him that Miss Castleton had just that instant gone
out and would not return before seven o'clock.

"I suppose she will not remove her trunks from the station until
she finds a permanent place to lodge," he inquired. "Can I be of
any service?"

"I think not, sir. She left no word, sir."

He hung up the receiver and straightway dashed over to the Savoy,
hoping to catch her before she left the hotel. Just inside the door
he came to an abrupt stop. She was at the news and ticket booth in
the lobby, closely engaged in conversation with the clerk. Presently
the latter took up the telephone, and after a brief conversation
with some one at the other end, turned to Hetty and nodded his
head.  Whereupon she nodded her own adorable head and began the
search for her purse. Booth edged around to an obscure spot and
saw her pay for and receive something in return.

"By Jove!" he said to himself, amazed.

She passed near him, without seeing him, and went out into the
court. He watched her turn into the Strand.

When the night boat from Dover to Calais slipped away from her
moorings that evening, Hetty Castleton and her maid were on board,
with all their bags and trunks, and Brandon Booth was supposed to
be completely at sea in the heart of that glittering London-town.

The night was fog-laden and dripping, and the crossing promised
to be unpleasant. Wrapped in a thick sea-ulster Hetty sat huddled
up in the lea of the deck-house, sick at heart and miserable. She
reproached herself for the scurvy trick she was playing on him,
reviled herself and yet pitied herself. After all, she was doing
him a good turn in forcing him to despise her for the shameless
way in which she treated his devotion, his fairness, his loyalty.
He would be happier in the end for the brief spasm of pain and disgust
he was to experience in this second revelation of her unworthiness.

Crouching there in the shadow, with the foghorn chortling hoarsely
over the shabby trick,--so it seemed to her,--she stared back at
the misty glow of the pier and tried to pierce the distance that
lay between her and the lights of London, so many leagues away.
HE was there, in the glitter and glamour of it all, but black with
disappointment and wonder. Oh, it was a detestable thing she had
done! Her poor heart ached for him. She could almost see the despair,
the bewilderment in his honest eyes as he sat in his room, hours
after the discovery of her flight, defeated, betrayed, disillusioned.

There were but few people crossing. Sailors stood by the rail,
peering into the fog, but it seemed to her that no one else was
afoot on board the steamer. Already the boat was beginning to show
signs of the uneasy trip ahead. Many foghorns, far and near, were
barking their lugubrious warnings; the choppy waves were slashing
against the vessel with a steady beat; the bobbling of the ship
increased as it plunged deeper into the cross-seas. But she had
no thought of the ship, the channel or the perils that surrounded
her.  Her mind was back in London with her heart, and there was
nothing ahead of her save the dread of tomorrow's sunlight.

She was a good sailor. A dozen times, perhaps, she had crossed the
English Channel, in fair weather and foul, and never with discomfort.
Her maid, she knew, was in for a wretched brawl with the waves,
but Hetty was too wise a sailor to think of trying to comfort the
unhappy creature. Misery does not always love company.

A tall man came shambling down the narrow space along the rail
and stopped directly in front of her. She started in alarm as he
reached out his hand to support himself against the deck house. As
he leaned forward, he laughed.

"You were thinking of me, Hetty," said the man.

For a long time she stared at him, transfixed, and then, with a
low moan, covered her eyes with her hands.

"Is it true--is it a dream?" she sobbed.

He dropped down beside her and gathered her in his strong, eager
arms.

"You WERE thinking of me, weren't you? And reproaching yourself,
and hating yourself for running away like this? I thought so. Well,
you might just as well try to dodge the smartest detective in the
world as to give me the slip now, darling."

"You--you spied on me?" she cried, in muffled tones. She lay very
limp in his arms.

"I did," he confessed, without shame. "'Gad, when I think of what
I might be doing at this moment if I hadn't found you out in time!
Think of me back there in London, racing about like a madman,
searching for you in every--"

"Please, please!" she implored.

"But luck was with me. You can't get away, Hetty. I shan't let you
out of my sight again. I'll camp in front of your door and you'll
see me wither and die of sleeplessness, for one or the other of my
eyes will always be open."

"Oh, I am so tired, so miserable," she murmured.

"Poor little sweetheart!"

"I wish you would hate me."

"Lie where you are, dearest, and--forget!"

"If I only could--forget!"

"Rest. I will hold you tight and keep you warm. We're in for a nasty
crossing, but it is paradise for me. I am mad with the delight of
having you here, holding you close to me, feeling you in my arms.
The wilder the night the better, for I am wild with the joy of it
all. I love you! I love you!" He strained her closer to him in a
sort of paroxysm.

She was quiet for a long time. Then she breathed into his ear:

"You will never know how much I was longing for you, just as you
are now, Brandon, and in the midst of it all you came. It is like
a fairy story, and oh, I shall always believe in fairies."

All about them were the sinister sounds of the fog--the hoots,
the growls and groans of lost things in the swirl of the North Sea
current, creeping blindly through the guideless mist. To both of
them, the night had a strangely symbolic significance: whither were
they drifting and where lay the unseen port?

A huge liner from one of the German ports slipped across their bows
with hoarse blasts of warning. They saw the misty glow of her lights
for an instant, and even as they drew the sharp breath of fear,
the night resumed its mantle and their own little vessel seemed to
come to life again after the shock of alarm and its engines throbbed
the faster, just as the heartbeats quicken when reaction sets in.

A long time afterward the throbbing ceased, bell-buoys whistled and
clanged about them; the sea suddenly grew calm and lifeless; they
slid over it as if it were a quavering sheet of ice; and lights
sneaked out of the fog and approached with stealthy swiftness.
Bells rang below and above them, sailors sprang up from everywhere
and calls were heard below; the rattling of chains and the thumping
of heavy luggage took the place of that steady, monotonous beat of
the engines. People began to infest the deck, limp and groaning,
harassed but voiceless. A mighty sigh seemed to envelop the whole
ship--a sigh of relief.

Then it was that these two arose stiffly from their sheltered bench
and gave heed to the things that were about them.

The Channel was behind them.




CHAPTER XVIII

BATTLING OLD BONES


They journeyed to Paris by the night mail. He was waiting for her
on the platform when she descended from the wagon lit in the Gare
du Nord. Sleepy passengers crowded with them into the customs
department. She, alone among them all, was smiling brightly, as if
the world could be sweet at an hour when, by all odds, it should
be sleepiest.

"I was up and on the lookout for you at Amiens," he declared, as
they walked off together. "You might have got off there, you know,"
with a wry grin.

"I shall not run away from you again, Brandon," she said earnestly.
"I promise, on my honour."

"By Jove," he cried, "that's a relief!" Then he broke into a happy
laugh.

"I shall go to the Ritz," she said, after her effects had been
examined and were ready for release.

"I thought so," he announced calmly. "I wired for rooms before I
left London."

"Really, this is ridic--"

"Don't frown like that, Hetty," he pleaded.

As they rattled and bounced over the cobble-stones in a taxi-metre
on the way to the Place Vendome, he devoted the whole of
his conversation to the delicious breakfast they were to have,
expatiating glibly on the wonderful berries that would come first
in that always-to-be-remembered meal. She was ravenously hungry
by the time they reached the hotel, just from listening to his
dissertation on chops and rolls and coffee as they are served in
Paris, to say nothing of waffles and honey and the marmalade that
no Englishman can do without.

Alone in his room, however, he was quite another person. His calm
assurance took flight the instant he closed the door and moodily
began to prepare for his bath. Resolution was undiminished, but
the facts in the case were most desolating. Whatever it was that
stood between them, there was no gainsaying its power to influence
their lives. It was no trifle that caused her to take this second
flight, and the sooner he came to realise the seriousness of
opposition the better.

He made up his mind on one point in that half-hour before breakfast:
if she asked him again to let her go her way in peace, it was only
fair to her and right that he should submit to the inevitable. She
loved him, he was sure of it. Then there must be a very good reason
for her perplexing attitude toward him. He would make one more
attempt to have the truth from her. Failing in that, he would accept
the situation as hopeless, for the time being at least. She should
know that he loved her deeply enough for that.

She joined him in the little open-air cafe, and they sat down at
a table in a remote corner. There were few people breakfasting. In
her tender blue eyes there was a look of sadness that haunted him,
even as she smiled and called him beloved.

"Hetty, darling," he said, leaning forward and laying his hand on
hers, "can't you tell me what it is?"

She was prepared for the question. In her heart she knew the time
had come when she must be fair with him. He observed the pallor
that stole, into her warm, smooth cheeks as she regarded him fixedly
for a long time before replying.

"There is only one person in the world who can tell you, Brandon.
It is for her to decide. I mean Sara Wrandall."

He felt a queer, sickening sensation of uneasiness sneak into
existence. In the back of his mind, a hateful fear began to shape
itself. For a long time he looked into her sombre eyes, and as he
looked the fear that was hateful took on something of a definite
shape.

"Did you know her husband?" he asked, and somehow he knew what the
answer would be.

"Yes," she replied, after a moment. She was startled. Her lips
remained parted.

He watched her closely. "Has this--this secret anything to do with
Challis Wrandall?"

"It has," said she, meeting his gaze steadily.

His hands clutched the edge of the table in a grip that turned the
knuckles white.

"Hetty!" he cried, in a hoarse whisper. "You--can't mean that you--"

"You must go to Sara," she cried hurriedly. "Haven't I told you
that she is the one--"

"Were you in love with that infernal scoundrel?" he demanded
fiercely.

"Sara knows everything. She will tell you--"

"Were you carrying on an affair with him while professing to be
the friend of his wife? Tell me that! Did she find you out and--"

"Oh, Brandon, why will you persist?" she cried, her eyes aflame.
"I can tell you no more. Why do you glare at me as if I were
the meanest thing on earth? Is this love? Is this your idea of
greatness? Isn't it enough for you to know that Sara is my loyal,
devoted friend; that she--"

"Wait!" he commanded darkly. "Is it possible that she did not
discover your secret until the day you left her house so abruptly?
Does that explain your sudden departure?"

"I can answer that," she said quietly. "She has known everything
from the day I met her. I have not said anything, Brandon, to lead
you to believe that I was in love with Challis Wrandall, have I?"

His eyes softened. "No, you haven't. I--I hope you will forget what
I said. You see, I knew Wrandall's reputation. He had no sense of
honour. He--"

"Well, I HAVE!" she said levelly.

He flushed. "I am a beast! I'll put it in this way, then: Was he
in love with you?"

"You are still unfair. I shall not answer."

He was silent for a long time. "And Sara's lips are sealed," he
mused, still possessed of doubts and fears.

"Until she elects to tell the story, dearest love, my lips are also
sealed. I love you better than anything else in all this world. I
could willingly offer up my life for you, but--well, my life does
not belong to me. It is Sara's."

"For heaven's sake, Hetty, what is all this?" he cried in desperation.

"I can say no more. It is useless to insist, Brandon. If you can
wrest the story from her, all well and good. You will hate me then,
dear love. But it cannot be helped. I am prepared."

"Tell me this much: when you refused to marry Leslie, was your
course inspired by what had happened in--in connection with Challis
Wrandall?"

"You forget that it is YOU that I love," she responded simply.

"But why should Sara urge you to marry Leslie if there is anything--"

"Hush! Here is the waiter. Come to my sitting-room after breakfast.
I have something to say to you. We must come to a definite
understanding. This cannot go on."

He was with her for an hour in that pinched little sitting-room,
and left her there without a vestige of rancour in his soul. She
would not give an inch in the stand she had taken, but something
immeasurably great in his make-up rose to the occasion and he went
forth with the conviction that he had no right to demand more of
her than she was ready to give. He was satisfied to abide by her
decision. The spell of her was over him more completely than ever
before.

Two days later he saw her off at the Gare de Lyons, bound for
Interlaken. There was a complete understanding between them. She
wanted to be quite alone in the Alpine town; he was not to follow
her there. She had reserved rooms at the Schweitzerhof, and the
windows of her sitting-room looked straight up the valley to the
snow-covered crest of the Jungfrau. She remembered these rooms; as
a young girl she had occupied them with her father and mother. By
some hook or crook, Booth arranged by wire for her to have them
again, not an easy matter at that season of the year. Later she
was to go on to Lucerne, and then to Venice.

The slightest shred of hope was left for Booth. Even though he might
accomplish the task he had set unto himself--the conquest of Sara
in respect to the untold story--he still had Hetty's dismal prophecy
that after he learned the truth he would come to see why they could
not be married. But he would not despair.

"We'll see," was all that he said in response to her forlorn cry
that they were parting for ever. There was a grimness in the way
he said it that gave her something to cherish during the months
to come; the hope that he WOULD come back and take her in spite of
herself.

He sailed from Cherbourg on the first steamship calling there.
Awake, he thought of her; asleep, he dreamed of Challis Wrandall.
There was something uncanny in the persistence with which that
ruthless despoiler of peace forced his way into his dreams, to the
absolute exclusion of all else. The voyage home was made horrid
by these nightly reminders of a man he scarcely knew, yet dreaded.
He became more or less obsessed by the idea that an evil spell had
descended upon him in the shape of a ghostly influence.

The weeks passed slowly for Hetty. There were no letters from
Sara, but an occasional line or so from Mr. Carroll. She had made
Brandon Booth promise that he would not write to her, nor was he
to expect anything from her. If her intention was to cut herself
off entirely from her recent world and its people, as she might
have done in another way by pursuing the time-honoured and rather
cowardly plan of entering a convent, she was soon to discover that
success in the undertaking brought a deeper sense of exile than
she could have imagined herself able to endure at the outset. She
found herself more utterly alone and friendless than at any time in
her life. The chance companions she formed at Interlaken,--despite
a well-meant reserve,--served only to increase her feeling of
loneliness and despair. The very natural attentions of men, young
and old, depressed her, instead of encouraging that essentially
feminine thing called vanity. She lived as one without an aim,
without a single purpose except to close one day that she might
begin the next.

After a time, she went on to Lucerne. Here the life on the surface
was gayer, and she was roused from her state of lethargy in spite
of herself. Once, from her little balcony in the National, she
saw two of her old acquaintances in the chorus at the Gaiety. They
were wearing many pearls. Another time, she met them in the street.
She was rather quietly dressed. They did not notice her. But the
prosperous Hebraic gentlemen who attended them were not so careless.

One day a card was brought to her rooms. For the next two weeks
she had a true and unavoidable friend in Lucerne. It would appear
that Mrs. Rowe-Martin had not been apprised of the rift in the
Wrandall lute. She had no reason to consider the exclusive Miss
Castleton as anything but the most desirable of companions. Mrs.
Rowe-Martin was not long in finding out (though how she did it,
heaven knows!), that Lord Murgatroyd's grandniece was no longer
the intimate of that impossible person, Sara Gooch. She couldn't
think of Sara without thinking of Gooch.

But at last Mrs. Rowe-Martin departed, much to Hetty's secret
relief, but not before she had increased the girl's burthens by
introducing her into a cold-nosed cosmopolitan set from which there
were but three ways of escape. She refused to marry one of them,
denied another the privilege of making love to her, and declined
to play auction bridge with all of them. They were not long in
dropping her, although it must be said there was real regret among
the men.

From Mrs. Rowe-Martin and others she heard that Mrs. Redmond Wrandall
and Vivian were to be in Scotland in October, for somebody-or-other's
christening, and that Leslie had been doing some really wonderful
flying at Pau.

"I am SO glad, my dear," said Mrs. Rowe-Martin, "that you refused
to marry Leslie. He is a cad. Besides, you would have been in a
perpetual state of nerves over his flying."

Of Sara, there was no news, as might have been expected. Mrs.  Rowe-Martin
made it very clear that Sara was a respectable person,--but heavens!

The chill days of autumn came and the crowd began to dwindle. Hetty
made preparations to join in the exodus. As the days grew short and
bleak, she found herself thinking more and more of the happy-hearted,
symbolic dicky-bird on a faraway window ledge. His life was neither
a travesty nor a tragedy; hers was both of these.

Something told her too that Brandon Booth had wormed the truth out
of Sara, and that she would never see him again. It hurt her to
think that while Sara believed in her, the man who loved her did
not. It is a way men have.

On the eve of her departure, an event transpired that was to alter
the whole course of her life; or, more properly speaking, it was
destined to put her back into an old groove.

She was walking along the quay, in the dusk of early evening, her
mind full of the next day's journey over the mountains to Milan.
The wind was cold; about her neck there was a boa of white ostrich
feathers, one end of which fluttered gaily over her shoulder. She
was continually turning half-way about against the wind to reclaim
the truant end of the boa. It was in the act of doing so on one
occasion that her attention was drawn to two men who sauntered
across the avenue from the approach to the Schweitzerhof.

She stopped still in her tracks, petrified by amazement--and alarm,
if we may anticipate the sensation by a second or two.

One of the men was Leslie Wrandall, the other--her own father!

In a flash came the impulse to avoid them, to fly before they
recognised her. But even as she turned and started off with a
sudden acceleration of speed, a shout assailed her ears, and then
came the swift rush of footsteps over the hard pavement.

"Hetty! As I live!" cried Leslie, planting himself in front of
her.  His astonishment alone kept him from laying hands upon her,
to make sure that she was really there. "Well, of all the--"

She extended her hand. "This is a surprise," she said, with admirable
control. "I hadn't the faintest notion you were in Lucerne."

"By Jove!" he mumbled, shaking hands with her but still dazed and
uncertain. He suddenly remembered his companion. Turning with a
shout, he brought the soldierly, middle-aged gentleman about-face
with scant ceremony. "Hey! Colonel Castleton! See who's here!
Doesn't this bowl you over completely?"

Colonel Castleton, sallow, ascetic, deliberate in his movements,
raised his glass to his eye as he came toward them.

"'Pon my soul!" burst from his astonished lips a second afterward.
He stopped short and his jaw dropped in a most unmilitary fashion.
"'Pon my soul! It CAN'T be my daughter!" He seemed to be having
difficulty not only with his head but with his feet; neither appeared
to be operating intelligently. As a matter of fact, he stood for an
instant on his toes and then on his heels. He was perilously near
to being bowled over completely and literally.

Hetty was the first to recover. She advanced with a fair assumption
of warmth in her manner. Her heart, belying her, was as cold as
ice.

"Father!" she cried, holding out her hands.

He grasped them, and looked wildly about.

"Kiss me!" she whispered imperatively.

He stooped and brushed her cheek with his long moustache.

"Good God!" he muttered, still incredulous.

She turned to the excited Leslie with a quavering smile on her
lips.

"We haven't seen each other in twelve years, Mr. Wrandall," she
said.

"'Pon my soul!" added her father for the third time, thereby reaching
the limit of emphasis, having placed it differently each time.

Leslie surprised himself by rising to the occasion. It occurred to
him that they would like to be alone for a little while at least.

"Then, I'll stroll on, Colonel," he said. "By Jove!" The mild
expletive was a tribute to Providence.

Not a word was spoken by father or daughter until Wrandall was many
rods away.

"Where did you meet Leslie Wrandall?" she demanded, showing which
way her thoughts ran. They were far from filial.

"Aviation field--somewhere," said he in a vague sort of way. "Pau,
I dare say. What are you doing here? I hear you've cut loose from
Wrandall's sister-in-law. Was that a sensible thing to do?"

"I fancy you've been misinformed," said she in an emotionless voice,
but offered no further word of explanation.

"Shan't we sit down here on this bench, my dear?" suggested the
Colonel, distinctly ill at ease.

"For the sake of appearances, yes," she assented.

Leslie, looking over his shoulder from a distance, saw them sitting
together on one of the outer benches.

"By Jove!" he said to himself once more, this time with accumulative
perplexity.

"See here, Hetty, my child," began the Colonel nervously, "it's all
nonsense your taking the stand you do toward me. I am your father.
I repeat, it's all nonsense--damned nonsense. You've got to--"

"Has it taken you all these years to find out that it's nonsense?"
she demanded, her eyes flashing. "It's no good arguing, father. I
don't like you. There is a very good reason why I should despise
you. We won't go into it. After this meeting, we go our separate
ways again. This, it seems, was unavoidable. I shan't ask anything
of you, and I advise you to ask nothing of me."

"My God, that a child should utter such words to a father!" he
groaned.

"A father!" she cried so scornfully that he must have shrivelled
had he been any one else but Colonel Castleton of the Indian Corps.
As it was, he had the grace to turn a very bright red. "A noble
father you have been! And what a splendid, self-sacrificing husband
you were. No! I can't forget how my mother lived and died. You
call it nonsense. Well, I call it something else. You took a most
effective way to punish my poor mother for having the temerity to
marry an English gentleman. Thank God, I have my mother to look
back to for my own ideas of gentility."

