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

THE
BISHOP'S PURSE

CLEVELAND MOFFETT

AND

OLIVER HERFORD

ILLUSTRATED

TORONTO
THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED
PUBLISHERS

Printed in the United States of America

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

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

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

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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

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

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

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

THE BISHOP'S PURSE

CHAPTER I
HESTER STORM GIVES HER NAME AS JENNY REGAN

A near-sighted German music teacher crossed his legs at an inopportune moment, and this trivial action led directly to the startling incidents of the following narrative, with their momentous effects upon several lives.

This singular occurrence took place on a railway train in England, a boat train with passengers from Paris, three of these, a strangely assorted trio, being brought together by fate within the respectable cushioned walls of a first-class carriage. On one side sat an English bishop, in formal black garments, talking with evident interest and a certain deference to a very pretty and smartly dressed American girl, whose fresh views and charming lack of reverence seemed to delight the rather heavy-minded but well-meaning prelate.

Small wonder that the ecclesiastical gaze was held in rapt attention, for Miss Betty Thompson (of New York and recently of Paris) was not only fair to look upon with her teasing blue eyes, her long curling lashes, her auburn hair shot through with golden lights and her adorable mouth upturned at the corners, but she added to these the fatal gift of unexpectedness. So the bishop looked and listened and marveled, while the tired lines faded from his face and he reflected that, after all, the ride from Dover to London was very short, amazingly short.

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

"An interesting face," whispered the bishop to his young friend. "A singularly interesting face. Wouldn't you say so, Miss Thompson?"

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

"You think she is a fellow countrywoman?" suggested the bishop.

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

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

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

Now ... the blue of the moon-kissed Mediterranean and a sighing orchestra playing on the marble terrace. And that most ridiculously careless South American general with his gold cigarette case! Fancy having real rubies and emeralds set in a cigarette case! What did the man expect?

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

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

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

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

The Storm girl tingled with sudden interest, yet managed to keep her eyes closed. Then, gradually and cautiously, she lifted her heavy lashes and peeped through them. The bishop was fussing with a handbag, searching for something, taking something out, a purse of brown leather, a fat purse with a heavy elastic band around it. And, in his bland, pompous way he was telling Miss Thompson about his recent and most successful visit to America in the interest of the Progressive Mothers' Society. The Americans had been so kind to him, so generous; their contributions, together with those of Americans in Paris, amounted to this splendid sum that he was now carrying back to London.

Five thousand pounds! And he explained the extraordinary combination of circumstances that had prevented him, at the last moment, just as he was leaving Paris, from depositing this money with his bankers.

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

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

Then she thought of the very large sum involved. Five thousand pounds! Twenty-five thousand dollars! How small it made her poor little eight hundred seem! Twenty-five thousand dollars! A fortune—all one could ever need! And there it was for the taking. There in the loosely hung black coat of an absent-minded bishop! Dear, dear, if this wonderful chance had only come sooner—before she made her good resolutions!

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

As Hester reached this purely academic conclusion the train drew up at a small station and the guard ushered in a near-sighted German music teacher, followed by a friend, who proved to be a trombone player, a very irascible person, and these two straightway fell into a heated discussion of the poisonous and non-poisonous qualities of mushrooms.

The dark-eyed dreamer smiled at the coincidence of their arrival, but remained unshaken in her resolve to leave the bishop's purse alone and all other purses likewise. Too well she remembered that little affair at the Élysêe Palace Hotel. Ugh! When Grimes fixed his cold gray eyes on her! Grimes from Scotland Yard, who happened to be in Paris on a case. Stupid man, who couldn't understand how easily a girl might mistake another woman's cloak for her own! What if it was of costly Russian sable? What did that prove? It was most annoying, and, having wriggled out of this misadventure, Hester did not propose ever again to risk another one.

Besides, it would take more than these two chattering musicians to help her. There must be a mob to shove and jostle. His nobs in the knee breeches must be standing up and somebody must push him against her or trip him up, so that in the scuffle she could sneak the leather. And now, suddenly, as Hester was fortifying herself in this prudent and virtuous decision, there came one of those trifling happenings that change the course of lives and empires—the near-sighted German music teacher crossed his legs. Whereupon the Bishop of Bunchester, who was just starting for the door, as the train drew into Chatham Junction, stumbled over the extended member and was thrown with some violence into Hester's corner, more precisely into Hester's lap, losing his glasses in transit, and was only rescued from this embarrassing position and brought again to a dignified perpendicular after much confusion with assistance and profuse apologies from the two Germans, which apologies the bishop gallantly passed on to the young woman upon whom he had so abruptly descended.

