In Her Own Right

When Croyden had got Parmenter’s letter from the secret drawer in the escritoire, he rang the old-fashioned pull-bell for Moses. It was only a little after nine, and, though he did not require the negro to remain in attendance until he retired, he fancied the kitchen fire still held him.

And he was not mistaken. In a moment Moses appeared—his eyes heavy with the sleep from which he had been aroused.

“Survent, marster!” he said, bowing from the doorway.

“Moses, did you ever shoot a pistol?” Croyden asked.

“Fur de Lawd, seh! Hit’s bin so long sence I dun hit, I t’ink I’se gun-shy, seh.”

“But you have done it?”

“Yass, seh, I has don hit.”

“And you could do it again, if necessary?”

“I speck so, seh—leas’wise, I kin try—dough I’se mons’us unsuttin, seh, mons’us unsuttin!”

“Uncertain of what—your shooting or your hitting?”

“My hittin’, seh.”

“Hi!—I sut’n’y does! seh, I sut’n’y does!” said the negro, with a broad grin.

“There is a revolver, yonder, on the table,” said Croyden, indicating one of those they used on Greenberry Point. “It’s a self-cocker—you simply pull the trigger and the action does the rest. You understand?”

“Yass, seh, I onderstands,” said Moses.

“Bring it here,” Croyden ordered.

Moses’ fingers closed around the butt, a bit timorously, and he carried it to his master.

“I’ll show you the action,” said Croyden. “Here, is the ejector,” throwing the chamber out, “it holds six shots, you see: but you never put a cartridge under the firing-pin, because, if anything strikes the trigger, it’s likely to be discharged.”

“Yass, seh!”

Croyden loaded it, closed the cylinder, and passed it over to Moses, who took it with a little more assurance. He was harkening back thirty years, and more.

“What do yo warn me to do, seh?” he asked.

“Yass, seh!—I’m to shoot anyone what tries to get in.”

“Not exactly!” laughed Croyden. “You’re to shoot anyone who tries to break in. For Heaven’s sake! don’t shoot me, when I return, or any one else who comes legitimately. Be sure he is an intruder, then bang away.”

“Sut’n’y, seh! I onderstands. I’se dub’us bout hittin’, but I kin bang away right nuf. Does yo’ spose any one will try to git in, seh?”

“No, I don’t!” Croyden smiled—“but you be ready for them, Moses, be ready for them. It’s just as well to provide against contingencies.”

“Yass, seh!” as Croyden went out and the front door closed behind him, “but dem ’tingencies is monty dang’ous t’ings to fools wid. I don’ likes hit, dat’s whar I don’.”

Croyden found Miss Carrington just where he had left her—a quick return to the sofa having been synchronous with his appearance in the hall.

“I had a mind not to wait here,” she said; “you were an inordinately long time, Mr. Croyden.”

“I was!” he replied, sitting down beside her. “I was, and I admit it—but it can be explained.”

“I’m listening!” she smiled.

“Before you listen to me, listen to Robert Parmenter, deceased!” said he, and gave her the letter.

“If you please!” he answered.

She read it through without a single word of comment—an amazing thing in a woman, who, when her curiosity is aroused, can ask more questions to the minute than can be answered in a month. When she had finished, she turned back and read portions of it again, especially the direction as to finding the treasure, and the postscript bequests by the Duvals.

At last, she dropped the letter in her lap and looked up at Croyden.

“A most remarkable document!” she said. “Most extraordinary in its ordinariness, and most ordinary in its extraordinariness. And you searched, carefully, for three weeks and found—nothing?”

“We did,” he replied. “Now, I’ll tell you about it.”

“First, tell me where you obtained this letter?”

“I found it by accident—in a secret compartment of an escritoire at Clarendon,” he answered.

She nodded.

“Now you may tell me about it?” she said, and settled back to listen.

“This is the tale of Parmenter’s treasure—and how we did not find it!” he laughed.