"You never understood the way things went wrong between your mother
and me," he said harshly. "She wasn't all you may be pleased to
think she was. She--"

"How dare you insinuate--"

"She chucked me. That's the sum and sub--"

"Oh, I was old enough to know that she left you--chucked you, if
you will--and to know why she did it. I--I suppose you are looked
upon by--these people here--Leslie Wrandall and every one else, as
a fine English gentleman, a cousin of the great Lord Murgatroyd.
Are you?"

"Confound you, Hetty, how dare you use such a tone in speaking to
me?" he exclaimed.

"They THINK you are a gentleman, do they?"

"THINK? Why, dammit, I am a gentleman. The only ungentlemanly thing
I ever did in my life was to--" He checked the angry words, biting
his lips to keep them down.

"Was to desert your wife," she supplied scathingly.

"No! To marry her!" He blurted it out in his rage.

"Oh!" she cried, shrinking farther away from him, cut to the quick.

He regarded her with cold, fishy eyes. She was uncommonly pretty,
he was bound to admit that. Her mother's eyes, her mother's exquisite
skin, but singularly like certain Castleton portraits that he knew.
It somehow galled him to find that there was quite as much of the
blue-blooded Castleton in her as there was commonplace Glynn; galled
him more particularly because she was his own flesh and blood after
all and, in spite of that, could taunt him with it.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Hetty," he said, to his own surprise.
The touch of tenderness had a brief life. He scowled an instant
later. "We won't discuss the past, if you please. God knows I don't
want to dig up rotten bones. You are against your own father. That's
enough for me. I shan't impose myself upon you. You--"

"Why couldn't you have treated her with--" began Hetty hotly.

"Sh! No more of that, I say. I will not be upbraided by my own child.
Now, see here, what do you mean by letting a chance like that get
away from you?" He jerked his head in the direction Leslie had
taken.

"Chance?"

"Yes. This Wrandall fellow. 'Gad, I've known him less than
a fortnight and he's told me every secret he ever knew. Why don't
you marry him? He's not a bad sort."

"That is my affair," said she coldly.

"I'd take him like a shot if I was a gel in your shoes."

"He told you I had refused to marry him?"

"A hundred times."

"Did you reward his confidence by relating the WHOLE history of
the Castleton family?"

He stared at her. "Good Lord, do you think I'm an ass?"

"What have you told him?"

"Nothing. I permitted him to do all the telling. He gave me a highly
commendable account of myself, of you, of the fine old family of
Glynns and--God knows what all. He restored my pride, 'pon my soul
he did." The Colonel laughed as he twisted his moustache with ironic
fondness.

She was quite still for a minute or two. "I heard you were in
England," she said, changing the subject.

"It may interest you to know that the old man overlooked us
completely," he said, striking the calf of his leg with his thin
walking-stick.

"Why should he leave anything to you?"

"And why not, curse him?" he growled. "Am I not his brother's son?
What do you mean by asking a question like that?"

"I think I will say good-bye to you now, father," she said
deliberately. "We may never see each other again." She arose and
stood before him, cold and proud, without a spark of emotion in
her eyes.

He sat still, looking up at her in surprise. "Do you think you're
doing the right thing, Hetty?" he asked, annoyed in spite of
himself. "Remember that I am your father. I can and will overlook
all you have said and done--"

"If you will go to her grave and kneel there and ask her pardon, I
may think differently of you because, after all, I am your daughter.
You will not find her buried among the stately Castletons, but in
a poor little spot far, far away from them. I can tell you how to
find it. You have never inquired, I suppose?"

His eyes narrowed. "By Jove, you are a mean little beggar!"

"Mean?" she cried, clenching her hands. Then she laughed suddenly,
shrilly. "Oh, if my mother could hear you say that to me!"

"Damme!" he exclaimed, coming to his feet in considerable agitation.
"Do you want people to hear us ragging each other? Don't go into
hysterics, Hetty! See here, do you forget that I have written to
you--loving letters they were--from the heart--written, I say, over
and over again and what do I get in return? Not a single stroke of
the pen from you, except the note a year ago telling me where you
were and--"

"And that was merely to relieve your anxiety when you found I'd
given up my work on the stage and might become a burden on you.
Oh, I read between your lines."

"Nothing of the sort. I never wanted you to go on the stage. Why
have you persistently refused to answer my subsequent letters?"

"Because I read between the lines in all of them," she said levelly.

"You have no right to say that I expected you to get money out of
that bally Wrandall woman--the goods merchant's daughter. That's
downright insulting in you. I shan't let it go undefend--"

"You knew I couldn't lend you a thousand pounds, father," said she,
very slowly and distinctly.

He coughed, perhaps in apology to her but more than likely to
himself.

"You are at liberty," she went on, "to tell Mr. Leslie Wrandall
all there is to tell about me. He doesn't know, but it won't matter
much if he does have the truth concerning me. Tell him all if you
like."

"My child," said he, with a fine display of wounded dignity, "I am
not quite the rotter you think I am."

He did not feel called upon to explain to her that he had already
borrowed a thousand pounds from her disappointed suitor, and was
setting his nets for another thousand or two.

"It really won't matter," she said wearily. "Good-bye. I am leaving
at nine to-morrow for Italy."

"See you at dinner? Or afterward, just for a--"

"I think not. I do not care to see Mr. Wrandall."

"Think it over again, Hetty. Don't--"

"Oh, father! How can you say such things to me?" she cried, a break
in her voice.

"Good God, my dear, isn't it natural for a father to want to see
his daughter well provided for?"

She turned away.

"I am contemplating a visit to the States shortly," he remarked,
following after her.

She whirled on him. "What!"

"Young Wrandall has asked me over for a month or two about the
first of the year. His people are in Scotland now, I hear."

"Are you THROUGH with India?" she asked in a very low voice.

"Resigned," said he succinctly.

"TRULY?"

He flushed and muttered an oath. She understood. He had been "kicked
out!"

"Hello!" called out a sprightly voice from the gathering darkness,
and the next moment Leslie joined them. "Have dinner with us
to-night, Hetty? Just the three of us. Please do."

"No, thank you, Mr. Wrandall. I am getting ready to leave to-morrow.
Packing and all that sort of thing."

"Did Colonel Castleton tell you that I'm off for New York on Saturday?
Mother and Viv are to get the boat at Southampton. I thought you'd
be interested to know what's just turned up over there?"

"What has happened?" she cried quickly.

Leslie hesitated. A curious gleam stole into his eyes. Was it of
triumph?

"Father's got rather old-fashioned ideas about certain things," he
observed, by way of preface. "He writes that Sara is contemplating
a second venture into the state of wedded bliss."

Hetty stared at him. "I--I don't believe it," she said flatly. "How
can it be possible? She sees no one."

He laughed. "You're wrong there," said he mendaciously. "She's been
seeing a great deal of a certain mutual friend of ours--all summer
long."

"You mean?"

"Brandon Booth. Father says that rumour has it they are to be
married after the holidays. I fancy he needed consolation, after
what happened to him earlier in the year. He was pretty hard hit,
believe me." After a moment, he went on boldly: "I ought to be in
a position to sympathise with him, I suppose, but I don't. It isn't
in me to--"

"You say they are to be married?" cried Hetty, dazed and bewildered.

They had fallen behind Colonel Castleton, who walked on stiffly
ahead of them.

Leslie treated her to his most engaging smile.

"Looks very Goochy, doesn't it? I'm coming to believe more than
ever that blood will tell. Sara knew what she was doing when she
cleared her decks for action a few months ago. 'Gad, I understand
now why she was so eager to bring off the--well, another match we
know about. Pretty canny, eh?"

"It is incredible," said she, with unnecessary vehemence.

"Not in the least. Clever person, Sara is. Sets her heart on a thing,
and--woof! she gets it, whether or no. Now, don't misunderstand
me. I'm fond of Brandon Booth. We all are. We don't object to him
as a sort of family attachment. But if she's going to marry him,
we want to know where we stand in a business way. You see, he will
not only step into my brother Chal's shoes at home, but at the
office. And, heaven knows, Brandy is not a good business man.  He's
great on portraits, but--I beg pardon!"

"I must leave you here, Mr. Wrandall. Good-bye!"

"Oh, I say, can't we see something of--"

"I am afraid not."

He kept pace with her through the hall.

"I suppose your father told you that I--I haven't altogether given
up hope of--you."

"He spoke of going to America with you, if that's what you mean,"
she said coldly, and left him at the foot of the staircase.

Leslie's hand trembled as it went up to his moustache. "I can't
understand her beastly obstinacy," he said to himself.




CHAPTER XIX

VIVIAN AIRS HER OPINIONS


Chief among Booth's virtues was his undeviating loyalty to a set
purpose. He went back to America with the firm intention to clear
up the mystery surrounding Hetty Castleton, no matter how irksome
the delay in achieving his aim or how vigorous the methods he would
have to employ. Sara Wrandall, to all purposes, held the key; his
object in life now was to induce her to turn it in the lock and
throw open the door so that he might enter in and become a sharer
in the secrets beyond.

A certain amount of optimistic courage attended him in his campaign
against what had been described to him as the impossible. He could
see no clear reason why she should withhold the secret under the
new conditions, when so much in the shape of happiness was at stake.
It was in this spirit of confidence that he prepared to confront
her on his arrival in New York, and it was the same unbounded faith
in the belief that nothing evil could result from a perfectly just
and honourable motive that gave him the needed courage.

He stayed over night in New York, and the next morning saw him on
his way to Southlook. There was something truly ingenuous in his
desire to get to the bottom of the matter without fear or apprehension.
At the very worst, he maintained, there could be nothing more
reprehensible than a passing infatuation, long since dispelled, or
perhaps a mildly sinister episode in which virtue had been triumphant
and vice defeated with unpleasant results to at least one person,
and that person the husband of Sara Wrandall.

Pat met him at the station and drove him to the little cottage on
the upper road.

"Ye didn't stay long," said he reflectively, after he had put the
bag up in front. He took up the reins.

"Not very," replied his master.

After a dozen rods or more, Pat tried again.

"Just siventeen days, I make it."

"Seems longer."

"Perhaps you'll be after going back soon."

"Why should you think that, Patrick?"

"Because you don't seem to be takin' much interest in your surroundin's
here," said Pat loftily. He delivered a smart smack on the crupper
with his stubby whip, and pursed his lips for the companionship to
be derived from whistling.

"I suppose you know why I went to Europe," said Booth, laying his
hand affectionately on the man's arm.

"Sure I do," said Pat, forgetting to whistle. "And was it bad luck
you had, sor?"

"A temporary case of it, I'm afraid."

"Well," said the Irishman, looking up at his employer with the most
profound encouragement in his wink, "if it's anny help to you,
sor, I'll say that I've niver found bad luck to be annything but
timporary. And, believe ME, I've had plinty of it. Mary was dom
near three years makin' up her mind to say yis to me."

"And since then you've had no bad luck?" said Booth, with a smile.

"Plinty of it, begob, but I've had some one besides meself to blame
for it. There's a lot in that, Mr. Brandon. Whin a man marries, he
simply divides his luck into two parts, good and bad, and if he's
like most men he puts the bulk av the bad luck on his wife and
kapes to himself all he can av the good for a rainy day. That's
what makes him a strong man and able to meet trouble when it comes.
The beauty av the arrangement is that bad luck is only timporary
and a woman enjoys talking about it, while good luck is wid us
nine-tinths of the time, whether we know it or not, and we don't
have to talk about it."

This was fine philosophy, but Booth discerned the underlying motive.

"Have you been quarrelling?"

"I have NOT," said Pat wrathfully. "But I won't say as much for
Mary. The point av me argument is that I have all the good luck in
havin' married her, and she claims to have had all the bad luck in
marryin' me. Still, as I said before,'tis but timporary. The good
luck lasts and the bad don't. She'll be after tellin' me so before
sundown. That's like all women. You'll find it out for yourself
wan o' these days, Mr. Brandon, and ye'll be dom proud ye're a man
and can enjoy your good luck when ye get it. The bad luck's always
fallin' behind ye, and ye can always look forward to the good luck.
So don't be down-hearted. She'll take you, or me name's not what
it ought to be."

Booth was inclined to accept this unique discourse as a fair-weather
sign.

"Take these bags upstairs, Pat," said he on their arrival at the
cottage, "and then come down and drive me over to Mrs. Wrandall's."

"Will ye be after stayin' for lunch with her, Mr. Brandon?" inquired
Pat, climbing over the wheel.

"I can't answer that question now."

"Hiven help both av us if Mary's good luncheon goes to waste,"
said Pat ominously. "That's all I have to say. She'll take it out
av both av us."

"Tell her I'll be here for lunch," said Booth, with alacrity. From
which it may be perceived that master and man were of one mind when
it came to considering the importance of Mary.

Pat studied his watch for a moment with a calculating eye.

"It's half-past eliven now, sor," he announced. "D'ye think ye can
make it?"

Booth reflected. "I think not," he said. "I'll have luncheon
first." Whereupon he leaped from the trap and went in to tell Mary
how happy he was to be where he could enjoy home-cooking.

At four he was delivered at Sara's door by the astute Patrick,
announced by the sedate Watson and interrogated by the intelligent
Murray, who seemed surprised to hear that he would NOT have anything
cool to drink. Sara sent word that she would be down in fifteen
minutes, but, as a matter of fact, appeared in less than three.

She came directly to the point.

"Well," she said, with her mysterious smile, "she sent you back to
me, I see." He was still clasping her hand.

"Have you heard from her?" he asked quickly.

"No. But I knew just what would happen. I told you it would prove
to be a wild goose chase. Where is she?"

He sat down beside her on the cool, white covered couch.

"In Switzerland. I put her on the train the night before I sailed.
Yes, she did send me back to you. Now I'm here, I want the whole
story, Sara. What is it that stands between us?"

For an hour he pleaded with her, all to no purpose. She steadfastly
refused to divulge the secret. Not even his blunt reference to
Challis Wrandall's connection with the affair found a vulnerable
spot in her armour.

"I shan't give it up, Sara," he said, at the end of his earnest
harangue against the palpably unfair stand both she and Hetty were
taking. "I mean to harass you, if you please, until I get what I'm
after. It is of the most vital importance to me. Quite as much so,
I am sure, as it appears to be to you. If Hetty will say the word,
I'll take her gladly, just as she is, without knowing what all this
is about. But, you see, she won't consent. There must be some way
to override her. You both admit there is no legal barrier. You
tell me to-day that there is no insanity in her family, and a lot
of other things that I've been able to bring out by questioning,
so I am more than ever certain that the obstacle is not so serious
as you would have me believe. Therefore, I mean to pester you until
you give in, my dear Sara."

"Very well," she said resignedly. "When may I expect a renewal of
the conflict?"

"Would to-morrow be convenient?" he asked quaintly.

She returned his smile. "Come to luncheon."

"Have I your permission to start the portrait?"

"Yes. As soon as you like."

He left her without feeling that he had gained an inch along the
road to success. That night, in the gloaming of his star-lit porch,
he smoked many a pipeful and derived therefrom a profound estimate
of the value of tact and discretion as opposed to bold and impulsive
measures in the handling of a determined woman. He would make haste
slowly, as the saying goes. Many an unexpected victory is gained by
dilatory tactics, provided the blow is struck at the psychological
moment of least resistance.

The weeks slipped by. He was with her almost daily. Other people
came to her house, some for rather protracted visits, others in
quest of pillage at the nightly bridge table, but he was seldom
missing. There were times when he thought he detected a tendency
to waver, but each cunning attempt on his part to encourage the
impulse invariably brought a certain mocking light into her eyes
and he veered off in defeat. Something kept telling him, however,
that the hour was bound to come when she would falter in her
resolution; when frankness would meet frankness, and the veil be
lifted.

A rather impossible relative in the person of an aunt came to
spend the month of August with Sara--her father's sister. She was
a true, unvarnished Gooch. Booth shuddered at times when she emerged
flat-foot from the background and revelled in the Goochiness that
would not stay put, no matter how hard she tried to subdue it. She
was a good soul,--much too good, in fact,--and her efforts to live
up to requirements were not only ludicrous but exasperating. Sara
was quite serene about her, however. She made no excuses for the
old lady; in fact, she appeared to be quite devoted to her. Booth
was beginning to appreciate something of the horror the Wrandalls
must have felt when Challis took unto himself a Gooch. He berated
himself in secret for his snobbishness and in public made atonement
by being expansively polite to Mrs. Coburn. The good lady had the
habit of telling every one what a wonderful person Sebastian Gooch
had been, sometimes comparing him not unfavourably with Napoleon
Bonaparte and George Washington: he was like the Corsican in getting
the better of his adversaries, no matter how he had to go about
it, but like the Father of his Country in the matter of veracity.
So far as she knew, Sebastian had never told a lie. To Mrs. Coburn,
Sebastian was Saint Sebastian.

The portrait was finished before Mrs. Coburn left. She liked
everything about it except the gown, the drapery and--yes, the
hands. They were too long and tapering. No Gooch ever had a hand
like that. The Gooch hands were broad and strong: like her own.
All this, notwithstanding the fact that Sara's hand lay exposed all
the time she was speaking, a physical contradiction to her assertion.

She stayed the month and then re-entered Yonkers.

There were no letters from Hetty, no word of any description. If
Sara knew anything of the girl's movements she did not take Booth
into her confidence.

Leslie Wrandall went abroad in August, ostensibly to attend the
aviation meets in France and England. His mother and sister sailed
in September, but not before the entire colony of which they were
a part had begun to discuss Sara and Booth with a relish that was
obviously distasteful to the Wrandalls.

Where there is smoke there is fire, said all the gossips, and
forthwith proceeded to carry fagots.

A week or so before sailing, Mrs. Redmond Wrandall had Booth
in for dinner. I think she said en famille. At any rate, Sara was
not asked, which is proof enough that she was bent on making it a
family affair.

After dinner, Booth sat in the screened upper balcony with Vivian.
He liked her. She was a keen-witted, plain-spoken young woman,
with few false ideals and no subtlety. She was less snobbish than
arrogant. Of all the Wrandalls, she was the least self-centred.
Leslie never quite understood her for the paradoxical reason that
she thoroughly understood him.

"You know, Brandon," she said, after a long silence between them,
"they've been setting my cap for you for a long, long time." She
blew a thin stream of cigarette smoke toward the moon.

He started. It was a bolt from a clear sky. "The deuce!"

"Yes," she went on in the most casual tone, "mother's had her heart
set on it for months. You were supposed to be mine at first sight,
I believe. Please don't look so uneasy. I'm not going to propose
to you." She laughed her little ironic laugh.

"So that is the way things stood, eh?" he said, still a little
amazed by her candour.

"Yes. And what is more to the point, I am quite sure I should
have said yes if you had asked me. Sounds odd, doesn't it? Rather
amusing, too, being able to discuss it so unreservedly, isn't it?"

"Good heavens, Viv!" he cried uncomfortably. "I--I had no idea you
cared--"

"Cared!" she cried, as he paused. "I don't care two pins for you
in that way. But I would have married you, just the same, because
you are worth marrying. I'd very much rather have you for a husband
than any man I know, but as for loving you! Pooh! I'd love you in
just the way mother loves father, and I wouldn't have been a bit
more trouble to you than she is to him."

"'Gad, you don't mind what you say!"

"Failing to nab you, Brandy, I dare say I'll have to come down to
a duke or, who knows? maybe a mere prince. It isn't very enterprising,
is it? And certainly it isn't a gay prospect. Really, I had hoped
you would have me. I flatter myself, I suppose, but, honestly now,
we would have made a rather nice looking couple, wouldn't we?"

"You flatter me," he said.

"But," she resumed, calmly exhaling, "you very foolishly fell in
love with some one else, and it wasn't necessary for me to pretend
that I was in love with you--which I should have done, believe me,
if you had given me the chance. You fell in love, first with Hetty
Castleton."

"First?" he cried, frowning.

"And now you are heels over head in love with my beautiful
sister-in-law. Which all goes to prove that I would have made just
the kind of wife you need, considering your tendency to fluctuate.
But how dreadful it would have been for a sentimental, loving girl
like Hetty!"

He sat bolt upright and stared hard at her.

"See here, Viv, what the dickens are you driving at? I'm not in love
with Sara--not in the least,--and--" He checked himself sharply.
"What an ass I am! You're guying me."

"In any event, I am right about Hetty," she said, leaning forward,
her manner quite serious.

"If it will ease your mind," he said stiffly, "I plead guilty with
all my heart."

She favoured him with a slight frown of annoyance.

"And you deny the fluctuating charge?"

"Most positively. I can afford to be honest with you, Viv. You are
a corker. I love Hetty Castleton with all my soul."

She leaned back in her chair. "Then why don't you dignify your soul
by being honest with HER?"

"What do you mean?"

For a half-minute she was silent. "Are you and I of the same stripe,
after all? Would you marry Sara without loving her, as I would have
done by you? It doesn't seem like you, Brandon."

"Good heaven, I'm not going to marry Sara!" he blurted out. "It's
never entered my head."