At Chatham Junction there was a stop of ten minutes, during which time the bishop and Miss Thompson walked briskly up and down the platform, but Hester kept her place by the window, looking out with the same odd little smile and wistful glance that had so interested Betty and her venerable friend. When these two returned to their seats the German musicians were gone and as the train resumed its journey to London, the fateful three were once more alone in the carriage.

The bishop and his young friend were now in gay spirits, laughing over something which Betty, apparently, had been describing with delicious drollery. In the self-absorption of their camaraderie, in their utter indifference to Hester's presence, they seemed to her brooding mind, to exclude her as completely from their social atmosphere as if she were a servant. And for some strange reason, the psychic meaning of which she was to understand later, the girl found herself hurt and irritated by this attitude of unconscious superiority.

The Storm girl stirred uneasily. Her wistful smile hardened into a bitter twist of the lips and through half-shut, envious eyes she studied this other American girl, this fortunate being whose every gesture, every tone of voice and every exquisite detail of costume bore witness to the background of culture and wealth that had always been hers. Why should this piece of pink-and-white prettiness be given all the good gifts, money, social position, friends, while she, Hester Storm, had none of these and never would have? It was all unfair! This whole scheme of life was a—it was a crooked game, where the cards were stacked against some people all their lives. What would this spoiled darling over there, with her clothes and her swell ways—what would she have done if she'd been born in a rotten tenement and—had a sick sister that she loved—a sister she'd die for—like Rosalie? Would she have done any better? Would she?

In the midst of her self-justification, Hester's attention was arrested by a sudden eager interest shown by Miss Thompson in the bishop's talk, which now concerned a man named Hiram Baxter, Betty's guardian, who had, it appeared, crossed on the steamer with the bishop the week before.

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

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

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

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

There was a thrill of almost passionate loyalty in Betty's voice. The bishop, glancing at her eager, flushed face, thought that he had never seen anything lovelier than this ardent championship of Hiram Baxter's foibles.

"I assure you, my dear," he said, hastening to correct her suspicion that he was making fun of Hiram, "I honor Mr. Baxter for the rare qualities of mind and heart that have made him the great man that he is, for the splendid traits that have lifted him to fortune and success from—shall I say so humble a beginning?"

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

"Which abounds in surprises, Miss Thompson, as you may discover."

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

The bishop smiled mysteriously. "Mr. Baxter told me a number of things. We walked the deck for hours. We smoked together in the evenings, and—really, I never enjoyed a voyage more."

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

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

"But what was it? Please tell me."

"And Baxter said to me"—the prelate's ample body shook with suppressed merriment—"'Bish,' he said—you know he always calls me 'Bish'—I wish I could remember the speech he made, it was so—so deliciously American. 'Bish,' he said, with that slow drawl of his, 'I'll bet ye four dollars and a quarter'—now what was the rest of it?"

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

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

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

"Your purse? Why—what?"

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

For some moments neither spoke. Then, by a common impulse, they turned and looked at the stranger whose innocent dark eyes met them with friendly interest and concern.

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

"A purse," repeated Hester sweetly.

"I may have dropped it," he explained, searching the carriage floor in perplexity. Then he squinted upward at the luggage racks as if expecting to find the purse there.

"You couldn't have dropped it," said Betty. "I saw you put it in your pocket; your inside pocket. It's most extraordinary."

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

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

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

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

"I wonder—" reflected the prelate.

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

As the train stopped the guard was summoned, and for some minutes there was greater excitement in the little station of Farmingdale than had been known there for years. The Bishop of Bunchester robbed of five thousand pounds! Robbed in a railway carriage in broad daylight! The news spread like wildfire, and presently the station master, the guard and the one officer on duty, were in low-voiced conclave at the carriage door, while wondering groups gathered on the platform. Five thousand pounds!

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

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

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

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

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

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

A little later the station master's wife reappeared, with mollified visage, and reported that she had searched Hester with the greatest care and had found no sign of the purse nor anything that was in the least suspicious. Furthermore, the girl's frank, honest manner had convinced her that she was innocent.

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

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

It was now decided that the Bishop of Bunchester must return at once to Chatham for the purpose of identifying the suspected Germans. There was a train going back shortly.

