Martin Christiansen.
An idea was born at that moment! When Miss Watts went to carry the supper tray downstairs, because the maids were busy, Isabelle hastily donned her riding clothes, turned on the bath water to mislead Miss Watts on her return, crept down the stairs and out. From the terrace she peered into the long drawing room. The French doors leading on to the terrace were open wide, and in the softly lighted room she saw the house-party guests assembling. They straggled in, one by one. Isabelle’s eyes brightened at Christiansen’s big boom of laughter, and she admired his broad shoulders, as he leaned on the mantelpiece at the far end.
She flew to the stables, crept in at the back, led out the Peruvian horse, saddled, mounted him, and kicked him gently in the flanks. Up and onto the terrace she guided him, just as indoors, Matthews arrived with the cocktails.
In through the open windows rode Isabelle, and slowly down the long drawing room. Everybody gasped.
“Isabelle Bryce!” cried her mother.
“Martin,” she said eagerly, “this is how I look as an Amazon!”
It was part of the cruel fate that dogged her, that at this supreme moment the Peruvian horse slipped on a rug on which Matthews happened to be standing, whereupon they all went down together, pouring a generous libation of cocktails at Christiansen’s feet!