And, once again, marvelous to relate, Miss Carrington did not interrupt, through the entire course of the narrative. Nor did she break the silence for a time after he had concluded, staring thoughtfully, the while, down into the grate, where a smouldering back log glowed fitfully.

“What do you intend to do, as to the treasure?” she asked, slowly.

“Give it up!” he replied. “What else is there to do?”

“And what about this stranger?”

“He must give it up!” laughed Croyden. “He has no recourse. In the words of the game, popular hereabout, he is playing a bobtail!”

“But he doesn’t know it’s a bobtail. He is convinced you found the treasure,” she objected.

“Let him make whatever trouble he can, it won’t bother me, in the least.”

“He is not acting alone,” she persisted. “He has confederates—they may attack Clarendon, in an effort to capture the treasure.”

“My dear child! this is the twentieth century, not the seventeenth!” he laughed. “We don’t ‘stand-by to repel boarders,’ these days.”

He stared at her, in surprise.

“Rather queer!—I’ve heard those same words before, in this connection.”

“Community of minds.”

“Is it a quotation?” he asked.

“Possibly—though I don’t recall it. Suppose you are attacked and tortured till you reveal where you’ve hidden the jewels?” she insisted.

“I cannot suppose them so unreasonable!” he laughed, again. “However, I put Moses on guard—with a big revolver and orders to fire at anyone molesting the house. If we hear a fusillade we’ll know it’s he shooting up the neighborhood.”

“Then the same idea did suggest itself to you!”

“Only to the extent of searching for the jewels—I regarded that as vaguely possible, but there isn’t the slightest danger of any one being tortured.”

“You know best, I suppose,” she said—“but you’ve had your warning—and pirate’s gold breeds pirate’s ways. You’ve given up all hope of finding the treasure—abandoned jewels worth—how many dollars?”

“Possibly half a million,” he filled in.

“Without a further search? Oh! Mr. Croyden!”

“If you can suggest what to do—anything which hasn’t been done, I shall be only too glad to consider it.”

“We did.”

“And dredged the Bay for a hundred yards?”

“Yes.”

She puckered her brows in thought. He regarded her with an amused smile.

“I don’t see what you’re to do, except to do it all over again,” she announced—“Now, don’t laugh! It may sound foolish, but many a thing has been found on a second seeking—and this, surely, is worth a second, or a third, or even many seekings.”

“If there were any assurance of ultimate success, it would pay to spend a lifetime hunting. The two essentials, however, are wanting: the extreme tip of Greenberry Point in 1720, and the beech-trees. We made the best guess at their location. More than that, the zone of exploration embraced every possible extreme of territory—yet, we failed. It will make nothing for success to try again.”

“But it is somewhere!” she reflected.

“Somewhere, in the Bay!—It’s shoal water, for three or four hundred feet around the Point, with a rock bottom. The Point itself has been eaten into by the Bay, down to this rock. Parmenter’s chest disappeared with the land in which it was buried, and no man will find it now, except by accident.”

“Without anyone having the fun of wasting it!” laughed Croyden.

She took up Parmenter’s letter again, and glanced over it. Then she handed it back, and shook her head.

“It’s too much for my poor brain,” she said. “I surrender.”

“Precisely where we landed. We gave it rather more than a fair trial, and, then, we gave it up. I’m done. When I go home, to-night, I shall return the letter to the escritoire where I found it, and forget it. There is no profit in speculating further.”

“You can return it to its hiding place,” she reflected, “but you can’t cease wondering. Why didn’t Marmaduke Duval get the treasure while the landmarks were there? Why did he leave it for his heirs?”

“Probably on account of old Parmenter’s restriction that it be left until the ‘extremity of need.’”

She nodded, in acquiescence.

“Probably,” she said, “the Duvals would regard it as a matter of honor to observe the exact terms of the bequest. Alas! Alas! that they did so!”