"Perhaps it has entered hers."

"Nonsense! She isn't going to marry anybody. And she knows how I
feel toward Hetty. If it came to the point where I decided to marry
without love, 'pon my soul, Viv, I believe I'd pick you out as the
victim."

"Wonderful combination!" she said with a frank laugh. "The
quintessence of 'no love lost.' But to resume! Do you know that
people are saying you are to be married before the winter is over?"

"Let 'em say it," he said gruffly.

"Oh, well," she said, despatching it all with a gesture, "if that's
the way you feel about it, there's no more to be said."

He was ashamed. "I beg your pardon, I shouldn't have said that."

"You see," she went on, reverting to the original topic, "people
who know Sara are likely to credit her with motives you appear to
be totally ignorant of. She set her heart on my brother Challis,
when she was a great deal younger than she is now, and she got him.
If age and experience count for anything, how capable she must be
by this time."

He was too wise to venture an opinion. "I assure you she has no
designs on me."

"Perhaps not. But I fancy that even you could not escape as St.
Anthony did. She is most alluring."

"You don't like her."

"Obviously. And yet I don't dislike her. She has the virtue of
consistency, if one may use the expression. She loved my brother.
Leslie says she should have hated him. We have tried to like
her. I think I have come nearer to it than any of the others, not
excepting Leslie, who has always been her champion. I suppose you
know that he was your rival at one time."

"He mentioned it," said Booth drily.

"I should have been very much disappointed in her if she had accepted
him."

"Indeed?"

"I sometimes wonder if Sara spiked Leslie's guns for him."

"I can tell you something you don't know, Vivian," said he. "Sara
was rather keen about making a match there."

Vivian's smile was slow but triumphant. "That is just what I thought.
There you are! Doesn't that explain Sara?"

"In a measure, yes. But, you see, it developed that Hetty cared
for some one else, and that put a stop to everything."

"Am I to take it that you are the some one else?"

"Yes," said he soberly.

"Then, may I ask why she went away so suddenly?"

"You may ask but I can't answer."

"Do you want my opinion? She went away because Sara, failing in
her plan to marry her off to Leslie, decided that it would be fatal
to a certain project of her own if she remained on the field of
action.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Oh, you are away off in your conclusions, Viv."

"Time will tell," was her cabalistic rejoinder.

Her father appeared on the lawn below and called up to them.

"You are wanted at the telephone, Brandon. I've just been talking
to Sara."

"Did she call you up, father?" asked Vivian, leaning over the rail.

"Yes. About nothing in particular, however."

She turned upon Booth with a mocking smile. He felt the colour rush
to his face, and was angry with himself.

He went in to the telephone. Almost her first words were these:

"What has Vivian been telling you about me, Brandon?"

He actually gasped. "Good heavens, Sara!"

He heard her low laugh. "So she HAS been saying things, has she?"
she asked. "I thought so. I've had it in my bones to-night."

He was at a loss for words. It was positively uncanny. As he stood
there, trying to think of a trivial remark, her laugh came to him
again over the wire, followed by a drawling "good-night," and then
the soughing of the wind over the "open" wire.

The next day he called her up on the telephone quite early. He knew
her habits. She would be abroad in her gardens by eight o'clock.
He remembered well that Leslie, in commenting on her absurdly early
hours, had once said that her "early bird" habit was hereditary:
she got it from Sebastian.

"What put it into your head, Sara, that Vivian was saying anything
unpleasant about you last night?"

"Magic," she replied succinctly.

"Rubbish!"

"I have a magic tapestry that transports me, hither and thither,
and by night I always carry Aladdin's lamp. So, you see, I see and
hear everything."

"Be sensible."

"Very well. I will be sensible. If you intend to be influenced by
what Vivian or her mother said to you last night, I think you'd be
wise to avoid me from this time on."

Prepared though he was, he blinked his eyes and said something she
didn't quite catch.

She went on: "Moreover, in addition to my attainments in the black
art, I am quite as clever as Mr. Sherlock Holmes in some respects.
I really do some splendid deducing. In the first place, you were
asked there and I was not. Why? Because I was to be discussed. You
see--"

"Marvellous!" he interrupted loudly.

"You were to be told that I have cruel designs upon you."

"Go on, please."

"And all that sort of thing," she said sweepingly, and he could
almost see the inclusive gesture with her free hand. He laughed
but still marvelled at the shrewdness of her perceptions.

"I'll come over this afternoon and show you wherein you are wrong,"
he began, but she interrupted him with a laugh.

"I am starting for the city before noon, by motor, to be gone at
least a fortnight."

"What! This is the first I've heard of it."

Again she laughed. "To be perfectly frank with you, I hadn't
heard of it myself until just now. I think I shall go down to the
Homestead with the Carrolls."

"Hot Springs?"

"Virginia," she added explicitly.

"I say, Sara, what does all this mean? You--"

"And if you should follow me there, Vivian's estimate of us will
not be so far out of the way as we'd like to make it."

True to her word, she was gone when he drove over later on in
the day. Somehow, he experienced a feeling of relief. Not that he
was oppressed by the rather vivacious opinions of Vivian and her
ilk, but because something told him that Sara was wavering in her
determination to withhold the secret from him and fled for perfectly
obvious reasons.

He had two commissions among the rich summer colonists. One, a full
length portrait of young Beardsley in shooting togs, was nearly
finished. The other was to be a half-length of Mrs. Ravenscroft,
who wanted one just like Hetty Castleton's, except for the eyes,
which she admitted would have to be different. Nothing was said of
the seventeen years' difference in their ages. Vivian had put off
posing until Lent.

The Wrandalls departed for Scotland, and other friends of his
began to desert the country for the city. The fortnight passed and
another week besides. Mrs. Ravenscroft decided to go to Europe when
the picture was half-finished.

"You can finish it when I come back in December, Mr. Booth," she
said. "I'll have several new gowns to choose from, too."

"I shall be busy all winter, Mrs. Ravenscroft," he said coldly.

"How annoying," she said calmly, and that was the end of it all.
She had made the unpleasant discovery that it WASN'T going to be
in the least like Hetty Castleton's, so why bother about it?

Booth waited until Sara came out to superintend the closing of her
house for the winter. He called at Southlook on the day of her
arrival. He was struck at once by the curious change in her appearance
and manner. There was something bleak and desolate in the vividly
brilliant face: the tired, wistful, harassed look of one who has
begun to quail and yet fights on.

"Will you go out with me to-morrow, Brandon, for an all-day trip
in the car?" she asked, as they stood together before the open
fireplace on this late November afternoon. Her eyes were moody,
her voice rather lifeless.

"Certainly," he said, watching her closely. Was the break about to
come?

"I will stop for you at nine." After a short pause, she looked up
and said: "I suppose you would like to know where I am taking you."

"It doesn't matter, Sara."

"I want you to go with me to Burton's Inn."

"Burton's Inn?"

"That is the place where my husband was killed," she said, quite
steadily.

He started. "Oh! But--do you think it best, Sara, to open old wounds
by--"

"I have thought it all out, Brandon. I want to go there--just once.
I want to go into that room again."




CHAPTER XX

ONCE MORE AT BURTON'S INN


Again Sara Wrandall found herself in that never-to-be-forgotten
room at Burton's Inn. On that grim night in March, she had entered
without fear or trembling because she knew what was there. Now she
quaked with a mighty chill of terror, for she knew not what was
there in the quiet, now sequestered room. Burton had told them on
their arrival after a long drive across country that patrons of the
inn invariably asked which room it was that had been the scene of
the tragedy, and, on finding out, refused point-blank to occupy it.
In consequence, he had been obliged to transform it into a sort of
store and baggage room.

Sara stood in the middle of the murky room, for the shutters had
long been closed to the light of day, and looked about her in awe
at the heterogeneous mass of boxes, trunks, bundles and rubbish,
scattered over the floor without care or system. She had closed
the door behind her and was quite alone. Light sneaked in through
the cracks in the shutters, but so meagrely that it only served to
increase the gloom. A dismantled bedstead stood heaped up in the
corner. She did not have to be told what bed it was. The mattress
was there too, rolled up and tied with a thick garden rope. She
knew there were dull, ugly blood-stains upon it. Why the thrifty
Burton had persevered in keeping this useless article of furniture,
she could only surmise. Perhaps it was held as an inducement to the
morbidly curious who always seek out the gruesome and gloat even
as they shudder.

For a long time she stood immovable just inside the door, recalling
the horrid picture of another day. She tried to imagine the scene
that had been enacted there with gentle, lovable Hetty Glynn and
her whilom husband as the principal characters. The girl had told
the whole story of that ugly night. Sara tried to see it as it
actually had transpired. For months this present enterprise had
been in her mind: the desire to see the place again, to go there
with old impressions which she could leave behind when ready to
emerge in a new frame of mind. It was here that she meant to shake
off the shackles of a horrid dream, to purge herself of the last
vestige of bitterness, to cleanse her mind of certain thoughts and
memories.

Downstairs Booth waited for her. He heard the story of the tragedy
from the surly inn-keeper, who crossly maintained that his business
had been ruined. Booth was vaguely impressed, he knew not why, by
Burton's description of the missing woman. "I'd say she was about
the size of Mrs. Wrandall herself, and much the same figger," he
said, as he had said a thousand times before. "My wife noticed it
the minute she saw Mrs. Wrandall. Same height and everything."

A bell rang sharply and Burton glanced over his shoulder at the
indicator on the wall behind the desk. He gave a great start and
his jaw sagged.

"Great Scott!" he gasped. A curious greyness stole over his face.
"It's--it's the bell in that very room. My soul, what can--"

"Mrs. Wrandall is up there, isn't she?" demanded Booth.

"It ain't rung since the night he pushed the button for--Oh, gee!
You're right. She IS up there. My, what a scare it gave me." He
wiped his brow. Turning to a boy, he commanded him to answer the
bell. The boy went slowly, and as he went he removed his hands from
his pockets. He came back an instant later, more swiftly than he
went, with the word that "the lady up there" wanted Mr. Booth to
come upstairs.

She was waiting for him in the open doorway. A shaft of bright
sunlight from a window at the end of the hall fell upon her. Her
face was colourless, haggard. He paused for an instant to contrast
her as she stood there in the pitiless light with the vivid creature
he had put upon canvas so recently.

She beckoned to him and turned back into the room. He followed.

"This is the room, Brandon, where my husband met the death he
deserved," she said quietly.

"Deserved? Good heavens, Sara, are you--"

"I want you to look about you and try to picture how this place
looked on the night of the murder. You have a vivid imagination.
None of this rubbish was here. Just a bed, a table and two chairs.
There was a carpet on the floor. There were two people here, a man
and a woman. The woman had trusted the man. She trusted him until
the hour in which he died. Then she found him out. She had come to
this place, believing it was to be her wedding night. She found no
minister here. The man laughed at her and scoffed. Then she knew.
In horror, shame, desperation she tried to break away from him.
He was strong. She was a good woman; a virtuous, honourable woman.
She saved herself."

He was staring at her with dilated eyes. Slowly the truth was being
borne in upon him.

"The woman was--Hetty?" came hoarsely from his stiffening lips.
"My God, Sara!"

She came close to him and spoke in a half-whisper. "Now you know
the secret. Is it safe with you?"

He opened his lips to speak, but no words came forth. Paralysis
seemed to have gripped not only his throat but his senses. He
reeled. She grasped his arm in a tense, fierce way, and whispered:

"Be careful! No one must hear what we are saying." She shot a glance
down the deserted hall. "No one is near. I made sure of that. Don't
speak! Think first--think well, Brandon Booth. It is what you have
been seeking for months:--the truth. You share the secret with us
now. Again I ask, is it safe with you?"

"My God!" he muttered again, and passed his hand over his eyes.
His brow was wet. He looked at his fingers dumbly as if expecting
to find them covered with blood.

"Is it safe with you?" for the third time.

"Safe? Safe?" he whispered, following her example without knowing
that he did so. "I--I can't believe you, Sara. It can't be true."

"It IS true."

"You have known--all the time?"

"From that night when I stood where we are standing now."

"And--and--SHE?"

"I had never seen her until that night. I saved her."

He dropped suddenly upon the trunk that stood behind him, and
buried his face in his hands. For a long time she stood over him,
her interest divided between him and the hall, wherein lay their
present peril.

"Come," she said at last. "Pull yourself together. We must leave
this place. If you are not careful, they will suspect something
downstairs."

He looked up with haggard eyes, studying her face with curious
intentness.

"What manner of woman are you, Sara?" he questioned, slowly,
wonderingly.

"I have just discovered that I am very much like other women, after
all," she said. "For awhile I thought I was different, that I was
stronger than my sex. But I am just as weak, just as much to be
pitied, just as much to be scorned as any one of my sisters. I have
spoiled a great act by stooping to do a mean one. God will bear
witness that my thoughts were noble at the outset; my heart was
soft. But, come! There is much more to tell that cannot be told
here. You shall know everything."

They went downstairs and out into the crisp autumn air. She gave
directions to her chauffeur. They were to traverse for some distance
the same road she had taken on that ill-fated night a year and a
half before. In course of time the motor approached a well-remembered
railway crossing.

"Slow down, Cole," she said. "This is a mean place--a very mean
place." Turning to Booth, who had been sitting grim and silent
beside her for miles, she said, lowering her voice: "I remember
that crossing yonder. There is a sharp curve beyond. This is the
place.  Midway between the two crossings, I should say. Please
remember this part of the road, Brandon, when I come to the telling
of that night's ride to town. Try to picture this spot--this smooth,
straight road as it might be on a dark, freezing night in the very
thick of a screaming blizzard, with all the world abed save--two
women."

[Illustration: For a long time she stood over him, her interest
divided between him and the hall]

In his mind he began to draw the picture, and to place the two women
in the centre of it, without knowing the circumstances. There was
something fascinating in the study he was making, something gruesome
and full of sinister possibilities for the hand of a virile painter.
He wondered how near his imagination was to placing the central
figures in the picture as they actually appeared on that secret
night.

At sunset they went together to the little pavilion at the end
of the pier which extended far out into the Sound. Here they were
safe from the ears of eavesdroppers. The boats had been stowed away
for the winter. The wind that blew through the open pavilion, now
shorn of all its comforts and luxuries, was cold, raw and repelling.
No one would disturb them here.

With her face set toward the sinking east, she leaned against one
of the thick posts, and, in a dull, emotionless voice, laid bare
the whole story of that dreadful night and the days that followed.
She spared no details, she spared not herself in the narration.

He did not once interrupt her. All the time she was speaking he was
studying the profile of her face as if fascinated by its strange
immobility. For the matter of a full half-hour he sat on the rail,
his back against a post, his arms folded across the breast of the
thick ulster he wore, staring at her, drinking in every word of
the story she told. A look of surprise crept into his face when
she came to the point where the thought of marrying Hetty to the
brother of her victim first began to manifest itself in her designs.
For a time the look of incredulity remained, to be succeeded by utter
scorn as she went on with the recital. Her reasons, her excuses,
her explanations for this master-stroke in the way of compensation
for all that she had endured at the hands of the scornful Wrandalls,
all of whom were hateful to her without exception, stirred him
deeply.  He began to understand the forces that compelled her to
resort to this Machiavellian plan for revenge on them. She admitted
everything: her readiness to blight Hetty's life for ever; her
utter callousness in laying down these ugly plans; her surpassing
vindictiveness; her reflections on the triumph she was to enjoy when
her aims were fully attained. She confessed to a genuine pity for
Hetty Castleton from the beginning, but it was outweighed by that
thing she could only describe as an obsession!...How she hated
the Wrandalls!...Then came the real awakening: when the truth came
to her as a revelation from God. Hetty had not been to blame. The
girl was innocent of the one sin that called for vengeance so far
as she was concerned. The slaying of Challis Wrandall was justified!
All these months she had been harbouring a woman she believed
to have been his mistress as well as his murderess. It was not so
much the murderess that she would have foisted upon the Wrandalls
as a daughter, but the mistress!...She loved the girl, she had
loved her from that first night. Back of it all, therefore, lay the
stern, unsuspected truth: from the very beginning she instinctively
had known this girl to be innocent of guile....Her house of cards
fell down. There was nothing left of the plans on which it had
been constructed. It had all been swept away, even as she strove
to protect it against destruction, and the ground was strewn with
the ashes of fires burnt out....She was shocked to find that she
had even built upon the evil spot! Almost word for word she repeated
Hetty's own story of her meeting with Challis Wrandall, and how she
went, step by step and blindly, to the last scene in the tragedy,
when his vileness, his true nature was revealed to her. The girl
had told her everything. She had thought herself to be in love
with Wrandall. She was carried away by his protestations. She was
infatuated. (Sara smiled to herself as she spoke of this. She knew
Challis Wrandall's charm!) The girl believed in him implicitly.
When he took her to Burton's Inn it was to make her his wife, as
she supposed. He had arranged everything. Then came the truth. She
defended herself....

"I came upon her in the road on that wild night, Brandon, at the
place I pointed out. Can you picture her as I have described her?
Can you picture her despair, her hopelessness, her misery? I have
told you everything, from beginning to end. You know how she came
to me, how I prepared her for the sacrifice, how she left me. I
have not written to her. I cannot. She must hate me with all her
soul, just as I have hated the Wrandalls, but with greater reason,
I confess. She would have given herself up to the law long ago, if
it had not been for exposing me to the world as her defender, her
protector. She knew she was not morally guilty of the crime of
murder. In the beginning she was afraid. She did not know our land,
our laws. In time she came to understand that she was in no real
peril, but then it was too late. A confession would have placed
me in an impossible position. You see, she thought of me all this
time.  She loved me as no woman ever loved another. Was not I the
wife of the man she had killed, and was not I the noblest of all
women in her eyes? God! And to think of what I had planned for
her!"

This was the end of the story.

The words died away in a sort of whimpering wail, falling in with
the wind to be lost to his straining ears. Her head drooped, her
arms hung limply at her side.

For a long time he sat there in silence, looking out over the
darkening water, unwilling, unable indeed, to speak. His heart was
full of compassion for her, mingling strangely with what was left
of scorn and horror. What could he say to her?

At last she turned to him. "Now you know all that I can tell you of
Hetty Castleton,--of Hetty Glynn. You could not have forced this
from me, Brandon. She WOULD not tell you. It was left for me to do
in my own good time. Well, I have spoken. What have you to say?"

"I can only say, Sara, that I thank God for EVERYTHING," he said
slowly.

"For everything?"

"I thank God for you, for her and for everything. I thank God that
she found him out in time, that she killed him, that you shielded
her, that you failed to carry out your devilish scheme, and that
your heart is very sore to-day."

"You do not despise me?"

"No. I am sorry for you."

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't want you to feel sorry for me."

"You don't understand. I am sorry for you because you have found
yourself out and must be despising yourself."

"You have guessed the truth. I despise myself. But what could be
expected of me?" she asked ironically. "As the Wrandalls would say,
'blood will tell.'"

"Nonsense! Don't talk like that! It is quite unworthy of you. In
spite of everything, Sara, you are wonderful. The very thing you
tried to do, the way you went about it, the way you surrender, makes
for greatness in you. If you had gone on with it and succeeded,
that fact alone would have put you in the class with the great,
strong, virile women of history. It--"

"With the Medicis, the Borgias and--" she began bitterly.

"Yes, with them. But they were great women, just the same. You
are greater, for you have more than they possessed: a conscience.
I wish I could tell you just what I feel. I haven't the words. I--"

"I only want you to tell me the truth. Do you despise me?"

"Again I say that I do not. I can only say that I regard you
with--yes, with AWE."

"As one might think of a deadly serpent."

"Hardly that," he said, smiling for the first time. He crossed
over and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Don't think too meanly
of yourself. I understand it all. You lived for months without a
heart, that's all."

"You put it very gently."

"I think I'm right. Now, you've got it back, and it's hungry for
the sweet, good things of life. You want to be happy. You want to
love again and to be loved. You don't want to be pitied. I understand.
It's the return of a heart that went away long months ago and left
an empty place that you filled with gall. The bitterness is gone.
There is something sweet in its place. Am I not right?"

She hesitated. "If you mean that I want to be loved by my enemies,
Brandon, you are wrong," she said clearly. "I have not been chastened
in that particular."

"You mean the Wrandalls?"

"It is not in my nature to love my enemies. We stand on the same
footing as before, and always shall. They understand me, I understand
them. I am glad that my project failed, not for their sake, but
for my own."

He was silent. This woman was beyond him. He could not understand
a nature like this.

"You say nothing. Well, I can't ask you to understand. We will not
discuss my enemies, but my friends. What do you intend to do in
respect to Hetty?"

"I am going to make her my wife," he said levelly.

She turned away. It was now quite dark. He could not see the
expression on her face.

"What you have heard does not weaken your love for her?"