"You will pardon me, my dear Miss Thompson, for not escorting you to London, as I promised Mr. Baxter, but you see the seriousness, the urgency——"

"Don't think of me. I'll get to London all right. Thank you for your kindness, and I do hope you'll find the purse." Betty gave the bishop her slim gloved hand, and as he looked into her lovely face, so genuinely sympathetic, he could not help reflecting that in his whole episcopal experience he had never met a more charming, a more fascinating young woman than Betty Thompson. Thus it came about that Betty, on a later train, made the last half hour of her journey to London without the bishop's companionship; but not alone, for she insisted that Hester go with her and sit beside her. To this the station authorities consented, after carefully recording the girl's name (she gave it as Jenny Regan of New York City) and other essential facts concerning her. The purse was certainly not on the girl's person nor in her luggage, and, all things considered, there was no justification for holding an American citizen against whom there appeared to be not a shadow of evidence.

So once more it happened that these two young women, so sharply contrasted in character and in physical beauty, sat together in a first-class railway carriage, quite by themselves this time. There was something about Hester Storm (alias Jenny Regan) that interested Betty strangely, something different. She felt that here was a girl worth studying, and she wished to make amends, if possible, for that humiliating search.

They talked of various things. Betty tactful, sympathetic, vaguely puzzled. Hester equally tactful, equally sympathetic and keenly on her guard, for the truth is that the Storm girl's good resolutions had not been proof against an untoward combination of circumstances; and when the Bishop of Bunchester was rudely tumbled against her, she had yielded to temptation, and with one swift, skillful movement had withdrawn the purse from the episcopal pocket; in other words, Hester Storm had stolen the five thousand pounds!

CHAPTER II
SHOWING THE IMPORTANCE OF A GOLF BAG

It must now be revealed (since this is a straightforward tale) that the stolen five thousand pounds was all this time snugly reposing in a most unlikely hiding place which Hester, with quick resourcefulness, had hit upon when she saw the guard approaching. At that moment the purse was hidden in her dress, but she knew she could not keep it there; a search would certainly be made, and—where could she hide it? What could she do with it?

The guard turned the handle of the carriage door and there came for Hester a moment of sickening despair as she realized her desperate peril; then, in a flash of inspiration, unseen by the others, she did the one thing that could save her: she dropped the bishop's purse into the open mouth of Betty Thompson's golf bag.

Now the bottom of a golf bag is about the last spot on earth where anyone would expect to find a missing purse; yet, as devotees of this sport will agree, a more admirable place of concealment could scarcely be imagined. Far down in a jumble of heavy clubs the purse lies unseen by the keenest eye and beyond reach of the longest arm. To search the bottom of a golf bag would involve taking out all the clubs and turning the bag upside down, but who would do that? Who would go exploring for stolen treasure in so battered and so innocently open a receptacle?

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

The Storm girl concentrated all her faculties on this new problem, and thrilled with the exhilaration of a brilliant coup almost accomplished. There was no more question of scruples or regrets. She had made the break and must see the thing through. A rather neat piece of work so far, but the hardest part remained. The crisis would come when the train reached London. Good old Charing Cross Station!

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

Yes, but that was the point. How was she going to do it? How could she get the purse? If she could only think of something. She must think of something. There was not a moment to lose. Even now they were roaring into London city, and—suddenly the inspiration came—it was a chance, the only chance, and Hester took it.

Rising from their seats they gathered up their belongings. The dark-eyed girl slipped over her shoulders a brilliant red cloak, the red being of so striking a shade that Betty remembered it afterward. Then very simply and naturally Hester turned to her benefactress. "Let me help you with your things. I have only this little bundle. There!" and without more ado she took the golf bag.

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

With grinding wheels the train drew up in Charing Cross station, and amid a great slamming of doors the passengers swarmed out and made their way briskly down the long platform. Betty went first, explaining to her friend that, in all probability, no one would meet her, owing to their change of train, yet searching in the crowd for some familiar face. Hester searched faces, too, for she knew that word of the robbery must have been telegraphed ahead to London, and as they passed through narrow gates in the iron barrier that separated the tracks from the station proper her heart was pounding furiously, although her face showed only a sweet and trusting smile. No one stopped them here, and with a sigh of relief Hester followed on, trying to quiet the rattle of the golf clubs and gradually lagging behind her eager friend.