“It’s only because they did so, that I got a chance to search!” Croyden laughed.

“In the realm of pure conjecture,” he answered. “It is idle to theorize on the might-have-beens, or what might-have-happened if the what-did-happen hadn’t happened. Dismiss it, at least, for this evening. You asked what I was doing for three weeks at Annapolis, and I have consumed a great while in answering—let us talk of something else. What have you been doing in those three weeks?”

“Nothing! A little Bridge, a few riding parties, some sails on the Bay, with an occasional homily by Miss Erskine, when she had me cornered, and I couldn’t get away. Then is when I learned what a deep impression you had made!” she laughed.

“We both were learning, it seems,” he replied.

She looked at him, inquiringly.

“I don’t quite understand,” she said.

“You made an impression, also—of course, that’s to be expected, but this impression is much more than the ordinary kind!”

“Merci, Monsieur,” she scoffed.

“No, it isn’t merci, it’s a fact. And he is a mighty good fellow on whom to make an impression.”

“You mean, Mr.—Macloud?”

“You’re very safe in saying it!”

“Wherefore?”

“He is absent. It’s not susceptible of proof.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I think so!”

“I don’t!”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“For he’s coming back——”

“To Hampton?”

“To Hampton.”

“When?” she said, sceptically.

“Very soon!”

“Delightfully indefinite!” she laughed.

“In fact, within a week.”

She laughed, again!

“To be accurate, I expect him not later than the day-after-to-morrow.”

“I shall believe you, when I see him!” incredulously.

“He is, I think, coming solely on your account.”

“But you’re not quite sure?—oh! modest man!”

“Naturally, he hasn’t confided in me.”

“So you’re confiding in me—how clever!”

“I could tell some things——”

“Which are fables.”

“——but I won’t—they might turn your head——”

“Which way—to the right or left?”

“Once!” she corrected.

“Once, on the street; again, when we called in the evening—but he gave you a name, the instant he saw you——”

“How kind of him!”

“He called you: ‘The Symphony in Blue.’”

“Was I in blue?” she asked.

“You were—and looking particularly fit.”

“Was that the first time you had noticed it?” she questioned blandly.

“Do you think so?” he returned.

“I am asking you, sir.”

“Do I impress you as being blind?”

“No, you most assuredly do not!” she laughed.

He looked at her with daring eyes.

“Yes!” she said, “I know you’re intrepid—but you won’t!”

“Why?—why won’t I?”

“Because, it would be false to your friend. You have given me to him.”

“I have given you to him!” he exclaimed, with denying intonation.

“Yes!—as between you two, you have renounced, in his favor.”

“I protest!”

“At least, I so view it,” with a teasingly fascinating smile.

“I protest!” he repeated.

“I heard you.”

“Don’t you think that you protest over-much?” she inquired sweetly.

“If we were two children, I’d say: ‘You think you’re smart, don’t you?’”

“And I’d retort: ‘You got left, didn’t you?’”

Then they both laughed.

“Seriously, however—do you really expect Mr. Macloud?” she asked.

“I surely do—probably within two days; and I’m not chaffing when I say that you’re the inducement. So, be good to him—he’s got more than enough for two, I can assure you.”

“Mercenary!” she laughed.

“No—just careful!” he answered.

“And what number am I—the twenty-first, or thereabout?”

“What matters it, if you’re the one, at present?”

She raised her shoulders in the slightest shrug.

“I’d sooner be the present one than all the has-beens,” he insisted.

“Opinions differ,” she remarked.

“If it will advantage any——”

“I didn’t say so,” she interrupted.

“——I can tell you——”

“Many fables, I don’t doubt!” she cut in, again.

“‘Why don’t you speak for yourself, John,’” she quoted, merrily.

“Because, to be frank, I haven’t enough for two,” he answered, gayly.

But beneath the gayety, she thought she detected the faintest note of regret. So! there was some one!