"No. It strengthens it."

"You know what she has done. She has taken a life with her own
hands. Can you take her to your bosom, can you make her the mother
of your own children? Remember, there is blood on her hands."

"Ah, but her heart is clean!"

"True," she said moodily, "her heart is clean."

"No cleaner than yours is now, Sara."

She uttered a short, mocking laugh. "It isn't necessary to say a
thing like that to me."

"I beg your pardon."

Her manner changed abruptly. She turned to him, intense and serious.

"She is so far away, Brandon. On the other side of the world, and
she is full of loathing for me. How am I to regain what I have lost?
How am I to make her understand? She went away with that last ugly
thought of me, with the thought of me as I appeared to her on that
last, enlightening day. All these months it has been growing more
horrible to her. It has been beside her all the time. All these
months she has known that I pretended to love her as--"

"I don't believe you know Hetty as well as you think you do," he
broke in. "You forget that she loved you with all her soul. You
can't kill love so easily as all that. It will be all right, Sara.
You must write and ask her to come back. It--"

"Ah, but you don't know!" Then she related the story of the liberated
canary bird. "Hetty understands. The cage door is open.  She may
return when she chooses, but--don't you see?--she must come of her
own free will."

"You will not ask her to come?"

"No. It is the test. She will know that I have told you everything.
You will go to her. Then she may understand. If she forgives she will
come back. There is nothing else to say, nothing else to consider."

"I shall go to her at once," he said resolutely.

She gave him a quick, searching glance.

"She may refuse to marry you, even now, Brandon."

"She CAN'T!" he cried. An instant later his face fell. "By Jove,
I--I suppose the law will have to be considered now. She will at
least have to go through the form of a trial."

She whirled on him angrily. "The law? What has the law to do with
it? Don't be a fool!"

"She ought to be legally exonerated," he said.

Her fingers gripped his arm fiercely. "I want you to understand one
thing, Brandon. The story I have told you was for your ears alone.
The secret lives with us and dies with us."

He looked his relief. "Right! It must go no farther. It is not a
matter for the law to decide. You may trust me."

"I am cold," she said. He heard her teeth chatter distinctly as
she pulled the thick mantle closer about her throat and shoulders.
"It is very raw and wet down here. Come!"

As she started off along the long, narrow pier, he sprang after
her, grasping her arm. She leaned rather heavily against him for
a few steps and then drew herself up. Her teeth still chattered,
her arm trembled in his clasp.

"By Jove, Sara, this is bad," he cried, in distress. "You're chilled
to the marrow."

"Nerves," she retorted, and he somehow felt that her lips were set
and drawn.

"You must get to bed right away. Hot bath, mustard, and all that.
I'll not stop for dinner. Thanks just the same. I will be over in
the morning."

"When will you sail?" she asked, after a moment.

"I can't go for ten days, at least. My mother goes into the hospital
next week for an operation, as I've told you. I can't leave until
after that's over. Nothing serious, but--well, I can't go away.
I shall write to Hetty to-night, and cable her to-morrow. By the
way, I--I don't know just where to find her. You see, we were not
to write to each other. It was in the bargain. I suppose you don't
know how I can--"

"Yes, I can tell you precisely where she is. She is in Venice, but
leaves there to-morrow for Rome, by the Express."

"Then you have been hearing from her?" he cried sharply.

"Not directly. But I will say this much: there has not been a day
since she landed in England that I have not received news of her.
I have not been out of touch with her, Brandon, not even for an
hour."

"Good heaven, Sara! You don't mean to say you've had her shadowed
by--by detectives," he exclaimed, aghast.

"Her maid is a very faithful servant," was her ambiguous rejoinder.




CHAPTER XXI

DISTURBING NEWS


He walked home swiftly through the early night, his brain seething
with tumultuous thoughts. The revelations of the day were staggering;
the whole universe seemed to have turned topsy-turvy since that
devastating hour at Burton's Inn. Somehow he was not able to confine
his thoughts to Hetty Castleton alone. She seemed to sink into the
background, despite the absolution he had been so ready, so eager
to grant her on hearing the story from Sara's lips. Not that his
resolve to search her out and claim her in spite of everything was
likely to weaken, but that the absorbing figure of Sara Wrandall
stood out most clearly in his reflections.

What an amazing creature she was! He could not drive her out of his
thoughts, even when he tried to concentrate them on the one person
who was dearest to him of all in all the world, his warm-hearted,
adorable Hetty. Strange contrasts suggested themselves to him as he
strode along, head bent and shoulders hunched. He could not help
contrasting the two women. He loved Hetty; he would always love her,
of that he was positive. She was Sara's superior in every respect,
infinitely so, he argued. And yet there was something in Sara that
could crowd this adored one, this perfect one out of his thoughts
for the time being. He found it difficult to concentrate his thoughts
on Hetty Castleton.

How white and ill Sara had looked when she said good-night to him
at the door! The memory of her dark, mysterious eyes haunted him;
he could see them in the night about him. They had been full of
pain; there were torrents of tears behind them. They had glistened
as if burnished by the fires of fever.

Even as he wrote his long, triumphant letter to Hetty Castleton,
the picture of Sara Wrandall encroached upon his mental vision. He
could not drive it out. He thought of her as she had appeared to
him early in the spring; through all the varying stages of their
growing intimacy; through the interesting days when he vainly tried
to translate her matchless beauty by means of wretched pigments;
up to this present hour in which she was revealed, and yet not
revealed, to him. Her vivid face was always before him, between
his eyes and the thin white paper on which he scribbled so eagerly.
Her feverish eyes were looking into his; she was reading what he
wrote before it appeared on the surface of the sheet!

His letter to Hetty was a triumph of skill and diplomacy, achieved
after many attempts. He found it hard not to say too much, and
quite as difficult not to say too little. He spent hours over this
all-important missive. At last it was finished. He read and re-read
it, searching for the slightest flaw: a fatal word or suggestion that
might create in her mind the slightest doubt as to his sincerity.
She was sure to read this letter a great many times, and always
with the view to finding something between the lines: such as pity,
resignation, an enforced conception of loyalty, or even faith! He
meant that she should find nothing there but love. It was full of
tenderness, full of hope, full of promise. He was coming to her
with a steadfast, enduring love in his heart, he wanted her now
more than ever before.

There was no mention of Challis Wrandall, and but once was Sara's
name used. There was nothing in the letter that could have betrayed
their joint secret to the most acute outsider, and yet she would
understand that he had wrung everything from Sara's lips. Her secret
was his.

He decided that it would not be safe to anticipate the letter by a
cablegram. It was not likely that any message he could send would
have the desired effect. Instead of reassuring her, in all probability
it would create fresh alarm.

Sleep did not come to him until after three o'clock. At two he got
up and deliberately added a postscript to the letter he had written.
It was in the nature of a poignant plea for Sara Wrandall. Even as
he penned the lines, he shuddered at the thought of what she had
planned to do to Hetty Castleton. Staring hard at the black window
before him, the pen still in his hand, he allowed his thoughts
to dwell so intimately on the subject of his well-meant postcript
that her ashen face with its burning eyes seemed to take shape in
the night beyond. It was a long time before he could get rid of
the illusion. Afterwards he tried to conjure up Hetty's face and
to drive out the likeness of the other woman, and found that he
could not recall a single feature in the face of the girl he loved!

When he reached Southlook in the morning, he found that nearly all
of the doors and windows were boarded up. Wagons were standing in
the stable-yard, laden with trunks and crates. Servants without
livery were scurrying about the halls. There was an air of finality
about their movements. The place was being desolated.

"Yes, sir," said Watson, in reply to his question, "we ARE in a
rush. Mrs. Wrandall expects to close the 'ouse this evening, sir.
We all go up this afternoon. I suppose you know, sir, we 'ave
taken a new apartment in town."

"No!" exclaimed Booth.

"Yes, sir, we 'ave, sir. They've been decorating it for the pawst
two weeks. Seems like she didn't care for the old one we 'ad. As
a matter of fact, I didn't care much for it, either. She's taken
one of them hexpensive ones looking out over the Park, sir. You
know we used to look out over Madison Avenue, sir, and God knows it
wasn't hinspirin'. Yes, sir, we go up this afternoon. Mrs. Wrandall
will be down in a second, thank you, sir."

Booth actually was startled by her appearance when she entered the
room a few minutes later. She looked positively ill.

"My dear Sara," he cried anxiously, "this is too bad. You are making
yourself ill. Come, come, this won't do."

"I shall be all right in a day or two," she said, with a weary little
gesture. "I have been nervous. The strain was too great, Brandon.
This is the reaction, the relaxation you might say."

"Your hand is hot, your eyes look feverish. You'd better see your
doctor as soon as you get to town. An ounce of prevention, you
know."

"Well," she said, with a searching look into his eyes, "have you
written to her?"

"Yes. Posted it at seven o'clock this morning."

"I trust you did not go so far as to--well, to volunteer a word in
my behalf. You were not to do that, you know."

He looked uncomfortable. "I'm afraid I did take your name in vain,"
he equivocated. "You are a--a wonderful woman, Sara," he went on,
moved to the remark by a curious influence that he could not have
explained any more than he could have accounted for the sudden gush
of emotion that took possession of him.

She ignored the tribute. "You will persuade her to come to New York
with you?"

"For your sake, Sara, if she won't come for mine."

"She knows the cage is open," was her way of dismissing the subject.
"I am glad you came over. I have a letter from Leslie. It came this
morning. You may be interested in what he has to say of Hetty--and
of yourself." She smiled faintly. "He is determined that you shall
not be without a friend while he is alive."

"Les isn't such a rotter, Sara. He's spoiled, but he is hardly to
be blamed for that."

"I will read his letter to you," she said, and there was no little
significance in the way she put it. She held the letter in her
hand, but he had failed to notice it before. Now he saw that it
was a crumpled ball of paper. He was obliged to wait for a minute
or two while she restored it to a readable condition. "He was in
London when this was written," she explained, turning to the window
for light. She glanced swiftly over the first page until she found
the place where she meant to begin. "'I suppose Hetty Castleton has
written that we met in Lucerne two weeks ago,'" she read. "'Curious
coincidence in connexion with it, too. I was with her father, Col.
Braid Castleton, when we came upon her most unexpectedly. I ran
across him in Paris just before the aviation meet, and got to know
him rather well. He's a fine chap, don't you think? I confess I was
somewhat surprised to learn that he didn't know she'd left America.
He explained it quite naturally, however. He'd been ill in the
north of Ireland and must have missed her letters. Hetty was on
the point of leaving for Italy. We didn't see much of her. But,
by Jove, Sara, I am more completely gone on her than ever. She is
adorable. Now that I've met her father, who had the beastly misfortune
to miss old Murgatroyd's funeral, I can readily see wherein the
saying "blood will tell" applies to her. He is a prince. He came
over to London with me the day after we left Hetty in Lucerne, and
I had him in to meet mother and Vivian at Clarridge's. They like
him immensely. He set us straight on a good many points concerning
the Glynn and Castleton families. Of course, I knew they were among
the best over here, but I didn't know how fine they were until we
prevailed on him to talk a little about himself. You will be glad
to hear that he is coming over with us on the Mauretania. She sails
the 27th. We'll be on the water by the time you get this letter.
It had been our intention to sail last week, but the Colonel had
to go to Ireland for a few days to settle some beastly squabbles
among the tenants.  Next year he wants me to come over for the
shooting. He isn't going back to India for two years, you may be
interested to hear. Two years' leave. Lots of influence, believe me!
We've been expecting him back in London since day before yesterday.
I dare say he found matters worse than he suspected and has
been delayed. He has been negotiating for the sale of some of his
property in Belfast--factory sites, I believe. He is particularly
anxious to close the deal before he leaves England. Had to lift a
mortgage on the property, however, before he could think of making
the sale. I staked him to four thousand pounds, to tide him over.
Of course, he is eager to make the sale. 'Gad, I almost had to beg
him to take the money.  Terribly proud and haughty, as the butler
would say. He said he wouldn't sleep well until he has returned the
filthy lucre. We are looking for him back any hour now. But if he
shouldn't get here by Friday, we will sail without him. He said he
would follow by the next boat, in case anything happened that he
didn't catch the Mauretania.'"

Sara interrupted herself to offer an ironic observation: "If Hetty
did not despise her father so heartily, I should advise you to look
farther for a father-in-law, Brandon. The Colonel is a bad lot.
Estates in the north of Ireland! Poor Leslie!" She laughed softly.

"He'll not show up, eh?"

"Not a bit of it," she said. "He may be charged to profit and loss
in Leslie's books. This part of the letter will interest you,"
she went on, as if all that had gone before was of no importance
to him.  "'I hear interesting news concerning you, my dear girl.
My heartiest congratulations if it is all true. Brandy is one in
a million. I have hoped all along to have him as a full-fledged
brother-in-law, but I'm satisfied to have him as a sort of
step-brother-in-law, if that's the way you'd put it. Father writes
that every one is talking about it, and saying what a fine thing
it is. He has a feeling of delicacy about approaching you in the
matter, and I fancy it's just as well until everything is settled. I
wish you'd let me make a suggestion, however. Wouldn't it be wise
to let us all get together and talk over the business end of the
game? Brandy's a fine chap, a corker, in fact, but the question is:
has he got it in him to take Challis's place in the firm? You've
got to consider the future as well as the present, my dear. We
all do. With his artistic temperament he might play hob with your
interests, and ours too, for that matter. Wouldn't it be wise for
me to sound him a bit before we take him into the firm? Forgive
me for suggesting this, but, as you know, your interests are mine,
and I'm terribly keen about seeing you get the best of everything.
By the way, wasn't he a bit gone on Hetty? Passing fancy, of course,
and not deep enough to hurt anybody. Good old Brandy!'"

"There is more, Brandon, but it's of no consequence," she said,
tossing the letter upon the table. "You see how the land lays."

Booth was pale with annoyance. "By Jove, Sara, what an insufferable
ass he is!"

"The shoe pinches?"

"Oh, it's such perfect rot! I'm sorry on your account. Have you
ever heard of such gall?"

"Oh, he is merely acting as the family spokesman. I can see them
now in solemn conclave. They think it their indisputable right to
select a husband for me, to pass upon him, to accept or decline
him as they see fit, to say whether he is a proper man to hang up
his hat and coat in the offices of Wrandall & Co."

"Do you mean to say--"

"Let's not talk about it, Brandon. It is too silly."

They fell to discussing her plans for the immediate future, although
the minds of both were at work with something else.

"Now that I have served my purpose, I suppose you will not care to
see so much of me," she said, as he prepared to take leave of her.

"Served your purpose? What do you mean?"

"I should have put it differently. You have been most assiduous in
your efforts to force the secret from me. It has been accomplished.
Now do you understand?"

"That isn't fair, Sara," he protested. "If you'll let me come
to see you, in spite of what the gossips and Mr. Redmond Wrandall
predict, you may be sure I will be as much in evidence as ever. I
suppose I have been a bit of a nuisance, hanging on as I have."

"I admire your perseverance. More than that, I admire your courage
in accepting the situation as you have. I only hope you may win
her over to your way of thinking, Brandon. Good-bye."

"I shall go up to town to-morrow, kit and bag. When shall I see
you?  We have a great deal left to talk about before I sail."

"Come when you like."

"You really want me to come?"

"Certainly."

He studied her pale, tired face for a moment, and then shook his
head. "You must take care of yourself," he said. "You are unstrung.
Get a good rest and--and forget certain things if you can.  Everything
will come out all right in the end."

"It depends on what one is willing to accept as the end," she said.

The next morning she received an expected visitor at her apartment.
Expecting him, she made a desperate effort to appear as strong and
unconcerned as she had been on the occasion of a former meeting.
There was little in her appearance to suggest worry, illness
or alarm when she entered the rather unsettled little library and
confronted the redoubtable Mr. Smith.

The detective had dropped her a line earlier in the week asking
for an audience at the earliest possible moment.

"You are worried, madam," he said, after he had carefully closed
the door leading to the hall, "and so am I."

"What do you want now?" she demanded. "You have received your money.
There is nothing else that we--"

"Beg pardon, Mrs. Wrandall, but there is something else. I'm not
after more money, as you may suspect. The size of the matter is,
I'm here to put you wise to what's going on without your knowing
anything about it. Right or wrong, I'm still interested in this
case of yours. Understand me, I haven't lifted a finger since that
day in the country. I've quit cold, just as I said I would. The
trouble is, other people are still nosing around."

"Sit down, Mr. Smith. Now, tell me what you are here for."

Smith followed her example and sat down, drawing a chair quite
close to hers. He lowered his voice.

"Well, I've got next to something I think you ought to know. Maybe
old man Wrandall is back of it, but I don't think he is. You see,
so far as outsiders are concerned, that reward still stands. A
murder's a murder and that's all there is to it. There are men in
this business who are going to hunt for that woman until they get
her.  See what I mean?"

"Please go on. I suppose some one else suspects me, and may have to
be bought off," she said so significantly that he turned a bright
red.

"Now don't think that of me, Mrs. Wrandall. I am not in on this,
I swear. You paid me of your own free will and I laid down on the
job.  I don't deny that I expected you to do it. I'm not what you'd
call a model of virtue and integrity. I served time in the pen a
good many years ago. They say it takes a thief to catch a thief.
That's not true. A detective has to be dead honest or the thief
catches him. I think most of the men in my business are honest.
They have to be.  You may not agree with me, but I thought I was
doing the square thing by you last summer. I had a theory and I
was honest in believing it was the right one. I thought you'd pay
me to drop the matter. I'm now dead sure I was wrong in suspecting
you for a minute. I'm no fool. I--"

Sara interrupted him.

"Will you be good enough to come to the point, Mr. Smith?" she said
coldly.

"Well," he said, leaning forward and speaking very deliberately,
"I've come here to tell you that the police haven't quit on the
job.  They're about to make a worse mistake than I made."

She felt herself turn pale. It required a great effort of the will
to suppress the start that might have betrayed her to the keen-eyed
observer.

"That would be impossible, Mr. Smith," she said, shaking her head
and smiling.

"They've been watching that Ashtley girl you sent out West just
after the--er--thing happened. The show-girl, you'll remember."

He must have observed the swift look of relief that leaped into
her eyes.

"What arrant stupidity," she cried, unable to choose her words.
"Why, that unhappy girl is dying a slow and awful death. Surely they
can't be hounding her now. Her innocence was clearly established at
the time. That is why I felt it to be my duty to help her. She went
out to her old home, to die or to get well. They must be fools."

"I'm just telling you, Mrs. Wrandall, that's all. Maybe you can
call 'em off, if you know for a certainty that she's innocent."
There was something accusing in his manner.

She became very cautious. "My opinion was formed upon the girl's
story, and by what the police said after investigating it thoroughly."

"It's a way the police have, madam. They were not satisfied at
the time. They simply gave her the rope, that's all. All this time
they've had men watching her, day by day, out there in Montana.
They say they've got new evidence, a lot of it."

"It is perfectly ridiculous," she cried, very much distressed. "And
it must be stopped. I shall see the authorities at once."

"You may be too late. I heard last night that she is to be re-arrested
out there and put through a fierce examination. They believe she's
weakening and will confess if they go after her hard enough."

"Confess? How can she confess when she knows she is innocent?" she
said sharply.

"You don't know much about the third degree, Mrs. Wrandall. I've
known innocent people to confess under the bullying--"

"It must be stopped! Do you hear me? This: thing cannot go on."
She began to pace the floor in her agitation. "Yes, I have heard
of those third degree atrocities. You are right, they may brow-beat
the poor, sick thing into a confession. Does she know they have
been watching her?"

"Sure. That's part of the game. They make it a point to get on the
nerves. Something is bound to give, sooner or later. They've got
her scared to death. She knows they're simply waiting for a chance
to catch her unawares and trip her up. I tell you, it's a fearful
strain. Strong men go down under it time and again. What must it
be to this half-dead girl, who hasn't much to be proud of in life
at the very best?"

"Tell me what to do," she cried, sitting down again, her eyes
suddenly filling with tears.

"I don't know, ma'am. You see, if we had a grain of proof to work
on, we might be able to turn 'em back, but there's the rub. We can't
say they're wrong without having something up our sleeves to show
that we are right. See what I mean?"

"But I tell you she is innocent!"

"Can you swear to that, Mrs. Wrandall?"

"I--I believe I can," she said, and then experienced a sharp sense
of dismay. What possessed her to say it? "That is, I could stake
my--"

"All that won't count for anything, if they get a signed confession
out of her. Now we both know she is innocent. I'm willing to do
what I can to help you. Turn about is fair play. If you want to
send me out there, I'll try to spike their guns. Maybe I can get
there in time to put fresh heart in the girl. She's safe if she
doesn't go to pieces and say something she oughtn't to say."

"Oh, this is dreadful," she cried, harassed beyond words.