Now, just before them, rose the circle of a wide newsstand, beyond which were two exits, one on either side of the station. Betty was moving toward the left-hand exit and here, in a second, Hester saw her opportunity. Sheltered by the newsstand, she had only to steer quickly toward the right-hand exit and then, before Betty could even suspect that she was missing, make her getaway into the myriad streets of London. It was too easy and the girl was already gloating over the trick as finally turned when her heart froze within her, for there at the corner of the newsstand were the cold gray eyes she knew so well fixed pitilessly on her. Grimes of Scotland Yard!

It was a critical moment for Hester. Had she weakened by the quiver of an eyelash, had she started ever so slightly, the detective would have taken her there and then, for he remembered her well and the suspicious circumstances of that sable cloak episode. But she, schooled in self-control, swept on serenely without a sign of recognition. Grimes turned and followed her.

"Caught with the goods," muttered the girl, and faint with fear but unfaltering, she swung back to the left in Betty's wake, for here now was her only hope of safety. Grimes was close behind.

As they reached the street, Betty nodded for a taxicab and gave her things to a chauffeur, who came forward eagerly. Then, seating herself on the cushions, she turned pleasantly to Hester.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hester swept him with a scornful glance. "I thought an American lady was safe from insult in the streets of London," she said, and before he had recovered from his astonishment she had entered a waiting hansom and was gone.

CHAPTER III
PRESENTING HIRAM BAXTER

Hiram Baxter, whose hidden purposes were responsible for Betty's sudden and momentous journey to London, was, in this year of the first flying machine, one of the few really interesting self-made men to be found in New York City, where such sturdy and picturesque types are rapidly disappearing. At fifty-five Baxter was a big, grizzled fellow, with a pair of straight shoulders, a friendly smile and a way of using the English language that was absolutely and delightfully his own.

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

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

"It ain't because I like it that I wear black," Hiram sometimes explained, "and it ain't because I'm sad. The fact is black's the only safe color fer me if I want a happy home. Why, if I ever let myself go on colored vests an' striped pants, an' fancy neckties, my wife'd start fer a divorce the next mornin'. Yes, sir."

When Hiram laughed his blue eyes twinkled at you under shaggy black brows and his strong teeth gleamed at you beneath his white mustache; then, perhaps, he resembled a bluff German statesman. But as soon as he spoke you knew he was American through and through, and, somehow, you thought none the less of him for his quaint lapses in speech. Not all the rules of prosody and syntax could alter the fact that Hiram Baxter was a figure of compelling power, a strongly original and lovable man, who inspired immediate confidence in his wonderful resourcefulness.

It was during his recent voyage on the Lusitania, in the course of a brisk walk on the upper deck, that Baxter took the Bishop of Bunchester into his confidence regarding certain serious personal matters. Hiram's friendship with the bishop was of long standing, for the American some twenty-eight years before, at the outset of his varied career, had married an English lady, a distant connection of the prelate's, and it had long been the Baxters' custom to divide their year between a comfortable home in Washington Square, New York, and a country place in Surrey, about two hours out of London, where Mrs. Baxter entertained numerous relatives and friends with lavish hospitality.

"I tell ye, Bish," Hiram broke out abruptly, "it ain't by a man's successes that ye can size up his character. No, sir. It's by the mistakes he makes an' the way he faces 'em and gets out of 'em. Why, I know a doctor up in New Hampshire—homeliest feller I ever seen—he got rich makin' cough medicine out o' shingles."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My dear Baxter," put in the prelate, "you surely do not regret the old-fashioned English hospitality that you and your excellent wife have been practicing?"

"Well," drawled Hiram, "if old-fashioned English hospitality consists in bein' worked in every conceivable way by a lot of impecunious third cousins that never did a day's work in their lives, then I say it's time old-fashioned English hospitality got inoculated with some new-fashioned American common sense. Why, with Lionel Fitz Brown, my wife's third cousin, and Kate Clendennin, the Countess Kate, and the two Merles and various others, my house is about as much like a home as a Narragansett hotel. Now take Merle."

"Horatio Merle?" interjected the bishop. "You don't mean——"

"Yes, I do," continued Baxter, "the Rev. Horatio Merle, my wife's second cousin once removed. As good a man as ever thumped a Bible—you know what I mean, Bish," Hiram added quickly, mistaking for a sign of disapproval the cough which the reverend auditor had substituted for a chuckle. "Yes, sir, for a downright, pure-hearted Christian you might go through the British Isles with a fine-tooth comb and not find another like Horatio Merle; but what good does that do him? He's lost five preachin' jobs in three years, and for the last six months the only flocks that have had the benefit of his pulpit oratory have been the birds and butterflies at Bainbridge Manor. I tell you, Bish, he missed his vocation. He ought to have been one of them nature sharps."