And, woman-like, when he had gone, she wondered about her—whether she was dark or fair, tall or small, vivacious or reserved, flirtatious or sedate, rich or poor—and whether they loved each other—or whether it was he, alone, who loved—or whether he had not permitted himself to be carried so far—or whether—then, she dropped asleep.

Croyden went back to Clarendon, keeping a sharp look-out for anyone under the trees around the house. He found Moses in the library, evidently just aroused from slumber by the master’s door key.

“No one’s bin heah, seh, ’cep de boy wid dis ’spatch,” he hastened to say.

Croyden tore open the envelope:—It was a wire from Macloud, that he would be down to-morrow.

“You may go to bed, Moses.”

“Yass, seh! yass, seh!—I’se pow’ful glad yo’s back, seh. Nothin’ I kin git yo befo I goes?”

“Nothing!” said Croyden. “You’re a good soldier, Moses, you didn’t sleep on guard.”

Croyden finished his cigar, put out the light, and went slowly upstairs—giving not a thought to the Parmenter treasure nor the man he had met outside. His mind was busy with Elaine Cavendish—their last night on the moonlit piazza—the brief farewell—the lingering pressure of her fingers—the light in her eyes—the subdued pleasure, when they met unexpectedly in Annapolis—her little ways to detain him, keep him close to her—her instant defense of him at Mattison’s scurrilous insinuation—the officers’ hop—the rhythmic throb of the melody—the scented, fluttering body held close in his arms—the lowered head—the veiled eyes—the trembling lashes—his senses steeped in the fragrance of her beauty—the temptation well-nigh irresistible—his resolution almost gone—trembling—trembling——

The vision passed—music ceased—the dance was ended. Sentiment vanished—reason reigned once more.

He was a fool! a fool! to think of her, to dream of the past, even. But it is pleasant, sometimes, to be a fool—where a beautiful woman is concerned, and only one’s self to pay the piper.

Macloud arrived the next day, bringing for his host a great batch of mail, which had accumulated at the Club.

“I thought of it at the last moment—when I was starting for the station, in fact,” he remarked. “The clerk said he had no instructions for forwarding, so I just poked it in my bag and brought it along. Stupid of me not to think of it sooner. Why didn’t you mention it? I can understand why you didn’t leave an address, but not why I shouldn’t forward it.”

“I didn’t care, when I left—and I don’t care much, now—but I’m obliged, just the same!” said Croyden. “It’s something to do; the most exciting incident of the day, down here, is the arrival of the mail. The people wait for it, with bated breath. I am getting in the way, too, though I don’t get much.... I never did have any extensive correspondence, even in Northumberland—so this is just circulars and such trash.”

He took the package, which Macloud handed him, and tossed it on the desk.

“What’s new?” he asked.

“I don’t envy her the job,” Croyden remarked.

“It won’t bother her!” Macloud laughed. “She’ll be privileged to draw on his bank account, and that’s the all important thing with her. He will fracture the seventh commandment, and she won’t turn a hair. She is a chilly proposition, all right.”

“Well, I wish her joy of her bargain,” said Croyden. “May she have everything she wants, and see Mattison not at all, after the wedding journey—and but very occasionally, then.”

He took up the letters and ran carelessly through them.

“Trash! Trash! Trash!” he commented, as he consigned them, one by one, to the waste-basket.

Macloud watched him, languidly, behind his cigar smoke, and made no comment.

Presently Croyden came to a large, white envelope—darkened on the interior so as to prevent the contents from being read until opened. It bore the name of a firm of prominent brokers in Northumberland.

“What the devil!——”

He read it a second time. No, he wasn’t asleep—it was all there, typewritten and duly signed. Two hundred thousand dollars!—honor sight draft, or pay cash on presentation and transfer!

“What the devil!” he said, again. Then he passed it across to Macloud. “Read this aloud, will you,—I want to see if I’m quite sane!”