"It sure is. You see, the police work on the theory that some
one's just got to be guilty of that crime. If it ain't the girl
out yonder, then who is it? They know her private history. She said
enough when she was in custody last year to show that she might
have had a pretty good reason for going after your husband--begging
your pardon. You remember she said he'd given her the go-by not
more than two days before he was killed. They'd been good friends
up to then.  All of a sudden he chucks her, without ceremony. She
admits she was sore about it. She says she would have done him
dirt if she had had the chance. Well, that's against her. She did
prove an alibi, as you remember, but they're easy to frame up if
necessary. I don't think she was clever enough to do the job and
get away as slick as the real one did. She was a booze-fighter in
those days. They always mess things up. A mighty smooth party did
that job. Some one with a good deal more at stake than that poor,
reckless girl who didn't care much what became of her. But the
trouble is here: they've got her half crazy with fear. First thing
we know, she'll go clear off her head and BELIEVE she did it.
Then the law will be satisfied.  She's so far gone, I hear, that
she won't live to be brought to trial, of course. There's some
consolation in that."

"Consolation!" cried Sara bitterly. "She is bad, as bad as a woman
can be, I know, but I can't feel anything but pity for her now."

"I guess your husband made her what she was," said Smith deliberately.
"I don't suppose you ever dreamed what was going on."

She regarded him with a fixed stare. "You are mistaken, Mr. Smith,"
she said, and it was his turn to stare. "Come back this evening
at six. I must consult Mr. Carroll. We will decide what action to
take."

"I'd advise you to be quick about it, Mrs. Wrandall. Something's
bound to happen soon. The time is ripe. I know for a positive fact
that they're expecting news from out there every day. It'd be a God's
blessing if the poor wretch could die before they get a chance at
her."

She started. "A God's blessing," she repeated dully.

"Pretty hard lines, though," he mused, fumbling with his hat near
the door. "Even death wouldn't clear her of the suspicion. Pretty
tough to be branded a murderess, no matter whether you're in the
grave or out of it. I'll be back at six."

She stood perfectly still, and, although her lips were parted,
she allowed him to go without a word in, response to his sombre
declaration.

Half an hour later Mr. Carroll was on his way to her apartment,
vastly perturbed by the call that had come to him over the telephone.

While waiting for him to appear, Sara Wrandall deliberately set
herself to the task of concocting a likely and plausible excuse
for intervention in behalf of the wretched show-girl. She prepared
herself for his argument that the police might be right after all,
and that it would be the better part of wisdom to shift the burden
to their shoulders. She knew she would be called upon to discount
some very sensible advice from the faithful old lawyer. Her reasons
would have to be good ones, not mere whims. He was not likely to
be moved by sentimentality. Moreover, he had once expressed doubt
as to the girl's innocence.

It did not once occur to her that it was Mr. Carroll's business to
respect the secrets of his clients.




CHAPTER XXII

THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND


To her secret amazement, the old lawyer did not offer a single protest
when she repeated her convictions that the girl was innocent and
should be protected against herself as well as against the police.
There was something very disquieting in the way he acquiesced. She
began to experience a vague, uneasy sense of wonder and apprehension.

"I am beginning to agree with that amiable scoundrel, Smith,"
he said, fixing his inscrutable gaze on the snapping coals in the
fireplace. "A cleverer woman than this Miss--er--What's-Her-Name
managed that affair at Burton's Inn."

She watched his face closely. Somehow she felt that he was about
to mention the name of the woman he suspected, and it seemed to
her that her heart stood still during the moment of suspense.

He lifted his eyes to her face. She saw something in them that set
her to trembling.

"Why not be fair with me, Sara?" he asked calmly. She stared at
him, transfixed. "Who killed Challis Wrandall?"

She opened her lips to protest against this startling question,
but something rushed up from within to completely change the whole
course of her conduct; something she could not explain but which
swept away every vestige of strength, and left her weak and trembling,
open-mouthed and pallid, with the liberated truth surging up from
its prison to give itself into the keeping of this staunch, loyal
old friend and counsellor.

Carroll heard her through to the very end of the story without
an interruption. Then he crossed over and laid his hands on her
shoulders; there was a gleam of relief and satisfaction in his
eyes.

"I am sorry you did not come to me with all this in the beginning,
Sara. A few words from me,--kindly words, my dear,--would have
shown you the error of your ways and you would have cast out the
ugly devils that beset you. You would not have planned the thing
you are so ashamed of now. Together we could have protected Hetty
and she would not be your accuser now. You began nobly. I am sorry
you have the other part of it to look back upon. But you may rest
assured of one thing: you and Miss Castleton have nothing to fear.
We will keep the secret, if needs be, but if it should come to the
worst no harm would result to her through the law. The main thing
now is to protect that unhappy girl out West against the inquisition."

She sat with bowed head.

When Smith returned at six o'clock, he found not only Mr. Carroll
waiting for him but Brandon Booth as well. His instructions were
clearly defined and concise. He was to proceed without delay to
Montana, where he was to bolster up the frail girl's courage and
prevent if possible the disaster. Moreover, he was to assure her
that Challis Wrandall's wife forgave her and would contest every
effort made by the police to lay the crime at her door. He was
empowered to engage legal counsel on his arrival in the Western
town and to fight every move of the police, not only in behalf of
the girl herself, but of Sara Wrandall, who thus publicly pronounced
her faith in the young woman's innocence.

It was all very cleverly thought out, and Smith went away without
being much wiser than when he came. Before departing he offered
this rather sinister conclusion for Sara's benefit:

"Of course, Mrs. Wrandall, you understand that the police will
wonder why you take such an interest in this girl. They're bound to
think, and so will every one else, that you know a good deal more
about the case than you've given out. See what I mean?"

"They are at liberty to think what they like, Mr. Smith," said she.

After Smith had gone, the three discussed the advisability of
acquainting Hetty with the deplorable conditions that had arisen.

"I don't believe it would be wise to tell her," said Booth
reflectively. "She'd be sure to sacrifice herself rather than let
harm come to this girl. We couldn't stop her."

"No, she must not be told," said Sara, with finality.

"She is almost sure to find this out for herself some time,"
said the lawyer dubiously. "I think we'd better take her into our
confidence. It is only right and just, you know."

"Not at present, not at present," said Sara irritably. "It would
ruin everything."

Booth appreciated her reasons for delay much more clearly than they
appeared to the matter-of-fact lawyer.

"The girl may die at any time," he explained, addressing Mr.
Carroll, but not without a queer thrill of shame.

"That is not what I meant, Brandon," she exclaimed. "I want Hetty
to come back with but one motive in her heart. Can't you see?"

As Booth and the lawyer walked down Fifth Avenue toward the club
where they were to dine together, the latter, after a long silence,
made a remark that disturbed the young man vastly.

"She's going all to pieces, Booth. Bound to collapse. That's the
way with these strong-minded, secret, pent-up natures. She has
brooded all these months and she's been living a lie. Well, the
break has come. She's told you and me. Now, do you know what I'm
afraid will happen?"

"I think I know what's in your mind," said the younger man seriously.
"You are afraid she'll tell others?"

The lawyer tapped his forehead significantly. "It may result in
THAT."

"Never!" cried the other emphatically. "It will never be that way
with her, Mr. Carroll. Her head is as clear as--"

"Brain fever," interrupted Carroll, with a gloomy shake of his head.
"Delirium and all that sort of thing. Haven't you noticed how ill
she looks? Feverish, nervous, irritable? Well, there you are."

"It is a dreadful state of affairs," groaned Booth.

"Not especially pleasant for you, my friend."

"God knows it isn't!"

"I believe, if I were in your place, I'd rather have the truth
told broadcast than to live for ever with that peril hanging over
me. It would be better for Miss Castleton, too."

"I am not worrying over that, sir," said the other earnestly. "I
shall be able and ready to defend her, no matter what happens. To
be perfectly honest with you, I don't believe she's accountable to
any one but God in this matter. The law has no claim against her,
except in a perfunctory way. I don't deny that it is only right and
just that Wrandall's family should know the truth, if she chooses
to reveal it to them. If she doesn't, I shall be the last to suggest
it to her."

"On that point I thoroughly agree with you. The Wrandall family
should know the truth. It is--well, I came near to using the word
diabolical--to keep them in ignorance. There is something owing to
the Wrandalls, if not to the law."

"Of course they would make a merciless effort to prosecute her,"
said Booth, feeling the cold sweat start on his brow.

"I am not so sure of that, my friend," was the rather hopeful opinion
of the old man. He appeared to be weighing something in his mind,
for as they walked along he shook his head from time to time and
muttered under his breath, the while his companion maintained a
gloomy silence.

The perceptions of the astute old lawyer were not far out of the
way, as developments of the next day were to prove. When Booth called
in the afternoon at Sara's apartment, he was met by the news that
she was quite ill and could see no one,--not even him. The doctor
had been summoned during the night and had returned in the morning,
to find that she had a very high temperature. The butler could not
enlighten Booth further than this, except to add that a nurse was
coming in to take charge of Mrs. Wrandall, more for the purpose
of watching her symptoms than for anything else, he believed. At
least, so the doctor had said.

Two days passed before the distressed young man could get any definite
news concerning her condition. He unconsciously began to think of
it as a malady, not a mere illness, due of course to the remark
Carroll had dropped. It was Carroll himself who gave a definite
report of Sara. He met the lawyer coming away from the apartment
when he called to inquire.

"She isn't out of her head, or anything like that," said Carroll
uneasily, "but she's in a bad way, Booth. She is worrying over
that girl out West, of course, but I'll tell you what I think is
troubling her more than anything else. Down in her heart she realises
that Hetty Castleton has got to be brought face to face with the
Wrandalls."

"The deuce you say!"

"To-day I saw her for the first time. Almost immediately she asked
me if I thought the Wrandalls would treat Hetty fairly if they
ever found out the truth about her. I said I thought they would. I
didn't have the heart to tell her that their grievance undoubtedly
would be shifted from Hetty to her, and that they wouldn't be
likely to forgive her for the stand she'd taken. She doesn't seem
to care, however, what the Wrandalls think of her. By the way, have
you any influence over Hetty Castleton?"

"I wish I were sure that I had," said Booth.

"Do you think she would come if you sent her a cablegram?"

"I am going over--"

"She will have your letter in a couple of days, according to Sara,
who seems to have a very faithful correspondent in the person of
that maid. I shudder to think of the cable tolls in the past few
months! I sometimes wonder if the maid suspects anything more than
a loving interest in Miss Castleton. What I was about to suggest
is this: Couldn't you cable her on Friday saying that Sara is very
ill?  This is Tuesday. We'll be having word from Smith to-morrow,
I should think."

"I will cable, of course, but Sara must not know that I've done
it."

"Can you come to my office to-morrow afternoon?"

"Yes. To-morrow night I shall go over to Philadelphia, to be gone
till Friday. I hope it will not be necessary for me to stay longer.
You never can tell about these operations."

"I trust everything will go well, Brandon."

Several things of note transpired before noon on Friday.

The Wrandalls arrived from Europe, without the recalcitrant Colonel.
Mr. Redmond Wrandall, who met them at the dock, heaved a sigh of
relief.

"He will be over on the Lusitania, next sailing," said Leslie, who
for some reason best known to himself wore a troubled look.

Mr. Wrandall's face fell. "I hope not," he said, much to the
indignation of his wife and the secret uneasiness of his son. "These
predatory connections of the British nobility--"

"Predatory!" gasped Mrs. Wrandall.

"--are a blood-sucking lot," went on the old gentleman firmly. "If
he comes to New York, Leslie, I'll stake my head he won't be long
in borrowing a few thousand dollars from each of us. And he'll not
seek to humiliate us by attempting to pay it back. Oh, I know them."

Leslie swallowed rather hard. "What's the news here, Dad?" he asked
hastily. "Anybody dead?"

"Sara is quite ill, I hear. Slow fever of some sort, Carroll tells
me."

"Is she going to marry Brandy Booth?" asked his son.

Mr. Wrandall's face stiffened. "I fear I was a little hasty in my
conclusions. Brandon came to the office a few days ago and informed
me in rather plain words that there is absolutely nothing in the
report."

"The deuce you say! 'Gad, I wrote her a rather intimate letter--"
Leslie got no farther than this. He was somewhat stunned and
bewildered by his private reflections.

Mr. Wrandall was lost in study for some minutes, paying no attention
to the remarks of the other occupants of the motor that whirled
them across town.

"By the way, my dear," he said to his wife, a trifle irrelevantly,
"don't you think it would be right for you and Vivian to drop in
this afternoon and see Sara? just to let her know that she isn't
without--"

"It's out of the question, Redmond," said his wife, a shocked
expression in her face as much as to say that he must be quite out
of his head to suggest such a thing. "We shall be dreadfully busy
for several days, unpacking and--well, doing all sorts of NECESSARY
things."

"She is pretty sick, I hear," mumbled he.

"Hasn't she got a nurse?" demanded his wife.

"I merely offered the suggestion in order--"

"Well, we'll see her next week. Any other news?"

"Mrs. Booth, Brandon's mother, was operated on for something or
other day before yesterday."

"Oh, dear! The poor thing! Where?"

"Philadelphia, of course."

"I wonder if--let me see, Leslie, isn't there a good train to
Philadelphia at four o'clock? I could go--"

"Really, my dear," said her husband sharply.

"You forget how busy we are, mother," said Vivian, without a smile.

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Wrandall, in considerable confusion. "Was it
a serious operation, Redmond?"

"They cut a bone out of her nose, that's all. Brandon says her heart
is weak. They were afraid of the ether. She's all right, Carroll
says."

"Goodness!" cried Mrs. Wrandall. One might have suspected a note
of disappointment in her voice.

"I shall go up to see Sara this afternoon," said Vivian calmly.
"What's the number of her new apartment?"

"YOU have been up to see her, of course," said Mrs. Wrandall acidly.

He fidgetted. "I didn't hear of her illness until yesterday."

"I'll go up with you, Viv," said Leslie.

"No, you won't," said his sister flatly. "I'm going to apologise to
her for something I said to Brandon Booth. You needn't tag along,
Les."

At half-past five in the afternoon, the Wrandall limousine stopped
in front of the tall apartment building near the Park, a footman
jerked open the door, and Miss Wrandall stepped out. At the same
moment a telegraph messenger boy paused on the sidewalk to compute
the artistic but puzzling numerals on the imposing grilled doors
of the building.

Miss Wrandall had herself announced by the obsequious doorman, and
stood by in patience to wait for the absurd rule of the house to
be carried out: "No one could get in without being announced from
below," said the doorman.

"I c'n get in all right, all right," said the messenger boy, "I
got a tellygram for de loidy."

"Go to the rear!" exclaimed the doorman, with some energy.

While Miss Wrandall waited in Sara's reception hall on the tenth
floor, the messenger, having traversed a more devious route, arrived
with his message.

Watson took the envelope and told him to wait. Five minutes
passed.  Miss Wrandall grew very uncomfortable under the persistent
though complimentary gaze of the street urchin. He stared at her,
wide-eyed and admiring, his tribute to the glorious. She stared
back occasionally, narrow-eyed and reproving, HER tribute to the
grotesque.

"Will you please step into the drawing-room, Miss Wrandall," said
Watson, returning. He led her across the small foyer and threw open
a door. She passed into the room beyond.

Then he turned to the boy who stood beside the hall seat, making
change for a quarter as he approached. "Here," he said, handing
him the receipt book and a dime, "that's for you." He dropped the
quarter into his own pocket, where it mingled with coins that were
strangers to it up to that instant, and imperiously closed the
door behind the boy who failed to say "thank you." Every man to
his trade!

There was a woman in the drawing-room when Vivian entered, standing
well over against the windows with her back to the light. The
visitor stopped short in surprise. She had expected to find her
sister-in-law in bed, attended by a politely superior person in
pure white.

"Why, Sara," she began, "I am SO glad to see you are up and--"

The other woman came forward. "But I am not Sara, Miss Wrandall,"
she said, in a well-remembered voice. "How do you do?"

Vivian found herself looking into the face of Hetty Castleton.
Instantly she extended her hand.

"This IS a surprise!" she exclaimed. "When did you return? Leslie
told me your plans were quite settled when he saw you in Lucerne.
Oh, I see! Of course! How stupid of me. Sara sent for you."

"She has been quite ill," said Hetty, non-committally. "We got in
yesterday. I thought my place was here, naturally."

"Naturally," repeated Vivian, in a detached sort of way. "How is
she to-day? May I see her?"

"She is very much better. In fact, she is sitting up in her room."
A warm flush suffused her face, a shy smile appeared in her eyes.
"She is receiving two gentlemen visitors, to be perfectly honest,
Miss Wrandall, her lawyer, Mr. Carroll, and--Mr. Booth."

They were seated side by side on the uncomfortable Louis Seize
divan in the middle of the room.

"Perhaps she won't care to see me, after an audience so fatiguing,"
said Miss Wrandall sweetly. "And so exasperating," she added, with
a smile.

Hetty looked her perplexity.

"But she will see you, Miss Wrandall--if you don't mind waiting.
It is a business conference they're having."

An ironic gleam appeared in the corner of Vivian's eye. "Oh," she
said, and waited. Hetty smiled uncertainly. All at once the tall
American girl was impressed by the wistful, almost humble look in
the Englishwoman's eyes, an appealing look that caused her to wonder
not a little. Like a flash she jumped at an obvious conclusion,
and almost caught her breath. This girl loved Booth and was losing
him!  Vivian exulted for a moment and then, with an impulse she
could not quite catalogue, laid her hand on the other's slim fingers,
and murmured somewhat hazily: "Never mind, never mind!"

"Oh, you MUST wait," cried Hetty, not at all in touch with the
other's mood. "Sara expects to see you. The men will be out in a
few minutes."

"I think I will run in to-morrow morning," said Vivian hastily. She
arose almost immediately and again extended her hand. "So glad to
see you back again, Miss Castleton. Come and see me. Give my love
to Sara."

She took her departure in some haste, and in her heart she was
rejoicing that she had not succeeded in making a fool of herself
by confessing to Sara that she had said unkind things about her to
Brandon Booth.

Hetty resumed her seat in the broad French window and stared out
over the barren tree-tops in the Park. A frightened, pathetic droop
returned to her lips. It had been there most of the day.

In Sara's boudoir, the doors of which were carefully closed, three
persons were in close, even repressed conference. The young mistress
of the house sat propped up in a luxurious chaise-longue, wan but
intense. Confronting her were the two men, leaning forward in their
chairs. Mr. Carroll held in his hand a number of papers, prominent
among them being three or four telegrams. Booth's face was radiant
despite the serious matter that occupied his mind. He had reached
town early in the morning in response to a telephone message from
Carroll announcing the sudden, unannounced appearance of Hetty
Castleton at his offices on the previous afternoon. The girl's
arrival had been most unexpected. She walked in on Mr. Carroll,
accompanied by her maid, who had a distinctly sheepish look in her
eyes and seemed eager to explain something but could not find the
opportunity.

With some firmness, Miss Castleton had asked Mr. Carroll to
explain why the woman had been set to spy upon her every movement,
a demand the worthy lawyer could not very well meet for the good
and sufficient reason that he wasn't very clear about it himself.
Then Hetty broke down and cried, confessing that she was eager to
go to Mrs. Wrandall, at the same time sobbing out something about
a symbolic dicky-bird, much to Mr. Carroll's wonder and perplexity.

He sent the maid from the room, and retired with Miss Castleton to
the innermost of his private offices, where without much preamble
he informed her that he knew everything. Moreover, Mr. Booth was
in possession of all the facts and was even then on the point of
starting for Europe to see her. Of course, his letter had failed to
reach her in time. There was quite a tragic scene in the seclusion
of that remote little office, during which Mr. Carroll wiped his
eyes and blew his nose more than once, after which he took it upon
himself to despatch a messenger to Sara with the word that he and
Miss Castleton would present themselves within half an hour after
his note had been delivered.

A telegram already had come from Smith in the far-away Montana town,
transmitting news that disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
The showgirl was lying at the point of death, and he was having a
very hard time of it trying to keep the resolute authorities from
swooping down upon her for the ante-mortem statement they desired.
It would appear that he arrived just in time to put courage into the
girl. He would see to it that any statement she made would be the
truth! But Mr. Carroll was not so sure of Smith's ability to avert
disaster. He knew something of the terrors of the third degree.
The police would fight hard for vindication.

The meeting between Sara and Hetty was affecting....Almost immediately
the former began to show the most singular signs of improvement.
She laughed and cried and joyously announced to the protesting nurse
that she was feeling quite well again! And, in truth, she got up
from the couch on which she reclined and insisted on being dressed
for dinner. In another room the amazed nurse was frantically
appealing to Mr. Carroll to let her send for the doctor, only to
be confounded by his urbane announcement that Mrs. Wrandall was as
"right as a string" and, please God, she wouldn't need the services
of doctor or nurse again for years to come. Then he asked the nurse
if she had ever heard of a disease called "nostalgia."