"I believe you are right," assented the bishop. "Horatio Merle would have made his mark as a naturalist. I never knew a man in whom the love of nature was more beautifully developed. He is a sort of modern St. Francis."

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

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

"Why, no. How was that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Baxter, in strict confidence, explained to the bishop the nature of the difficulties in which he innocently found himself, difficulties that put in jeopardy every dollar of his fortune and with it the happiness and welfare of his family.

The prelate followed this narrative with sympathetic interest and concern, and then listened with growing astonishment while Baxter outlined briefly his programme, which, after all, was based on a very simple idea, yet was so unusual that the average person would have at once rejected it as impossible.

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

"Why is it?" persisted Hiram.

"For one thing your wife will never consent."

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

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

"You feel obliged to say," chuckled Baxter, "that it's a crazy notion. Bet ye four dollars and a quarter that's what ye think. But listen to me, Bish. I've made my fortune doin' crazy things. Once I bought three thousand plug hats at auction in Chicago fer eight hundred dollars, an' I sold 'em at dollar apiece in Denver for a political parade. I've bought busted railroads and watched 'em come up to par. I've bought played-out oil wells an' made 'em spout gold. Why, I even bought an old church once with a haunted graveyard and got square on the marble in it, with all the land as velvet."

"Dear, dear, dear! A haunted graveyard?" murmured the bishop.

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

CHAPTER IV
A SHOCK FOR BETTY

One immediate consequence of the golf-bag-purse-vanishing episode narrated above, was a delay of two hours in Betty Thompson's arrival in London, which delay meant that Hiram Baxter and his wife, having waited vainly at Charing Cross station for the expected traveler, had now returned, quite out of sorts, especially Mrs. Baxter, to their rooms at the Savoy Hotel.

"I think it's very inconsiderate of Betty to be so careless about her trains. You wired her, didn't you?" said the wife as she stood before a cheval glass preparatory to removing a new and very large green velvet picture hat, with gold-brown plumes and drooping brim. Beneath this effective covering her hair was discreetly shadowed, her eyes, if they were calculating, seemed only pensive, and the pouting of her mouth was transformed to an expression of winsome pleading—so much for the wizardry of a woman's hat.

As she stood before the mirror Mrs. Baxter's half-turned face wore that sidelong, disquieted look with which a woman always regards her newest hat, half pleasure of possession and half regret for that other hat, the one in the shop that she did not buy and whose fetching colors and enticing lines have ever since haunted her. A pleasing panel picture she made in the black framed oval of the cheval glass, a harmony in green and golden brown. Boldini might have painted that mirror picture of Eleanor Baxter. She was a harmony of insincerities, a woman who seemed to have youth and height and slenderness, but who really had none of these. This, however, was a secret between Mrs. Baxter and her looking-glass.

"I wired her all right," answered Hiram.

"It quite upsets my plans," complained Eleanor. "Of course I was glad to come to town yesterday, dear, to meet you when you arrived from the steamer, but it's most annoying to be kept in London now. All the relatives are expecting you, Hiram."

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

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

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

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

Baxter nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose so." Then his face gradually broke into a smile. "Progressive Mothers! Say, can ye beat that? I always thought old-fashioned mothers were about right, but the Bish says——"

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

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

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

"You look tired, Hiram," she decided.

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

"You look worried, too."

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

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

For a few moments Hiram sat silent, then closing his lips with decision, he answered kindly: "Eleanor, I guess ye'll have to know exactly how things are. Since we've been married, and that's a good many years, I've done my best to make ye happy. I've tried to give ye everything ye wanted. I never thought the time would come, dearie, when I'd have to ask ye to economize, but——"

He hesitated while she listened with widening, startled eyes.

"Hiram!" she gasped.

He bowed with a slow impressiveness that struck terror into her worldly soul. "I'm awful sorry, but the time has come."

"Economize!" repeated Eleanor in a daze. "It isn't possible."

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

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

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

These comforting words seemed only to arouse a sharper resentment in Mrs. Baxter, who turned on her husband angrily. "Meantime, our whole household must be upset, and—we must economize. I suppose you're going to discharge some of the servants?"

