It was ten o'clock when he drew up in front of the Gordon home. He tied his horse to the post with the hitching-chain and knotted the reins so that they would not slip over the horse's head, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and walked bravely up to the veranda. There were few lights. Through the library window he saw the girl standing at the telephone. He prayed that she might be wholly alone. After a moment's hesitation he pressed the button and waited.
Betty herself came to the door. She peered out.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I did not expect that you would recognize me," said Carrington, laughing.
"John? Where in the world did you come from?"—taking him by the arm and dragging him into the hall. "Good gracious!"
"The truth is, Betty, I took to my heels at six o'clock, and have been riding around the country ever since." He sent her a penetrating glance.
"Come in to the fire," she cried impulsively. "You are cold and wet and hungry."
"Only wet," he admitted as he entered the cheerful library. He went directly to the blazing grate and spread out his red, wet, aching hands. He could hear her bustling about; it was a pleasant sound. A chair rolled up to the fender; the rattle of a tea-table followed. It was all very fine. "I ought to be ashamed to enter a house in these reeking clothes," he said; "but the temptation was too great."
"You are always welcome, John,"—softly.