Macloud was at his favorite occupation—blowing smoke rings through one another, and watching them spiral upward toward the ceiling.

“I beg your pardon!” he said, as Croyden’s words roused him from his meditation. “I must have been half asleep. What did you say—read it?” taking the letter.

He and Blaxham had spent considerable time on that letter, trying to explain the reason for the purchase, and the foolishly high price they were offering, in such a way as to mislead Croyden.

“Yes,—aloud! I want to hear someone else read it.”

Macloud looked at him, curiously.

“It is typewritten, you haven’t a chance to get wrong!” he said, wonderingly.

Croyden laughed!

“Read it, please!” he exclaimed.... “So, I wasn’t crazy: and either Blaxham is lying or his customer needs a guardian—which is it?”

“But the bonds aren’t worth five cents on the dollar!”

“So much the more reason to hustle the deal through. Sell them! man, sell them! You may have slipped up on the Parmenter treasure, but you have struck it here.”

“Too rich,” Croyden answered. “There’s something queer about that letter.”

Macloud smoked his cigar, and smiled.

“There’s nothing queer about the letter!”—he said. “Blaxham’s customer may have the willies—indeed, he as much as intimates that such is the case—but, thank God! we’re not obliged to have a commission-in-lunacy appointed on everybody who makes a silly stock or bond purchase. If we were, we either would have no markets, or the courts would have time for nothing else. No! no! old man! take what the gods have given you and be glad. There’s ten thousand a year in it! You can return to Northumberland, resume the old life, and be happy ever after;—or you can live here, and there, and everywhere. You’re unattached—not even a light-o’-love to squander your money, and pester you for gowns and hats, and get in a hell of a temper—and be false to you, besides.”

“Troubles!” marvelled Macloud. “You haven’t any troubles, now. This clears them all away.”

“It clears some of them away—if I take it.”

“Thunder! man, you’re not thinking, seriously, of refusing?”

“It will put me on ‘easy street,’” Croyden observed.

“So, why hesitate an instant?”

“And it comes with remarkable timeliness—so timely, indeed, as to be suspicious.”

“Suspicious? Why suspicious? It’s a bona fide offer.”

“It’s a bona fide offer—there’s no trouble on that score.”

“Then, what is the trouble?”

“This,” said Croyden: “I’m broke—finally. The Parmenter treasure is moonshine, so far as I’m concerned. I’m down on my uppers, so to speak—my only assets are some worthless bonds. Behold! along comes an offer for them at par—two hundred thousand dollars for nothing! I fancy, old man, there is a friend back of this offer—the only friend I have in the world—and I did not think that even he was kind and self-sacrificing enough to do it.—I’m grateful, Colin, grateful from the heart, believe me, but I can’t take your money.”

“Will you give me your word on that?” Croyden demanded.

“I most assuredly will,” Macloud answered.

Croyden nodded. He was satisfied.

“There is no one else!” he mused, “no one else!” He looked at the letter again.... “And, yet, it is very suspicious, very suspicious.... I wonder, could I ascertain the name of the purchaser of the stocks and bonds, from the Trust Company who held them as collateral?”

“They won’t know,” said Macloud. “Blaxham & Company bought them at the public sale.”

“I could try the transfer agent, or the registrar.”

“They never tell anything, as you are aware,” Macloud replied.

“I could refuse to sell unless Blaxham & Company disclosed their customer.”

“Yes, you could—and, likely, lose the sale; they won’t disclose. However, that’s your business,” Macloud observed; “though, it’s a pity to tilt at windmills, for a foolish notion.”

Croyden creased and uncreased the letter—thinking.

At length, Croyden put the letter back in its envelope and looked up.

“I’ll sell the bonds,” he said—“forward them at once with draft attached, if you will witness my signature to the transfer. But it’s a queer proceeding, a queer proceeding: paying good money for bad!”

“That’s his business—not yours,” said Macloud, easily.