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

"Absurd!"

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

"You needn't say they're all my relatives. How about Betty Thompson? She's more extravagant than any of the others."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps. But—remember, Eleanor, not a word about her father's speculations." He spoke with sudden authority.

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

"Because I say so," answered Baxter, with a glance from under his heavy brows that his wife had rarely seen. "It would make her unhappy and it wouldn't do any good." Then in a low tone and with sudden tenderness he added: "Ye know who Betty makes me think of, dearie? Of our little sunshine girl that's—that's gone. She's got the same eyes and—the same pretty ways, and—say, I wish ye'd send Betty in here, I want to talk to her."

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

"Why, Betty!" he exclaimed, stretching out both his hands, and she came to him quickly, her eyes shining with fondness.

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

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

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

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

With wise nods of wondering approval Hiram studied Paquin's exquisitely suave creation of amethyst gray velvet, with its narrow trimming of black fox. Thrown carelessly over the girl's shoulders was a chiffon scarf of cobweb thinness, marvelously shaded from jonquil yellow to rosy pomegranate. And Betty's burnished brown hair melted glowingly into the purple lining of her white brimmed leghorn hat, with its knot of pale mauve pansies and its tossing topaz plume.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How d'ye know she was innocent?"

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

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

"I couldn't give her very much. I only had five pounds," answered the young American, her dignity somewhat ruffled.

"Hm! And ye gave her that?"

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

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

There was something in her guardian's tone that made Miss Thompson look at him in surprise and vague apprehension.

"Why not?" she asked.

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

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

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

"I'd rather give my money to unfortunate girls who've never had a chance," retorted Betty with increasing spirit, "than—than to gamble it away in Wall Street!"

"Is that a little friendly jab at me?"

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

"Do, eh? Such as—what?"

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

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

"And one company or the other may be ruined. Isn't that true?"

"Well," drawled her guardian, "I guess one comp'ny or the other's liable to find out that the thing they've been monkeyin' with ain't precisely a Sunday school picnic."

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

"Don't, eh?" grunted Hiram, then rising from his chair, he walked back and forth with frowns and queer little nods of his massive head. Presently his face cleared and, stopping before Betty, he laid an affectionate hand on her shoulder.

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

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

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

In a dull way she repeated the words. "He—he didn't leave any—money." Her voice trailed off into sickening silence.

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

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

"I was glad to do it, Betty."

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

"I'd never have mentioned it, only——"

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

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

"You've sent me thousands of dollars. I can never pay it back."

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

"But—why did you do it? Why?"

"I'll tell ye why," answered Hiram thoughtfully. "Because I loved yer father, that's one reason, and another is I—I've always loved you, Betty, ever since ye was little."

"Guardy!" she whispered tenderly. "But you must see that——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Betty's whole soul was in the words and, for many a day, Hiram Baxter remembered the loving radiance that illumined her face as she held out her hands in a sweet impulse to help.

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

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

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

This night they spent in town for the pleasure of a theatre, and the next morning Betty passed in a flutter of hurried preparations, for she suddenly realized that one of her Paquin gowns was not the most suitable garment for a serious-minded secretary to be wearing when she arrived at the scene of her duties. There was no reason why she should give Mrs. Baxter's relatives (who did not know her, thank heaven) the satisfaction of realizing, by any outward sign, how complete was the downfall of poor Betty Thompson. So she hurried into her plainest black frock, a very chic creation, nevertheless, and was waiting demurely in the taxicab when Hiram and his wife appeared.

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

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

"The Baroness Dunwoodie?" guessed Mrs. Baxter.

"The Bishop of Bunchester?" guessed Betty.

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

"Bob!" exclaimed the mother.

"Bob Baxter, sure as guns!"

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

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

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

"Seems Bob found trouble in the office that he couldn't write about, so he just came over." The old fellow turned to Betty. "I told ye there was a leak in that New York office."

It was not until they were seated in the train that Eleanor was enlightened as to Miss Thompson's new purpose.

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

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

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

The train rushed on and presently, as happens in railway journeys, the three lapsed into silence. Hiram thought of his business worries and of his plan for solving the problem of the relatives; Eleanor thought of her son, and Betty thought of various things. Poor child, she had enough to think of! What a sad awakening after all her bright dreams! She wondered who would live now in her lovely Paris apartment that would never be hers again. Who would stand of summer evenings, as she had stood so often, on the balcony outside her bedroom and watch the swallows circling over the chestnut trees on the Champs Élysêes? Perhaps she would never see Paris again!