She said she had heard of "home-sickness."

"Well, that's what ailed Mrs. Wrandall," he said. "Miss Castleton
is the CURE."

Booth came the next morning....Even as she lay passive in his arms,
Hetty denied him. Her arms were around his neck as she miserably
whispered that she could not, would not be his wife, notwithstanding
her love for him and his readiness to accept her as she was. She
was obdurate, lovingly, tenderly obdurate. He would have despaired
but for Sara, to whom he afterwards appealed.

"Wait," was all that Sara had said, but he took heart. He was
beginning to look upon her as a sorceress. A week ago he had felt
sorry for her; his heart had been touched by her transparent misery.
To-day he saw her in another light altogether; as the determined,
resourceful, calculating woman who, having failed to attain a certain
end, was now intensely, keenly interested in the development of
another of a totally different nature. He could not feel sorry for
her to-day.

Hetty deliberately had placed herself in their hands, withdrawing
from the conference shortly before Vivian's arrival to give herself
over to gloomy conjectures as to the future, not only for herself,
but for the man she loved and the woman she worshipped with something
of the fidelity of a beaten dog.

Carroll had in his hand the second telegram from Smith, just
received.

"This relieves the situation somewhat," he observed, with a deep
sigh. "She's dead, and she didn't give in, thanks to Smith. Rather
clever of him to get a signed statement, however, witnessed by the
prosecuting attorney and the chief of police. It puts an end to
everything so far as she is concerned."

"Read again, Mr. Carroll, what she had to say about me," said Sara,
a slight tremour of emotion in her voice.

He read from the lengthy telegram: "'She wants me to thank Mrs.
Wrandall for all she has done to make her last few months happy
ones, such as they were. She appreciates her kindness all the
more because she realises that her benefactress must have known
everything. Almost the last words she spoke were in the nature of
a sort of prayer that God would forgive her for what she had done
to Mrs. Wrandall.'"

"Poor girl! She could not have known that it was justice, not
sentiment that moved me to provide for her," said Sara.

"Well, she is off our minds, at any rate," said the matter-of-fact
lawyer. "Now are you both willing to give serious consideration to
the plan I propose? Take time to think it over. No harm will come
to Miss Castleton, I am confident. There will be a nine days'
sensation, but, after all, it is the best thing for everybody. You
propose living abroad, Booth, so what are the odds if--"

"I shan't live abroad unless Hetty reconsiders her decision to
not marry me," said the young man dismally. "'Gad, Sara, you must
convince her that I love her better than--"

"I think she knows all that, Brandon. As I said before, wait! And
now, Mr. Carroll, I have this to say to your suggestion: I for
one am relentlessly opposed to the plan you advocate. There is no
occasion for this matter to go to the public. A trial, you say,
would be a mere formality. I am not so sure of that. Why put poor
Hetty's head in the lion's mouth at this late stage, after I have
protected her so carefully all these months? Why take the risk?
We know she is innocent. Isn't it enough that we acquit her in
our hearts? No, I cannot consent, and I hold both of you to your
promises."

"There is nothing more I can say, my dear Sara," said Carroll,
shaking his head gloomily, "except to urge you to think it over
very seriously. Remember, it may mean a great deal to her--and to
our eager young friend here. Years from now, like a bolt from the
sky, the truth may come out in some way. Think of what it would
mean then."

Sara regarded him steadily. "There are but four people who know
the truth," she said slowly. "It isn't likely that Hetty or Brandon
will tell the story. Professional honour forbids your doing so.
That leaves me as the sole peril. Is that what you would imply, my
dear friend?"

"Not at all," he cried hastily, "not at all. I--"

"That's all tommy-rot, Sara," cried Booth earnestly. "We just
COULDN'T have anything to fear from you."

With curious inconsistency, she shook her head and remarked: "Of
course, you never could be quite easy in your minds. There would
always be the feeling of unrest. Am I to be trusted, after all? I
have proved myself to be a vindictive schemer. What assurance can
you and Hetty have that I will not turn against one or the other
of you some time and crush you to satisfy a personal grievance? How
do you know, Brandon, that I am not in love with you at this very--"

"Good heavens, Sara!" he cried, agape.

"--at this very moment?" she continued. "It would not be so very
strange, would it? I am very human. The power to love is not denied
me. Oh, I am merely philosophising. Don't look so serious. We will
suppose that I continued along my career as the woman scorned. You
have seen how I smart under the lash. Well?"

"But all that is impossible," said Booth, his face clearing. "You're
not in love with me, and never can be. That! for your philosophy!"

At the same instant he became aware of the singular gleam in her
eyes; a liquid, Oriental glow that seemed to reflect light on her
lower lids as she sat there with her face in the shadow. Once or
twice before he had been conscious of the mysterious, seductive
appeal. He stared back at her, almost defensively, but her gaze
did not waver. It was he who first looked away, curiously uncomfortable.

"Still," she said slowly, "I think you would be wise to consider
all possible contingencies."

"I'll take chances, Sara," he said, with an odd buoyancy in his voice
that, for the life of him, he could not explain, even to himself.

"Even admitting that such should turn out to be the case," said
Mr.  Carroll judicially, "I don't believe you'd go so far as to
put your loyal friends in jeopardy, Sara. So we will dismiss the
thought.  Don't forget, however, that you hold them in the hollow
of your hand. My original contention was based on the time-honoured
saying, 'murder will out.' We never can tell what may turn up. The
best laid plans of men and mice oft--"

Sara settled back among the cushions with a peremptory wave of her
hand. The loose, flowing sleeve fell away, revealing her white,
exquisitely modelled arm almost to the shoulder. For some strange,
unaccountable reason Booth's eyes fell.

"I am tired, wretchedly tired. It has been a most exhausting day,"
she said, with a sudden note of weariness in her voice. Both men
started up apologetically. "I will think seriously of your plan,
Mr.  Carroll. There is no hurry, I'm sure. Please send Miss Wrandall
in to me, will you? Perhaps you would better tell Hetty to come in
as soon as Vivian leaves. Come back to-morrow afternoon, Brandon.
I shall be much more cheerful. By the way, have you noticed that
Dicky, out in the library, has been singing all afternoon as if
his little throat would split? It is very curious, but to-day is
the first time he has uttered a note in nearly five months. Just
listen to him! He is fairly riotous with song."

Booth leaned over and kissed the hand she lifted to him. "He is
like the rest of us, Sara, inordinately happy." A slight shiver
ran through her arm. He felt it.

"I am so afraid his exuberance of spirit may annoy Vivian," said
she, with a rare smile. "She detests vulgarity."

The men departed. She lay back in the chaise-longue, her eyes fixed
on the hand he had touched with his lips.

Watson tapped twice on the door.

"Miss Wrandall could not wait, ma'am," he said, opening the door
softly. "She will call again tomorrow."

"Thank you, Watson. Will you hand me the cigarettes?"

Watson hesitated. "The cigarettes, ma'am?"

"Yes."

"But the doctor's orders, ma'am, begging your pardon for--"

"I have a new doctor, Watson."

"I beg pardon, ma'am!"

"The celebrated Dr. Folly," she said lightly.




CHAPTER XXIII

SARA WRANDALL'S DECISION


When Smith returned from the Far West, a few days after the events
narrated in the foregoing chapter, he repaired at once to Sara's
apartment, bringing with him not only the signed statement of the
Ashtley girl, but the well-worn and apparently cherished prayer-book
that had been her solace during the last few months of her life.
On the fly-leaf she had written: "I have nothing of God's earthly
gifts to leave behind but this. It has brought me riches, but it is
a poor thing in itself. I bequeath it, my only earthly possession,
to the kind and merciful one who taught me that there is good in
this bad world of ours." It was inscribed to "Mrs. Challis Wrandall."

"She made me promise to give it to you with my own hands, Mrs.
Wrandall," said Smith, in the library, putting as much emotion into
his voice and manner as he thought the occasion and the audience
demanded. Miss Castleton and Mr. Booth were also present. "She
was a queer girl. I never saw one just like her, believe me. Just
after she signed that paper, I had a chance to be alone with her
for a minute or two. She asked me to stoop over so's I could hear
what she had to say, and she made me promise not to say a word
about it until after she was gone. Well, it will surprise you just
as much as it did me, what she had to say with her dying breath,
so to speak." He paused for the effect.

"What did she say to you?" demanded Sara.

"Well, sir, do you know that that girl knew all along who it was
that went up to Burton's Inn that evening with your husband? What
do you think of that?"

There was not a sound in the room. Even the coals in the fireplace
seemed to take that instant to hush their blithe crackling. Smith's
listeners might have been absolutely breathless, they were so rigid.
Each had the grotesque fear that he was about to point his finger
at Hetty Glynn and call upon her to answer to an accusation from
the grave.

The next moment they drew a deep, quivering breath of relief. The
detective went on, almost apologetically. "I tried to bluff her
into telling me who she was, Mrs. Wrandall, but she wouldn't fall
for it.  After a little while, I saw it was no use questioning her.
She was as firm as a rock about it. And she was pretty near gone,
I can tell you. As a matter of fact, her heart went back on her
suddenly not ten minutes later, sort of surprising all of us. But
she did manage to whisper a few things to me while the others were
conversing in the hall. She said that she saw another girl with Mr.
Wrandall about a week before the murder, a stranger and a very
pretty one. He knew how to pick out the pretty--I--I beg your
pardon, ma'am. That sort of slipped out. You see--"

"Never mind. I understand. Go on."

"Right after that he told her he was through with her. Chucked
her, that's the sum and substance of it, for the new one, whoever
she was. She raised a row with him about it, and he laughed at her.
For nearly a week she spied on him, and she saw him out in the car
with the stranger at least half a dozen times. Now comes the queer
part of it, and the thing that made her keep her lips closed at
first, right after the killing--the murder, I mean. She laid for
him in front of his home on the very day of the murder and swore
she'd do something desperate if he didn't give the other one up. He
took her to a cheap restaurant on the West Side, and she was sure
that several waiters saw that they were quarrelling. To get her
out of the place, he induced her to get in his car and they went
for a ride out as far as Van Courtlandt Park. The police never got
onto all this. But she lived in terror for a few days, believing
that the waiters might remember them, although neither of them had
ever been in the place before. When she was taken up for examination,
she still wondered if they would be called on to identify her.
Nothing doing. It was right then, Mrs. Wrandall, that you stepped
in and said that her alibi was sufficient, and staked her for life
out there in the West. She says she saw the other girl after the
murder, but she wouldn't say where it was or when. Of course, she
couldn't swear that this girl did the job up there at Burton's,
but she was pretty nearly dead certain she was the one who went
up there with him. She was just on the point of telling the police
about this girl, to save herself, when you helped her out of the
fix, and then she got to thinking strange things, she said. This
is what she said to me, there on her death-bed, and I want to tell
you it gave me an idea of character that I had never come across
before in all my experience. She said that if Mrs. Wrandall here
could be fine enough to befriend her, knowing all you did, ma'am,
about her and your husband, it oughtn't to be hard for her to help
another erring girl by keeping her mouth shut. And that's just what
she did. She kept still. That sort of reasoning was new to me. But,
when you stop to think it over, maybe she was right. A word from
her might have sent a fellow creature to the chair. She had had her
lesson in charity from you, Mrs. Wrandall, and, while you didn't
mean it to have that effect, you undoubtedly spoiled the best chance
we'll ever have to get the real woman in the case."

There was a moment of tense silence. Booth was the first to risk
the effort at speech.

"And she wouldn't say a word more? She gave you no--no clue?"

"Not the faintest idea, sir. She took that girl's name to the grave
with her."

"Her name! She knew her name?" cried Sara, leaning forward.

"She heard it a day or two after you had her set free, Mrs.
Wrandall. Don't it beat all? Now, don't you see what might have
happened if we'd let the police put the screws on her out there?
Why, the chances are, a hundred to one, she would have broken down
in the end, and told who this other woman is. There is where we
made a fatal mistake. But it's too late now, confound it."

"Yes, it's too late now," said Sara, relaxing in her chair.

"I'm telling you this, although maybe I wasn't expected to. She
made me promise not to tell the police. Well, I guess I can keep
that promise. You ain't the police."

"It is a most remarkable story, Mr. Smith," said Sara, "but I do
not see that it leads us anywhere. We are quite as much in the dark
as before."

The detective studied the pattern in the rug at his feet, a defeated
look in his eyes.

"I suppose I MIGHT have forced her to tell me, Mrs. Wrandall, but
I--I didn't have the heart to bully her. I suppose you'll always
have it in for me for letting the chance slip?"

"I think I have already told you, Mr. Smith, that I am not at all
curious."

With the departure of the detective, the three conspirators fell
into an agitated discussion of the revelations he had made; so grave
had their peril appeared to be at the opening of his narrative that
they were still in a state of perturbation from which they were
not to recover for a long time. Their cheeks were white and their
eyes were dark with the dread that remained even after the danger
was past. Hetty's arms hung limp and nerveless at her sides as she
lay back in the chair and stared numbly at her friends.

"Do you really believe she knew that I was the one?" she asked
miserably. "Do you think she knew my name?" she shuddered.

"What if she did?" demanded Booth with an assumption of indifference
he was not yet able to feel. "She was a brick to keep it to herself.
The danger's past, dearest. Don't let it worry you now."

"But just think of it! At any time she could have told this story
to the police and--Oh, wasn't it appalling? I thought my heart
would never beat again!"

"We never knew till now how close we were to the abyss," said
Sara, drawing the thin wrap closer about her shoulders. Suddenly
she laughed. "But why contemplate the disaster that didn't occur?
We are more secure than ever. This girl was the only one who knew,
because no one else could have had the same incentive to spy upon
him, Hetty. She is dead. Your name isn't likely to be shouted from
the housetops, for the simple reason that it is safely locked up
in a grave." She hesitated for a moment and then added: "In two
graves, if it makes you feel more secure."

The others looked at her in open astonishment.

Booth was frowning. Sara glanced at his stern face and her eyes fell.
"If that sounded cold and unfeeling, I am sorry, Hetty. It was my
unfortunate way of trying to convince you that there is nothing
left for you to fear."

She left them a moment later, bending over to kiss Hetty's cheek
as she passed by her chair.

"Now, you see what I mean, Brandon, when I insist that it would
be a mistake for you to marry me," said Hetty in a troubled voice.
"We could never be sure of immunity."

"You refer to that remark of hers?"

"She is a strange woman. I sometimes have the feeling that she wants
to keep me with her for ever. I feel that she will not let me go."

"That's pure nonsense, Hetty," he said. "She wants you to marry
me, I am positive." He may have thought his tone convincing, but
something caused her to regard him rather fixedly, as if she were
trying to solve an elusive puzzle.

He took her by the arms and raised her to her feet. Holding her
quite close, he looked down into her questioning eyes and said very
seriously:

"You are suspicious, even of me, dearest. I want you. There is but
one way for you to be at peace with yourself: shift your cares over
to my shoulders. I will stand between you and everything that may
come up to trouble you. We love one another. Why should we sacrifice
our love for the sake of a shadow? For a week, dearest, I've been
pleading with you; won't you end the suspense to-day--end it now--and
say you will be my wife?"

The appeal was so gentle, so sincere, so full of longing that she
wavered. Her tender blue eyes, lately so full of dread, grew moist
with the ineffable sweetness of love, and capitulation was in them.
Her warm, red lips parted in a dear little smile of surrender.

"You know I love you," she said tremulously.

He kissed the lovely, appealing lips, not once but many times.

"God, how I worship you," he whispered passionately. "I can't go on
without you, darling. You are life to me. I love you! I love you!"

She drew back in his arms, the shadow chasing the light out of her
eyes.

"We are both living in the present, we are both thinking only of
it, Brandon. What of the future? Can we foresee the future? Dear
heart, I am always thinking of your future, not my own. Is it right
for me to bring you--"

"And I am thinking only of your future," he said gravely. "The future
that shall be mine to shape and to make glad with the fulfilment
of every promise that love has in store for both of us.  Put away
the doubts, drive out the shadows, dearest. Live in the light for
ever. Love is light."

"If I were only sure that my shadows would not descend upon you,
I--"

He drew her close and kissed her again.

"I am not afraid of your shadows. God be my witness, Hetty, I glory
in them. They do not reflect weakness, but strength and nobility.
They make you all the more worth having. I thank God that you are
what you are, dear heart."

"Give me a few days longer, Brandon," she pleaded. "Let me conquer
this strange thing that lies here in my brain. My heart is yours,
my soul is yours. But the brain is a rebel. I must triumph over
it, or it will always lie in wait for a chance to overthrow this
little kingdom of ours. To-day I have been terrified. I am disturbed.
Give me a few days longer."

"I would not grant you the respite, were I not so sure of the
outcome," he said gently, but there was a thrill of triumph in the
tones. Her eyes grew very dark and soft and her lips trembled with
the tide of love that surged through her body. "Oh, how adorable you
are!" he cried, straining her close in a sudden ecstasy of passion.

The door-bell rang. They drew apart, breathing rapidly, their
blood leaping with the contact of opposing passions, their flesh
quivering. With a shy, sweet glance at him, she turned toward the
door to await the appearance of Watson. He could still feel her in
his arms.

A drawling voice came to them from the vestibule, and a moment
later Leslie Wrandall entered the library, pulling off his gloves
as he came.

"Hello," he said glibly. "I told that fellow downstairs it wasn't
necessary to announce me by telephone. Silly arrangement, I say.
Why the devil should they think everybody's a thief or a book agent
or a constable with a subpoena? He knows I'm one of the family.
I'm likely to run in any time, I told him, and--Oh, I say, I'm not
butting in, am I, Miss Castleton?"

He shook hands with both of them, and then offered his cigarette
case to Booth, first selecting one for himself. Hetty assured him
that he was not de trop, sheer profligacy on her part in view of
his readiness to concede the point without a word from her.

"Nipping wind," he said, taking his stand before the fireplace.
"Where is Sara? Never mind, don't bother her. I've got all the time
in the world. By the way, Miss Castleton, what is the latest news
from your father?"

"I dare say you have later news than I," she said, a trace of
annoyance in her manner.

"I thought perhaps he had written you about his plans."

"My father does not know that I have returned to New York."

"Oh, I see. Of course. Um--um! By the way, I think the Colonel
is a corker. One of the most amiable thoroughbreds I've ever come
across.  Ripping. He's never said anything to me about your antipathy
toward him, but I can see with half an eye that he is terribly
depressed about it. Can't you get together some way on--"

"Really, Mr. Wrandall, you are encouraging your imagination to a
point where words ultimately must fail you," she said very positively.
Booth could hardly repress a chuckle.

"It's not imagination on my part," said Leslie with conviction,
failing utterly to recognise the obvious. "I suppose you know
that he is coming over to visit me for six weeks or so. We became
rattling good friends before we parted. By Jove, you should hear him
on old Lord Murgatroyd's will! The quintessence of wit! I couldn't
take it as he does. Expectations and all that sort of thing, you
know, going up like a hot air balloon and bursting in plain view.
But he never squeaked. Laughed it off. A British attribute, I dare
say. I suppose you know that he is obliged to sell his estate in
Ireland."

Hetty started. She could not conceal the look of shame that leaped
into her eyes.

"I--I did not know," she murmured.

"Must be quite a shock to you. Sit down, Brandy. You look very
picturesque standing, but chairs were made to sit upon--or in,
whichever is proper."

Booth shrugged his shoulders.

"I think I'll stand, if you don't mind, Les."

"I merely suggested it, old chap, fearing you might have overlooked
the possibilities. Yes, Miss Castleton, he left us in London to go
up to Belfast on this dismal business." There was something in the
back of his mind that he was trying to get at in a tactful manner.
"By the way, is this property entailed?"

"I know nothing at all about it, Mr. Wrandall," said she, with a
pleading glance at her lover, as if to inquire what stand she should
take in this distressing situation.

"If it is entailed he can't sell it," said Booth quietly.

"That's true," said Leslie, somewhat dubiously. Then, with a
magnanimity that covered a multitude of doubts he added: "Of course,
I am only interested in seeing that you are properly protected,
Miss Castleton. I've no doubt you hold an interest in the estates."

"I can't very well discuss a thing I know absolutely nothing about,"
she said succinctly.

"Most of it is in building lots and factories in Belfast, of course."
It was more in the nature of a question than a declaration.  "The
old family castle isn't very much of an asset, I take it."

"I fancy you can trust Colonel Castleton to make the best possible
deal in the premises," said Booth drily.

"I suppose so," said the other resignedly. "He is a shrewd beggar,
I'm convinced of that. Strange, however, that I haven't heard
a word from him since he left us in London, I've been expecting
a cablegram from him every day for nearly a fortnight, letting me
know when to expect him."