Croyden went to the escritoire and took the bonds from one of the drawers.

“You can judge, from the place I keep them, how much I thought them worth!” he laughed.

When they were duly transferred and witnessed, Croyden attached a draft drawn on an ordinary sheet of paper, dated Northumberland, and payable to his account at the Tuscarora Trust Company. He placed them in an envelope, sealed it and, enclosing it in a second envelope, passed it over to Macloud.

“I don’t care to inform them as to my whereabouts,” he remarked, “so, if you don’t mind, I’ll trouble you to address this to some one in New York or Philadelphia, with a request that he mail the enclosed envelope for you.”

Macloud, when he had done as requested, laid aside the pen and looked inquiringly at Croyden.

“The interpretation does not go quite so far; it means, simply, that I have not decided.”

“Don’t you want to come back?” Macloud asked.

“It’s a question of resolution, not of inclination,” Croyden answered. “I don’t know whether I’ve sufficient resolution to go, and sufficient resolution to stay, if I do go. It may be easier not to go, at all—to live here, and wander, elsewhere, when the spirit moves.”

And Macloud understood. “I’ve been thinking over the proposition you recently advanced of the folly of a relatively poor man marrying a rich girl,” he said, “and you’re all wrong. It’s a question of the respective pair, not a theory that can be generalized over. I admit, the man should not be a pauper, but, if he have enough money to support himself, and the girl love him and he loves the girl, the fact that she has gobs more money, won’t send them on the rocks. It’s up to the pair, I repeat.”

“Meaning, that it would be up to Elaine Cavendish and me?” answered Croyden.

“If you please, yes!” said Macloud.

“I wish I could be so sure,” Croyden reflected. “Sure of the girl, as well as sure of myself.”

“What are you doubtful about—yourself?”

“I fancy I could manage myself,” he said.

“Elaine?”

“Yes, Elaine!”

“Try her!—she’s worth the try.”

“From a monetary standpoint?” smiling.

“Get the miserable money out of your mind a moment, will you?—you’re hipped on it!”

“All right, old man, anything for peace! Tell me, did you see her, when you were home?”

“I did—I dined with her.”

“Who else was there?”

“You—she talked Croyden at least seven-eighths of the time; I, the other eighth.”

“Must have been an interesting conversation. Anything left of the victim, afterward?”

“I refuse to become facetious,” Macloud responded. Then he threw his cigar into the grate and arose. “It matters not what was said, nor who said it! If you will permit me the advice, you will take your chance while you have it.”

“Have I a—chance?” Croyden asked.

“You have—more than a chance, if you act, now——” He walked across to the window. He would let that sink in.—“How’s the Symphony in Blue?” he asked.

“As charming as ever—and prepared for your coming.”

“What?”

“Some of your work!” he commented. “Did you propose for me?”

“I left that finality for you—being the person most interested.”

“Thanks! you’re exceedingly considerate.”

“I thought you would appreciate it.”

“When did you arrange for me to go over?” asked Macloud.

“Any time—the sooner the quicker. She’ll be glad to see you.”

“She confided in you, I suppose?”

“Not directly; she let me infer it.”

“In other words, you worked your imagination—overtime!” laughed Macloud. “It’s a pity you couldn’t work it a bit over the Parmenter jewels. You might locate them.”

“I’m done with the Parmenter jewels!” said Croyden.

“But they’re not done with you, my friend. So long as you live, they’ll be present with you. You’ll be hunting for them in your dreams.”

“Meet me to-night in dream-land!” sang Croyden. “Well, they’re not likely to disturb my slumbers—unless—there was a rather queer thing happened, last night, Colin.”

“Here?”

“It seems to me the fellow made it very plain,” Macloud returned, “except on one possible point. He evidently believes we found the treasure.”

“He is convinced of it.”