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

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

"Guardy," she asked softly, "would you do something for me?"

"Sure I would," said Hiram.

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

Baxter nodded his big head slowly. "Try me, little girl."

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

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

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

"No, no, I won't stand fer any fake name. Take yer own name. I'll introduce ye as Miss Thompson, my new secretary. They'll never suspect that yer Betty Thompson."

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

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

"Bob has seen you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it was arranged.

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

"Bob!" "Mother!" "Dad!" came the quick, happy cries and then, after an awkward moment, the young American was presented to Betty.

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

"Miss Thompson!"

"Mr. Baxter!"

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

After seeing the ladies comfortably disposed in the tonneau, Hiram climbed into the front seat beside his son and the car, after a preliminary fit of monstrous ague, leaped forward with a dragon-like snort and swiftly rounded the grass-bordered flower-bed where the ambitious station master had spelled the name of Ippingford in sprawling and almost illegible nasturtiums.

A blur of whitish gray varied with deep green and momentary splashes of every possible rose color was all Betty saw of the village street. For a fraction of a second her eyes caught and held the fantastic image of a cat on a swinging sign—A Blue Cat—with golden feet, or were they golden boots? Before her mind had pieced the picture together the little tavern was left far behind. Now they were gliding swiftly and silently, save for the murmur of the motor, through a shimmering twilight of moss-grown beeches and ivy-covered oaks, where high hawthorn hedges shadowed miniature jungles of interlacing leaves and ferns and nestling flowers. Like a blue-green tapestry it shut them in on either side. Only as the car slowed for an instant when rounding a corner could one make out a detail of harebell, foxglove, wild rose, or honeysuckle. It was Betty's first sight of a rambling English lane, and her mind flew back to the stolid French country roads lined with staid, orderly poplars.

"This is mad, quite mad, by comparison," she said to herself, "but exquisitely mad like Ophelia." Then aloud to Mrs. Baxter, as she leaned back: "How cozy they are, these English lanes!"

Now they were speeding down a narrow green alley, where the hawthorn hedges met overhead and the sound was as if they were going through a tunnel. Mrs. Baxter did not hear, but she nodded and smiled to save Betty from the necessity of shouting.

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

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

And presently she found herself waiting for the moment when he would turn again to speak to his father, when she would once more see his profile. Something Hiram Baxter had just said caused Bob to laugh as he lifted his head, and Betty laughed aloud for sheer sympathy. A moment before Bob had been frowning and, with the heavy Baxter eyebrows and pugnacious jaw, unrelieved by the regularly modeled features of his handsome father, Bob's face in repose only just missed being plain, just missed it, Betty thought, by that miss that is as good as a mile. And now when he laughed every feature, every line of his honest face seemed to collaborate in the expression of irresistible mirth.

They were turning in at the park gate of Ipping House. For a moment the car came to a standstill, chuttering impatiently while a small, apple-faced child, a little girl with reddish hair and wondering eyes, who had watched their approach from the steps of the lodge, swung the iron gate slowly open.

As the car lunged forward again Betty gave a backward look along the shaded roadway. The figure of a young woman in a scarlet cloak, slim, dark, foreign looking, a gypsy, perhaps, was standing in the shadow at a turn of the road watching them intently. The next instant she had disappeared among the trees. It happened so quickly that, as the iron gate clanged behind them, the scarlet of the girl's cloak was all that Betty's mind retained of the instantaneous picture. It was a peculiar shade of scarlet. Where had she seen it before?

CHAPTER V
THE REVEREND HORATIO MERLE

In order to make it clear how Hester of the scarlet cloak (for it was she) happened to be waiting at the lodge gate on the evening of Betty Thompson's arrival, we must go back a little and consider the activities of the Reverend Horatio Merle during the previous twenty-four hours.

It was on the morning of the day preceding Hiram Baxter's return and the curate and his wife were lingering over their matutinal repast in the sunny breakfast room of Ipping House. A nice little clerical man, a pink and puffy little woman; he with finely drawn features and thin side whiskers, she with alert, almost domineering, eyes.

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

"I am listening, my dear," said Horatio, carefully replacing in its Dresden cup the egg which had been doing preliminary duty as a hand warmer, clasped between his devotional palms.