Hetty had gone over to the window and was looking out over the
darkening park.

"Perhaps he means to surprise you, old man," said Booth, with a
smile that Leslie did not in the least interpret.

With a furtive glance at the girl, whose back was toward them,
he got up from his chair and came quite close to Booth, frowning
slightly as he plucked at his moustache with nervous fingers.
Lowering his voice to a cautious half-whisper, he inquired:

"I say, Brandy, what do you know about him? Is he on the level, or
is he a damned old rascal?"

"Did you lend him any money?" asked Booth, with a malicious grin.

Leslie gulped. A fine perspiration broke out on his forehead. "Yes,
I did," he replied, and, on reflection, slyly kicked himself on the
ankle, making sure however that Hetty was still looking the other
way. "Go on! Break it rudely. He's no good, eh? A shark, eh?"

"Believe me, I don't know anything about him, Les," said Booth,
with a sudden feeling of loyalty to the Colonel's daughter. "He
may pay up."

Leslie snapped his fingers while they were on the way to his upper
lip, and almost missed his moustache by the digression. At any
rate, he seemed to be fumbling for it.

"I did it on her account," he explained, nodding his head in Hetty's
direction. He thought hard for a moment. "Of course, he won't be
such a blithering fool as to come over here, will he?"

"I shouldn't, if I had been able to get what I wanted at home, as
he very obviously did," said Booth pitilessly. "How much was it?"

Leslie waved his hand disdainfully. "Oh, a few hundred pounds,
that's all. No harm done."

"Are you going to California this winter for the flying?" asked
Hetty, coming toward them.

Sara entered at that juncture, and they all sat down to listen for
half an hour to Leslie's harangue on the way the California meet
was being mismanaged, at the end of which he departed.

He took Booth away with him, much to that young man's disgust.

"Do you know, Brandy, old fellow," said he as they walked down Fifth
Avenue in the gathering dusk of the early winter evening, "ever
since I've begun to suspect that damned old humbug of a father of
hers, I've been congratulating myself that there isn't the remotest
chance of his ever becoming my father-in-law. And, by George, you'll
never know how near I was to leaping blindly into the brambles.
What a close call I had!"

Booth's sarcastic smile was hidden by the dusk. He made no pretence
of openly resenting the meanness of spirit that moved Leslie to
these caddish remarks. He merely announced in a dry, cutting voice:

"I think Miss Castleton is to be congratulated that her injury is
no greater than Nature made it in the beginning."

"What do you mean by 'nature'?"

"Nature gave her a father, didn't it?"

"Obviously."

"Well, why add insult to injury?"

"By Jove! Oh, I SAY, old man!"

They parted at the next corner. As Booth started to cross over to
the Plaza, Leslie called out after him:

"I say, Brandy, just a second, please. Are you going to marry Miss
Castleton?"

"I am."

"Then, I retract the scurvy things I said back there. I asked her
to marry me three times and she refused me three times. What I
said about the brambles was rotten. I'd ask her again if I thought
she'd have me. There you are, old fellow. I'm a rotten cad, but I
apologise to you just the same."

"You're learning, Leslie," said Booth, taking the hand the other
held out to him.

While the painter was dining at his club later on in the evening,
he was called to the telephone. Watson was on the wire. He said
that Mrs. Wrandall would like to know if Mr. Booth could drop in
on her for a few minutes after dinner, "to discuss a very important
matter, if you please, sir." At nine o'clock, Booth was in Sara's
library, trying to grasp a new and remarkable phase in the character
of that amazing woman.

He found Hetty waiting for him when he arrived.

"I don't know what it all means, Brandon," she said hurriedly, looking
over her shoulder as she spoke. "Sara says that she has come to a
decision of some sort. She wants us to hear her plan before making
it final. I--I don't understand her at all to-night."

"It can't be anything serious, dearest," he said, but something
cold and nameless oppressed him just the same.

"She asked me if I had finally decided to--to be your wife, Brandon.
I said I had asked you for two or three days more in which to
decide. It seemed to depress her. She said she didn't see how she
could give me up, even to you. She wants to be near me always. It
is--it is really tragic, Brandon."

He took he hands in his.

"We can fix that," said he confidently. "Sara can live with us if
she feels that way about it. Our home shall be hers when she likes,
and as long as she chooses. It will be open to her all the time,
to come and go or to stay, just as she elects. Isn't that the way
to put it?"

"I suggested something of the sort, but she wasn't very much
impressed. Indeed, she appeared to be somewhat--yes, I could not
have been mistaken,--somewhat harsh and terrified when I spoke of
it. Afterwards she was more reasonable. She thanked me and--there
were tears in her eyes at the time--and said she would think it
over. All she asks is that I may be happy and free and untroubled
all the rest of my life. This was before dinner. At dinner she
appeared to be brooding over something. When we left the table
she took me to her room and said that she had come to an important
decision. Then she instructed Watson to find you if possible."

"'Gad, it's all very upsetting," he said, shaking his head.

"I think her conscience is troubling her. She hates the Wrandalls,
but I--I don't know why I should feel as I do about it,--but I
believe she wants them to know!"

He stared for a moment, and then his face brightened. "And so do
I, Hetty, so do I! They ought to know!"

"I should feel so much easier if the whole world knew," said she
earnestly.

Sara heard the girl's words as she stood in the door. She came
forward with a strange,--even abashed,--smile, after closing the
door behind her.

"I don't agree with you, dearest, when you say that the world
should know, but I have come to the conclusion that you should be
tried and acquitted by a jury made up of Challis Wrandall's own
flesh and blood. The Wrandalls must know the truth."




CHAPTER XXIV

THE JURY OF FOUR


The Wrandalls sat waiting and wondering. They had been sent for and
they had deigned to respond, much to their own surprise. Redmond
Wrandall occupied a place at the head of the library table. At his
right sat his wife. Vivian and Leslie, by direction, took seats at
the side of the long table, which had been cleared of its mass of
books and magazines. Lawyer Carroll was at the other end of the
table, perceptibly nervous and anxious. Hetty sat a little apart
from the others, a rather forlorn, detached member of the conclave.
Brandon Booth, pale-faced and alert, drew up a chair alongside
Carroll, facing Sara who alone remained standing, directly opposite
the four Wrandalls.

Not one of the Wrandalls knew why they, as a family, were there.
They had not the slightest premonition of what was to come.

The strong glare of an electric chandelier, seldom used in this
quiet, subdued little library, threw its light down upon the group,
outlining every feature with a sharpness that almost created shadows.
It was a trying light. No play of the emotions could be lost under
its convicting glow. A clock struck nine. Outside the first savage
storm of the winter was raging.

The Wrandalls had been routed from their comfortable fireside--for
what? They were asking the question of themselves and they were
waiting stonily for the answer.

"It is very stuffy in here," Vivian had said with a glance at the
closed doors after Sara had successfully placed her jury in the
box.

"Keep still, Viv," whispered Leslie, with a fine assumption of awe.
"It's a spiritualistic meeting. You'll scare the spooks away."

It was at this juncture that Sara rose from her chair and faced
them, as calmly, as complacently as if she were about to ask them
to proceed to the dining-room instead of to throw a bomb into their
midst that would shatter their smug serenity for all time to come.
With a glance at Mr. Carroll she began, clearly, firmly and without
a prefatory apology for what was to follow.

"I have asked you to come here to-night to be my judges. I am on
trial. You are about to hear the story of my unspeakable perfidy.
I only require of you that you hear me to the end before passing
judgment."

At her words, Hetty and Booth started perceptibly; a quick glance
passed between them, as if each was inquiring whether the other
had caught the extraordinary words of self-indictment. A puzzled
frown appeared on Hetty's brow.

"Perfidy?" interposed Mr. Wrandall. His wife's expression changed
from one of bored indifference to sharp inquiry. Leslie paused in
the act of lighting a cigarette.

"It is the mildest term I can command," said Sara. "I shall be as
brief as possible in stating the case, Mr. Wrandall. You will be
surprised to hear that I have taken it upon myself, as the wife of
Challis Wrandall and, as I regard it, the one MOST vitally concerned
if not interested in the discovery and punishment of the person
who took his life,--I say I have taken it upon myself to shield,
protect and defend the unhappy young woman who accompanied him to
Burton's Inn on that night in March. She has had my constant, my
personal protection for more than twenty months."

The Wrandalls leaned forward in their chairs. The match burned
Leslie's fingers, and he dropped it without appearing to notice
the pain.

"What is this you are saying?" demanded Redmond Wrandall.

"When I left the inn that night, after seeing my husband's body in
the little upstairs room, I said to myself that the one who took
his life had unwittingly done me a service. He was my husband; I
loved him, I adored him. To the end of my days I could have gone
on loving him in spite of the cruel return he gave for my love and
loyalty. I shall not attempt to tell you of the countless lapses
of fidelity on his part. You would not believe me. But he always
came back to me with the pitiful love he had for me, and I forgave
him his transgressions. These things you know. He confessed many
things to you, Mr. Wrandall. He humbled himself to me. Perhaps you
will recall that I never complained to you of him. What rancour I
had was always directed toward you, his family, who would see no
wrong in your king but looked upon me as dirt beneath his feet.
There were moments when I could have slain him with my own hands,
but my heart rebelled.  There were times when he said to me that I
ought to kill him for the things he had done. You may now understand
what I mean when I say that the girl who went to Burton's Inn with
him did me a service. I will not say that I considered her guiltless
at the time. On the contrary, I looked upon her in quite a different
way. I had no means of knowing then that she was as pure as snow
and that he would have despoiled her of everything that was sweet
and sacred to her. She took his life in order to save that which
was dearer to her than her own life, and she was on her way to pay
for her deed with her life if necessary when I came upon her and
intervened."

"You--you know who she is?" said Mr. Wrandall, in a low, incredulous
voice.

"I have known almost from the beginning. Presently you will hear
her story, from her own lips."

Involuntarily four pairs of eyes shifted. They looked blankly at
Hetty Castleton.

Speaking swiftly, Sara depicted the scenes and sensations experienced
during that memorable motor journey to New York City.

"I could not believe that she was a vicious creature, even then.
Something told me that she was a tender, gentle thing who had fallen
into evil hands and had struck because she was unevil. I did not
doubt that she had been my husband's mistress, but I could not
destroy the conviction that somehow she had been justified in doing
the thing she had done. My gravest mistake was in refusing to hear
her story in all of its details. I only permitted her to acknowledge
that she had killed him, no more. I did not want to hear the thing
which I assumed to be true. Therein lies my deepest fault. For
months and months I misjudged her in my heart, yet secretly loved
her. Now I understand why I loved her. It was because she was innocent
of the only crime I could lay at her feet. Now I come to the crime
of which I stand self-accused. I must have been mad all these
months. I have no other defence to offer. You may take it as you
see it for yourselves. I do not ask for pardon. After I deliberately
had set about to shield this unhappy girl,--to cheat the law, if you
please,--to cheat you, perhaps,--I conceived the horrible thought
to avenge myself for ALL the indignities I had sustained at the
hands of you Wrandalls, and at the same time to even my account with
the one woman whom I could put my finger upon as having robbed me
of my husband's love. You see I put it mildly. I have hated all of
you, Mrs. Wrandall, even as you have hated me.  To-day,--now,--I
do not feel as I did in other days toward you. I do not love you,
still I do not hate you. I do not forgive you, and yet I think I
have come to see things from your point of view. I can only repeat
that I do not hate you as I once did."

She paused. The Wrandalls were too deeply submerged in horror to
speak. They merely stared at her as if stupefied; as breathless,
as motionless as stones.

"There came a day when I observed that Leslie was attracted by the
guest in my house. On that day the plan took root in my brain. I--"

"Good God!" fell from Leslie's lips. "You--you had THAT in mind?"

"It became a fixed, inflexible purpose, Leslie. Not that I hated
you as I hated the rest, for you tried to be considerate. The
one grudge I held against you was that in seeking to sustain me
you defamed your own brother. You came to me with stories of his
misdeeds; you said that he was a scoundrel and that you would not
blame me for 'showing him up.' Do you not remember? And so my plot
involved you; you were the only one through whom I could strike.
There were times when I faltered. I could not bear the thought of
sacrificing Hetty Castleton, nor was it easy to thoroughly appease
my conscience in respect to you. Still, if I could have had my way
a few months ago, if coercion had been of any avail, you would now
be the husband of your brother's slayer. Then I came to know that
she was not what I had thought she was. She was honest. My bubble
burst. I came out of the maze in which I had been living and saw
clearly that what I had contemplated was the most atrocious--"

"Atrocious?" cried Mrs. Redmond Wrandall between her set teeth.
"Diabolical! Diabolical! My God, Sara, what a devil you--" She did
not complete the sentence, but sank back in her chair and stared
with wide, horror-struck eyes at her rigid daughter-in-law.

Her husband, his hand shaking as if with palsy, pointed a finger at
Hetty. "And so YOU are the one we have been hunting for all these
months, Miss Castleton! You are the one we want! You who have sat
at our table, you who have smiled in our faces--"

"Stop, Mr. Wrandall!" commanded Sara, noting the ashen face of the
girl. "Don't let the fact escape you that I am the guilty person.
Don't forget that she owed her freedom, if not her life to me.
I alone kept her from giving herself up to the law. All that has
transpired since that night in March must be placed to my account.
Hetty Castleton has been my prisoner. She has rebelled a thousand
times and I have conquered--not by threats but by LOVE! Do you
understand? Because of her love for me, and because she believed
that I loved her, she submitted. You are not to accuse her, Mr.
Wrandall. Accuse me! I am on trial here. Hetty Castleton is a
witness against me, if you choose to call upon her as such. If not,
I shall ask her to speak in my defence, if she can do so."

"This is lunacy!" cried Mr. Wrandall, coming to his feet. "I don't
care what your motives may have been. They do not make her any the
less a murderess. She--"

"We must give her over to the police--" began his wife, struggling
to her feet. She staggered. It was Booth who stepped quickly to
her side to support her. Leslie was staring at Hetty.

Vivian touched her father's arm. She was very pale but vastly more
composed than the others.

"Father, listen to me," she said. Her voice trembled in spite of
her effort to control it. "We are condemning Miss Castleton unheard.
Let us hear everything before we--"

"Good God, Vivian! Do you mean to--"

"How can we place any reliance on what she may say?" cried Mrs.
Wrandall.

"Nevertheless," said Vivian firmly, "I for one shall not condemn
her unheard. I mean to be as fair to her as Sara has been. It shall
not be said that ALL the Wrandalls are smaller than Sara Gooch!"

"My child--" began her father incredulously. His jaw dropped
suddenly. His daughter's shot had landed squarely in the heart of
the Wrandall pride.

"If she has anything to say,"--said Mrs. Wrandall, waving Booth
aside and sinking stiffly into her chair. Her husband sat down.
Their jaws set hard.

"Thank you, Vivian," said Sara, surprised in spite of herself. "You
are nobler than I--"

"Please don't thank me, Sara," said Vivian icily. "I was speaking
for Miss Castleton."

Sara flushed. "I suppose it is useless to ask you to be fair to
Sara Gooch, as you choose to call me."

"Do you feel in your heart that we still owe you anything?"

"Enough of this, Vivian," spoke up her father harshly. "If Miss
Castleton desires to speak we will listen to her. I must advise
you, Miss Castleton, that the extraordinary disclosures made by my
daughter-in-law do not lessen your culpability. We do not insist on
this confession from you. You deliver it at your own risk. I want
to be fair with you. If Mr. Carroll is your counsel, he may advise
you now to refuse to make a statement."

Mr. Carroll bowed slightly in the general direction of the Wrandalls.
"I have already advised Miss Castleton to state the case fully and
completely to you, Mr. Wrandall. It was I who originally suggested
this--well, what you might call a private trial for her.  I am
firmly convinced that when you have heard her story, you, as her
judges, will acquit her of the charge of murder. Moreover, you
will be content to let your own verdict end the matter, sparing
yourselves the shame and ignominy of having her story told in a
criminal court for the delectation of an eager but somewhat implacable
world."

"Your language is extremely unpleasant, Mr. Carroll," said Mr.
Wrandall coldly.

"I meant to speak kindly, sir."

"Do you mean, sir, that we will let the matter rest after hearing
the--"

"That is precisely what I mean, Mr. Wrandall. You will not consider
her guilty of a crime. Please bear in mind this fact: but for
Sara and Miss Castleton you would not have known the truth. Miss
Castleton could not be convicted in a court of justice. Nor will
she be convicted here this evening, in this little court of ours."

"Miss Castleton is not on trial," interposed Sara calmly. "I am
the offender. She has already been tried and proved innocent."

Leslie, in his impatience, tapped sharply on the table with his
seal ring.

"Please let her tell the story. Permit me to say, Miss Castleton,
that you will not find the Wrandalls as harsh and vindictive as
you may have been led to believe."

Mrs. Wrandall passed her hand over her eyes. "To think that we have
been friendly to this girl all these--"

"Calm yourself, my dear," said her husband, after a glance at his
son and daughter, a glance of unspeakable helplessness. He could
not understand them.

As Hetty arose, Mrs. Wrandall senior lowered her eyes and not
once did she look up during the recital that followed. Her hands
were lying limply in her lap, and she breathed heavily, almost
stertoriously. The younger Wrandalls leaned forward with their clear,
unwavering gaze fixed on the earnest face of the young Englishwoman
who had slain their brother.

"You have heard Sara accuse herself," said the girl slowly,
dispassionately. "The shock was no greater to you than it was
to me.  All that she has said is true, and yet I--I would so much
rather she had left herself unarraigned. We were agreed that I
should throw myself on your mercy. Mr. Carroll said that you were
fair and just people, that you would not condemn me under the
circumstances. But that Sara should seek to take the blame is--"

"Alas, my dear, I AM to blame," said Sara, shaking her head. "But
for me your story would have been told months ago, the courts would
have cleared you, and all the world would have execrated my husband
for the thing HE did--my husband and your son, Mrs. Wrandall,--whom
we both loved. God believe me, I think I loved him more than all
of you put together!"

She sat down abruptly and buried her face in her arms on the edge
of the table.

"If I could only induce you to forgive her," began Hetty, throwing
out her hands to the Wrandalls, only to be met by a gesture of
repugnance from the grim old man.

"Your story, Miss Castleton," he said hoarsely.

"From the beginning, if you please," added the lawyer quietly.
"Leave out nothing."

Clearly, steadily and with the utmost sincerity in her voice and
manner, the girl began the story of her life. She passed hastily
over the earlier periods, frankly exposing the unhappy conditions
attending her home life, her subsequent activities as a performer
on the London stage after Colonel Castleton's defection; the
few months devoted to posing for Hawkright the painter, and later
on her engagement as governess in the wealthy Budlong family. She
devoted some time and definiteness to her first encounter with
Challis Wrandall on board the westbound steamer, an incident that
came to pass in a perfectly natural way. Her deck chair stood next
to his, and he was not slow in making himself agreeable. It did not
occur to her till long afterwards that he deliberately had traded
positions with an elderly gentleman who occupied the chair on the
first day out. Before the end of the voyage they were very good
friends....

"When we landed in New York, he assisted me in many ways.  Afterwards,
on learning that I was not to go California, I called him up on
the telephone to explain my predicament. He urged me to stay in New
York; he guaranteed that there would be no difficulty in securing
a splendid position in the East. I had no means of knowing that he
was married. I accepted him for what I thought him to be: a genuine
American gentleman. They are supposed to be particularly considerate
with women. His conduct toward me was beyond reproach, I have never
known a man who was so courteous, so gentle. To me, he was the most
fascinating man in the world. No woman could have resisted him, I
am sure of that."

She shot a quick, appealing glance at Booth's hard-set face. Her
lip trembled for a second.

"I fell madly in love with him," she went on resolutely. "I dreamed
of him, I could hardly wait for the time to come when I was to see
him. He never came to the wretched little lodging house I have told
you about. I--I met him outside. One night he told me that he loved
me, loved me passionately. I--I said that I would be his wife.
Somehow it seemed to me that he regarded me very curiously for
a moment or two. He seemed to be surprised, uncertain. I remember
that he laughed rather queerly. It did not occur to me to doubt
him. One day he came for me, saying that he wanted me to see the
little apartment he had taken, where we were to live after we were
married.  I went with him. He said that if I liked it, I could
move in at once, but I would not consent to such an arrangement.
For the first time I began to feel that everything was not as it
should be. I--I remained in the apartment but a few minutes. The
next day he came to me, greatly excited and more demonstrative than
ever before, to say that he had arranged for a quiet, jolly little
wedding up in the country. Strangely enough I experienced a queer
feeling that all was not as it should be, but his eagerness his
persistence dispelled the small doubt that had begun even then to
shape itself. I consented to go with him on the next night to an
inn out in the country, where a college friend who was a minister
of the gospel would meet us, driving over from his parish a few
miles away. I said that I preferred to be married in a church. He
laughed and said it could be arranged when we got to the inn and
had talked it over with the minister. Still uneasy, I asked why it
was necessary to employ secrecy. He told me that his family were
in Europe and that he wanted to surprise them by giving them a
daughter who was actually related to an English nobleman. The family
had been urging him to marry a stupid but rich New York girl and
he--oh, well, he uttered a great deal of nonsense about my beauty,
my charm, and all that sort of thing--"

She paused for a moment. No one spoke. Her audience of judges,
with the exception of the elder Mrs. Wrandall, watched her as if
fascinated. Their faces were almost expressionless. With a perceptible
effort, she resumed her story, narrating events that carried it
up to the hour when she walked into the little upstairs room at
Burton's Inn with the man who was to be her husband.