“Then, he knows that you came direct from Annapolis to Hampton—I mean, you didn’t visit a bank nor other place where you could have deposited the jewels. Ergo, the jewels are still in your possession, according to his theory, and he is going to make a try for them while they are within reach. Informing the Government is a bluff. He hoped, by that means, to induce you to keep the jewels on the premises—not to make evidence against yourself, which could be traced by the United States, by depositing them in any bank.”

“Why shouldn’t I have taken them to a dealer in precious stones?” said Croyden.

“Because that would make the best sort of evidence against you. You must remember, he thinks you have the jewels, and that you will try to conceal it, pending a Government investigation.”

“You make him a very canny gentleman.”

“No—I make him only a clever rogue, which, by your own account, he is.”

“It would be a bit annoying,” observed Macloud, “to be visited by burglars, who are obsessed with the idea that you have a fortune concealed on the premises, and are bent on obtaining it.”

“Annoying?—not a bit!” smiled Croyden. “I should rather enjoy the sport of putting them to flight.”

“Or of being bound, and gagged, and ill-treated.”

“Bosh! you’ve transferred your robber-barons from Northumberland to the Eastern Shore.”

“No, I haven’t!” laughed Macloud. “The robber-barons were still on the job in Northumberland. These are banditti, disguised as burglars, about to hold you up for ransom.”

“I wish I had your fine imagination,” scoffed Croyden. “I could make a fortune writing fiction.”

“Oh, you’re not so bad yourself!” Macloud retorted. Then he smiled. “Apropos of fortunes!” and nodded toward the envelope on the table. “It’s bully good to think you’re coming back to us!”

At that moment Moses passed along the hall.

“Here, Moses,” said Croyden, “take this letter down to the post office—I want it to catch the first mail.”

“I fancy you haven’t heard of the stranger since last evening?” Macloud asked.

Croyden shook his head.

“Yes, I have!” said Croyden.

“A woman?”

“A woman.”

“How strange!” commented Macloud, mockingly. “I suppose you even told her the entire story—from the finding of the letter down to date.”

“I did!—and showed her the letter besides. Why shouldn’t I have done it?”

“No reason in the world, my dear fellow—except that in twenty-four hours the dear public will know it, and we shall be town curiosities.”

“We don’t have to remain,” said Croyden, with affected seriousness—“there are trains out, you know, as well as in.”

“I don’t want to go away—I came here to visit you.”

“We will go together.”

“But we can’t take the Symphony in Blue!”

“Oh! that’s it!” Croyden laughed.

“Certainly, that’s it! You don’t think I came down here to see only you, after having just spent nearly four weeks with you, in that fool quest on Greenberry Point?” He turned, suddenly, and faced Croyden. “Who was the woman you told?”

“Miss Carrington!” Croyden laughed. “Think she will retail it to the dear public?”

“Oh, go to thunder!”

“Where?” said Macloud, whirling around toward the window.

Croyden made no reply. It was not necessary. On the opposite side of the street, Miss Carrington—in a tailored gown of blue broadcloth, close fitting and short in the skirt, with a velvet toque to match—was swinging briskly back from town.

Macloud watched her a moment in silence.

“The old man is done for, at last!” Croyden thought.

“Isn’t she a corker!” Macloud broke out. “Look at the poise of the head, and ease of carriage, and the way she puts down her feet!—that’s the way to tell a woman. God! Croyden, she’s thoroughbred!”

“You better go over,” said his friend. “It’s about the tea hour, she’ll brew you a cup.”

“And I’ll drink it—as much as she will give me. I despise the stuff, but I’ll drink it!”

“She’ll put rum in it, if you prefer!” laughed Croyden; “or make you a high ball, or you can have it straight—just as you want.”

“Come along!” exclaimed Macloud. “We’re wasting time.”

“I’ll be over, presently,” Croyden replied. “I don’t want any tea, you know.”

“Good!” Macloud answered, from the hallway. “Come along, as soon as you wish—but don’t come too soon.”