"I did not see the register at the inn. I did not know till
afterwards that we were not booked. Once upstairs, I refused to
remove my hat or my veil or my coat until he brought his friend to
me. He pretended to be very angry over his friend's failure to be
there beforehand, as he had promised. He ordered a supper served
in the room. I did not eat anything. Somehow I was beginning
to understand, vaguely of course, but surely--and bitterly, Mr.
Wrandall. Suddenly he threw off the mask.

"He coolly informed me that he knew the kind of girl I was. I had
been on the stage. He said it was no use trying to work the marriage
game on him. He was too old a bird and too wise to fall for that.
Those were his words. I was horrified, stunned. When I began to cry
out in my fury, he laughed at me but swore he would marry me even
at that if it were not for the fact that he already was married....I
tried to leave the room. He held me. He kissed me a hundred times
before I could break away. I--I tried to scream....A little later
on, when I was absolutely desperate, I--I snatched up the knife.
There was nothing else left for me to do. I struck at him. He fell
back on the bed....I stole out of the house--oh, hours and hours
afterward it seemed to me. I cannot tell you how long I stood there
watching him....I was crazed by fear. I--I--"

Redmond Wrandall held up his hand.

"We will spare you the rest, Miss Castleton," he said, his voice
hoarse and unnatural. "There is no need to say more."

"You--you understand? You DO believe me?" she cried.

He looked down at his wife's bowed head, and received no sign from
her; then at the white, drawn faces of his children. They met his
gaze and he read something in their eyes.

"I--I think your story is so convincing that we--we could not endure
the shame of having it repeated to the world."

"I--I cannot ask you to forgive me, sir. I only ask you to believe
me," she murmured brokenly. "I--I am sorry it had to be. God is my
witness that there was no other way."

Mr. Carroll came to his feet. There were tears in his eyes.

"I think, Mr. Wrandall, you will now appreciate my motives in--"

"Pardon me, Mr. Carroll, if I suggest that Miss Castleton does not
require any defence at present," said Mr. Wrandall stiffly. "Your
motives were doubtless good. Will you be so good as to conduct us
to a room where we may--may be alone for a short while?"

There was something tragic in the man's face. His son and daughter
arose as if moved by an instinctive realisation of a duty, and perhaps
for the first time in their lives were submissive to an influence
they had never quite recognised before: a father's unalterable
right to command. For once in their lives they were meek in his
presence. They stepped to his side and stood waiting, and neither
of them spoke.

Mr. Wrandall laid his hand heavily on his wife's shoulder. She
started, looked up rather vacantly, and then arose without assistance.
He did not make the mistake of offering to assist her.  He knew
too well that to question her strength now would be but to invite
weakness. She was strong. He knew her well.

She stood straight and firm for a few seconds, transfixing Hetty
with a look that seemed to bore into the very soul of her, and then
spoke.

"You ask us to be your judges?"

[Illustration: Her audience of judges, with the exception of the
elder Mrs. Wrandall, watched her as if fascinated]

"I ask you to judge not me alone but--your son as well," said
Hetty, meeting her look steadily. "You cannot pronounce me innocent
without pronouncing him guilty. It will be hard."

Sara raised her head from her arms.

"You know the way into my sitting-room, Leslie," she said, with
singular directness. Then she arose and drew her figure to its full
height. "Please remember that it is I who am to be judged. Judge
me as I have judged you. I am not asking for mercy."

Hetty impulsively threw her arms about the rigid figure, and swept a
pleading look from one to the other of the four stony-faced Wrandalls.

They turned away without a word or a revealing look, and slowly
moved off in the direction of the boudoir. They who remained behind
stood still, motionless as statues. It was Vivian who opened the
library door. She closed it after the others had passed through,
and did not look behind.

Half an hour passed. Then the door was opened and the tall old man
advanced into the room.

"We have found against my son, Miss Castleton," he said, his lips
twitching. "He is not here to speak for himself, but he has already
been judged. We, his family, apologise to you for what you have
suffered from the conduct of one of us. Not one but all of us believe
the story you have told. It must never be re-told. We ask this of
all of you. It is not in our hearts to thank Sara for shielding you,
for her hand is still raised against us. We are fair and just. If
you had come to US on that wretched night and told the story of my
son's infamy, WE, the Wrandalls, would have stood between you and
the law. The law could not have touched you then; it shall not touch
you now. Our verdict, if you choose to call it that, is sealed. No
man shall ever hear from the lips of a Wrandall the smallest part
of what has transpired here to-night. Mr. Carroll, you were right.
We thank you for the counsel that led this unhappy girl to place
herself in our hands."

"Oh, God, I thank thee--I thank thee!" burst from the lips of Sara
Wrandall. She strained Hetty to her breast.

"It is not for us to judge you, Sara," said Redmond Wrandall,
speaking with difficulty. "You are your own judge, and a harsh one
you will find yourself. As for ourselves, we can only look upon
your unspeakable design as the working of a temporarily deranged
mind.  You could never have carried it out. You are an honest woman.
At the last you would have revolted, even with victory assured.
Perhaps Leslie is the only one who has a real grievance against
you in this matter. I am convinced that he loved Miss Castleton
deeply. The worst hurt is his, and he has been your most devoted
advocate during all the years of bitterness that has existed between
you and us. You thought to play him a foul trick. You could not have
carried it to the end. We leave you to pass judgment on yourself."

"I have already done so, Mr. Wrandall," said Sara. "Have I not
accused myself before you? Have I not confessed to the only crime
that has been committed? I am not proud of myself, sir."

"You have hated us well."

"And you have hated me. The crime you hold me guilty of was committed
years ago. It was when I robbed you of your son. To this day I am
the leper in your path. I may be forgiven for all else, but not
for allowing Challis Wrandall to become the husband of Sebastian
Gooch's daughter. That is the unpardonable sin."

Mr. Wrandall was silent for a moment.

"You still are Sebastian Gooch's daughter," he said distinctly.
"You can never be anything else."

She paled. "This last transaction proves it, you would say?"

"This last transaction, yes."

She looked about her with troubled, questioning eyes.

"I--I wonder if THAT can be true," she murmured, rather piteously.
"Am I so different from the rest of you? Is the blood to blame?"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Carroll nervously. "Don't be silly, Sara,
my child. That is not what Mr. Wrandall means."

Wrandall turned his face away.

"You loved as deeply as you hate, Sara," he said, with a curious
twitching of his chin. "My son was your god. We are not insensible
to that. Perhaps we have never realised until now the depth and
breadth of your love for him. Love is a bitter judge of its enemies.
It knows no mercy, it knows no reason. Hate may be conquered by
love, but love cannot be conquered by hate. You had reason to hate
my son; Instead you persisted in your love for him. We--we owe you
something for that, Sara. We owe you a great deal more than I find
myself able to express in words."

Leslie entered the room at this instant. He had his overcoat on
and carried his gloves and hat in his hand.

"We are ready, father," he said thickly.

After a moment's hesitation, he crossed over to Hetty, who stood
beside Sara.

"I--I can now understand why you refused to marry me, Miss Castleton,"
he said, in a queer, jerky manner. "Won't you let me say that I
wish you all the happiness still to be found in this rather uneven
world of ours?"

The crowning testimonial to an absolutely sincere ego!




CHAPTER XXV

RENUNCIATION


On the third day after the singular trial of Hetty Castleton in
Sara's library, young Mrs. Wrandall's motor drew up in front of
a lofty office building in lower Broadway; its owner stepped down
from the limousine and entered the building. A few moments later
she walked briskly into the splendid offices of Wrandall & Co.,
private bankers and steamship-owners. The clerks in the outer
offices stared for a moment in significant surprise, and then bowed
respectfully to the beautiful silent partner in the great concern.

It was the first time she had been seen in the offices since the
tragic event that had served to make her a member of the firm. A
boy at the information desk, somewhat impressed by her beauty and
the trim elegance of her long black broad-tail coat, to say nothing
of the dark eyes that shone through the narrow veil, forgot the
dignity of his office and went so far as to politely ask her who
she wanted to see and "what name, please."

The senior clerk rushed forward and transfixed the new boy with a
glare.

"A new boy, Mrs. Wrandall," he made haste to explain. To the new
boy's surprise, the visitor was conducted with much bowing and
scraping into the private offices, where no one ventured except by
special edict of the powers.

"Who was it?" he asked, in some awe, of a veteran stenographer who
came up and sneered at him.

"Mrs. Challis Wrandall, you little simpleton," said she, and for
once he failed to snap back.

It is of record that for nearly two whole days, he was polite to
every visitor who approached him and was generally worth his salt.

Sara found herself in the close little room that once had been her
husband's, but was now scrupulously held in reserve for her own use.
Rather a waste of space, she felt as she looked about the office.
The clerk dusted an easy chair and threw open the long unused desk
near the window.

"We are very glad to see you here, madam," he said. "This room
hasn't been used much, as you may observe. Is there anything I can
do for you?"

She continued her critical survey of the room. Nothing had been
changed since the days when she used to visit her husband here on
occasions of rare social importance: such as calling to take him out
to luncheon, or to see that he got safely home on rainy afternoons.
The big picture of a steamship still hung on the wall across the
room. Her own photograph, in a silver frame, stood in one of the
recesses of the desk. She observed that there was a clean white
blotter there, too; but the ink wells appeared to be empty, if
she was to judge by the look of chagrin on the clerk's face as he
inspected them. Photographs of polo scenes in which Wrandall was a
prominent figure, hung about the walls, with two or three pictures
of his favourite ponies, and one of a ragged gipsy girl with
wonderful eyes, carrying a monkey in a crude wooden cage strapped
to her back. On closer observation one would have recognised Sara's
peculiarly gipsy-like features in the face of the girl, and then
one would have noticed the caption written in red ink at the bottom
of the photograph: "The Trumbell's Fancy Dress Ball, January 10,
'07.  Sara as Gipsy Mab."

With a start, Sara came out of her painful reverie. She passed her
hand over her eyes, and seemed thereby to put the polite senior
clerk back into the picture once more.

"No, thank you. Is Mr. Redmond Wrandall down this afternoon?"

"He came in not ten minutes ago. Mr. Leslie Wrandall is also here.
Shall I tell Mr. Wrandall you wish to see him?"

"You may tell him, that I am here, if you please," she said.

"I am very sorry about the ink wells, madam," murmured the clerk.
"We--we were not expecting--"

"Pray don't let it disturb you, Mr. Bancroft. I shall not use them
to-day."

"They will be properly filled by to-morrow."

"Thank you."

He disappeared. She relaxed in the familiar, comfortable old
leather-cushioned chair, and closed her eyes. There was a sharp
little line between them, but it was hidden by the veil.

The door opened slowly and Redmond Wrandall came into the room.
She arose at once.

"This is--er--an unexpected pleasure, Sara," he said, perplexed and
ill-at-ease. He stopped just inside the door he had been careful
to close behind him, and did not offer her his hand.

"I came down to attend to some business, Mr. Wrandall," she said.

"Business?" he repeated, staring.

She took note of the tired, haggard look in his eyes, and the
tightly compressed lips.

"I intend to dispose of my entire interest in Wrandall & Co.," she
announced calmly.

He took a step forward, plainly startled by the declaration.

"What's this?" he demanded sharply.

"We may as well speak plainly, Mr. Wrandall," she said. "You do
not care to have me remain a member of the firm, nor do I blame
you for feeling as you do about it. A year ago you offered to buy
me out--or off, as I took it to be at the time. I had reasons then
for not selling out to you. To-day I am ready either to buy or to
sell."

"You--you amaze me," he exclaimed.

"Does your offer of last December still stand?"

"I--I think we would better have Leslie in, Sara. This is most
unexpected. I don't quite feel up to--"

"Have Leslie in by all means," she said, resuming her seat.

He hesitated a moment, opened his lips as if to speak, and then
abruptly left the room.

Sara smiled.

Many minutes passed before the two Wrandalls put in an appearance.
She understood the delay. They were telephoning to certain legal
advisers.

"What's this I hear, Sara?" demanded Leslie, extending his hand
after a second's hesitation.

She shook hands with him, not listlessly but with the vigour born
of nervousness.

"I don't know what you've heard," she said pointedly.

His slim fingers went searching for the end of his moustache.

"Why,--why, about selling out to us," he stammered.

"I am willing to retire from the firm of Wrandall & Co.," she said.

"Father says the business is as good as it was a year ago, but I
don't agree with him," said the son, trying to look lugubrious.

"Then you don't care to repeat your original proposition?"

"Well, the way business has been falling off--"

"Perhaps you would prefer to sell out to me," she remarked quietly.

"Not at all!" he said quickly, with a surprised glance at his
father. "We couldn't think of letting the business pass out of the
Wrandall name."

"You forget that MY name is Wrandall," she rejoined. "There would
be no occasion to change the firm's name; merely its membership."

"Our original offer stands," said the senior Wrandall stiffly. "We
prefer to buy."

"And I to sell. Mr. Carroll will meet you to-morrow, gentlemen. He
will represent me as usual. Our business as well as social relations
are about to end, I suppose. My only regret is that I cannot further
accommodate you by changing my name. Still you may live in hope
that time may work even that wonder for you."

She arose. The two men regarded her in an aggrieved way for a
moment.

"I have no real feeling of hostility toward you, Sara," said Leslie
nervously, "in spite of all that you said the other night."

"I am afraid you don't mean that, deep down in your heart, Leslie,"
she said, with a queer little smile.

"But I do," he protested. "Hang it all, we--we live in a glass house
ourselves, Sara. I dare say, in a way, I was quite as unpleasant
as the rest of the family. You see, we just can't help being snobs.
It's in us, that's all there is to it."

Mr. Wrandall looked up from the floor, his gaze having dropped at
the first outburst from his son's lips.

"We--we prefer to be friendly, Sara, if you will allow us--"

She laughed and the old gentleman stopped in the middle of his
sentence.

"We can't be friends, Mr. Wrandall," she said, suddenly serious.
"The pretence would be a mockery. We are all better off if we allow
our paths, our interests to diverge to-day."

"Perhaps you are right," said he, compressing his lips.

"I believe that Vivian and I could--but no! I won't go so far as
to say that either. There is something genuine about her. Strange
to say, I have never disliked her."

"If you had made the slightest effort to like us, no doubt we could
have--"

"My dear Mr. Wrandall," she interrupted quickly, "I credit YOU
with the desire to be fair and just to me. You have tried to like
me. You have even deceived yourself at times. I--but why these
gentle recriminations? We merely prolong an unfortunate contest
between antagonistic natures, with no hope of genuine peace being
established. I do not regret that I am your daughter-in-law, nor do
I believe that you would regret it if I had not been the daughter
of Sebastian Gooch."

"Your father was as little impressed with my son as I was with his
daughter," said Redmond Wrandall drily. "I am forced to confess
that he was the better judge. We had the better of the bargain."

"I believe you mean it, Mr. Wrandall," she said, a note of gratitude
in her voice. "Good-bye. Mr. Carroll will see you to-morrow." She
glanced quickly about the room. "I shall send for--for certain
articles that are no longer required in conducting the business of
Wrandall & Co."

With a quaint little smile, she indicated the two photographs of
herself.

"By Jove, Sara," burst out Leslie abruptly. "I wish you'd let ME
have that Gipsy Mab picture. I've always been dotty over it, don't
you know. Ripping study."

Her lip curled slightly.

"As a matter of fact," he explained conclusively, "Chal often said
he'd leave it to me when he died. In a joking way, of course, but
I'm sure he meant it."

"You may have it, Leslie," she said slowly. It is doubtful if he
correctly interpreted the movement of her head as she uttered the
words.

"Thanks," said he. "I'll hang it in my den, if you don't object."

"We shall expect Mr. Carroll to-morrow, Sara," said his father,
with an air of finality. "Good-bye. May I ask what plans you are
making for the winter?"

"They are very indefinite."

"I say, Sara, why don't you get married?" asked Leslie, surveying
the Gipsy Mab photograph with undisguised admiration as he held it
at arm's length. "Ripping!" This to the picture.

She paused near the door to stare at him for a moment, unutterable
scorn in her eyes.

"I've had a notion you were pretty keen about Brandy Booth," he
went on amiably.

She caught her breath. There was an instant's hesitation on her
part before she replied.

"You have never been very smart at making love guesses, Leslie,"
she said. "It's a trick you haven't acquired."

He laughed uncomfortably. "Neat stroke, that."

Following her into the corridor outside the offices, he pushed the
elevator bell for her.

"I meant what I said, Sara," he remarked, somewhat doggedly. "You
ought to get married. Chal didn't leave much for you to cherish.
There's no reason why you should go on like this, living alone and
all that sort of thing. You're young and beautiful and--"

"Oh, thank you, Leslie," she cried out sharply.

"You see, it's going to be this way: Hetty will probably marry Booth.
That's on dit, I take it. You're depending on her for companionship.
Well, she'll quit you cold after she's married. She will--"

She interrupted him peremptorily.

"If Challis did nothing else for me, Leslie, he at least gave me
you to cherish. Once more, good-bye."

The elevator stopped for her. He strolled back to his office with
a puzzled frown on his face. She certainly was inexplicable!

The angry red faded from her cheeks as she sped homeward in the
automobile. Her thoughts were no longer of Leslie but of another...
She sighed and closed her eyes, and her cheeks were pale.

Workmen from a picture dealer's establishment were engaged in hanging
a full length portrait in the long living-room of her apartment when
she reached home. She had sent to the country for Booth's picture
of Hetty, and was having it hung in a conspicuous place. For a
long time she stood in the middle of the room, studying the canvas.
Hetty's Irish blue eyes seemed to return the scrutiny, a questioning
look in their painted depths. The warm, half smiling lips appeared
to be on the point of putting into words the eager question that
lay in her wondering eyes.

Passing the open library door, Sara paused for an instant to peer
within. Then she went on down the hall to her own sitting-room.
The canary was singing glibly in his cage by the window-side.

She threw aside her furs, and, without removing her hat, passed
into the bed-chamber at the left of the cosy little boudoir. This
was Hetty's room. Her own was directly opposite. On the girl's
dressing-table, leaning against the broad, low mirror, stood
the unframed photograph of a man. With a furtive glance over her
shoulder, Sara crossed to the table and took up the picture in her
gloved hand. For a long time she stood there gazing into the frank,
good-looking face of Brandon Booth. She breathed faster; her hand
shook; her eyes were strained as if by an inward suggestion of
pain.

She shook her head slowly, as if in final renunciation of a secret
hope or the banishment of an unwelcome desire, and resolutely
replaced the photograph. Her lips were almost white as she turned
away and re-entered the room beyond.

"He belongs to her," she said, unconsciously speaking aloud; "and
he is like all men. She must not be unhappy."

Presently she entered the library. She had exchanged her tailor-suit
for a dainty house-gown. Hetty was still seated in the big lounging
chair, before the snapping fire, apparently not having moved since
she looked in on passing a quarter of an hour before. One of the
girl's legs was curled up under her, the other swung loose; an elbow
rested on the arm of the chair, and her cheek was in her hand.

Coming softly up from behind, Sara leaned over the back of the
chair and put her hands under her friend's chin, tenderly, lovingly.
Hetty started and shivered.

"Oh, Sara, how cold your hands are!"

She grasped them in her own and fondly stroked them, as if to
restore warmth to the long, slim fingers which gave the lie to Mrs.
Coburn's declarations.

"I've been thinking all morning of what you and Brandon proposed to
me last night, dear," said Sara, looking straight over the girl's
head, the dark, languorous, mysterious glow filling her eyes. "It
is good of you both to want me, but--"

"Now don't say 'but,' Sara," cried Hetty. "We mean it, and you must
let us have our way."

"It would be splendid to be near you all the time, dear; it would
be wonderful to live with you as you so generously propose, but I
cannot do it. I must decline."

"And may I ask why you decline to live with me?" demanded Hetty
resentfully.

"Because I love you so dearly," said Sara.

THE END









End of Project Gutenberg's The Hollow of Her Hand, by George Barr McCutcheon

*** 