But Harriet Merle with the self-absorption of newspaper monopolists was now reading rapidly half aloud half to herself with tantalizing incoherence—"first-class carriage—inside pocket—five thousand pounds—progressive mothers—thoroughly searched—Bishop of Bunchester."

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

"Explains what? What is it all about?" queried her husband, nervously adjusting his eyeglasses, which magnified to an almost goblin intensity the note of interrogation in his pale blue eyes.

Harriet briefly recapitulated the startling news of the stolen purse, to a running accompaniment of "Tut tut!"—"Bless my soul!"—"Well, I never!" from her astonished spouse, who straightway begged to see the newspaper for himself and, with fascinated interest, studied the details of the robbery.

"Clever piece of work," the curate muttered. "Looks like a high-class crook." And his eyes went off into space.

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

"Nothing, my dear! Nothing!" he assured her with a guilty look, for the truth was this mild-mannered clergyman adored detective mysteries and in his secret chamber had devoured numbers of them.

"Now you see, Horatio, the bishop will be detained in London over Friday, and as Dr. Dibble is laid up with his throat, that is why the Progressive Mothers have asked you to deliver the address at the opening of the bazaar."

"Dear, dear!" sighed Horatio, ignoring the all-important matter of the address. "Such a large sum, such an incredible sum! Fancy losing anything so huge as five thousand pounds!" he smiled at the thought. "It's like—it's like the musician who lost a bass drum in a hansom cab. Now if it were five shillings, or even five pounds, I could really sympathize; and, speaking of sympathy, Harriet, I think I will go to the rectory this morning and see if there is anything I can do for poor Dr. Dibble."

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

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

She swept the interruption aside. "You may even scoff at my relationship to Cousin Eleanor, but you shall not make light of this opportunity. It is not only an honor, Horatio, but there is also a——" Harriet hesitated.

"Honorarium?" suggested her husband.

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

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

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

"Horatio!" she exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

"Your cuffs, Horatio."

Her voice had in it a note of anguish. For the moment all the pitiful makeshifts of the last few months, ever since Horatio resigned from his last pulpit, and their present dependence on the bounty of a distant relative, seemed to find concentrated expression on Horatio's frayed cuffs. Harriet was on the verge of tears.

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

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

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

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

"No, you wouldn't, Horatio. You'd spend it all on charities and Angora cats and—mechanical toys," she added indignantly.

"And real lace dresses for my old Dutch," laughed Horatio, putting his arm around her, "and satin slippers like the Countess Kate's."

"The countess!" snapped Harriet.

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

"They're coming now," said Horatio, interrupting her thoughts.

"What? Who?"

"The satin slippers," he repeated in a stage whisper and pointed upward. His choice of words moved even Harriet to reluctant mirth, for the countess had put on heavy walking boots, and the sound of them now descending the uncarpeted oak stairs was anything but satin.

Kate Clendennin paused a moment in her downward flight to exchange the usual morning insincerities. She was a splendid specimen of British young womanhood, with her dark, well-behaved hair and gray-green eyes, capitally set off by a gray tweed walking suit. Harriet regarded her resentfully. What right had Kate to the complexion of an early riser when she always breakfasted in bed, and to the figure of Artemis when she never set foot to the ground if there were a horse or an automobile in sight?

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

The countess smothered a yawn with a tan glove. "I really don't know; I'm not awake yet." She was thinking, "What an odd little couple they are, these two, this pink-and-white cockatoo lady in the faded purple morning gown, and this little gray mouse in the black velvet coat."

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

"It's perfectly shameful the way those two abuse dear Cousin Hiram's kindness," grumbled Harriet. "They've had the car every day this week."

The Merles were now standing in Horatio's study near a window overlooking the conservatory. For a moment there was silence, broken only by the gnashing of the tiny scissors. The operation of cuff trimming is a delicate one, requiring skill and steadiness of hand. The deviation of a thread's breadth by those sharp little scissors might be fatal to the cuff, might even endanger the life of the shirt.

"I have always maintained," the curate remarked, "that surgery is a science for which women are by nature peculiarly——"

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

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

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

Harriet replaced the scissors in a silver sheath that hung from her chatelaine at her side. At the door she turned with a look the curate knew well. "You will find everything you need, Horatio, and I will see that you are not disturbed."

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

"Strange," he reflected, "that the change of only a quarter of an inch in the position of a minute piece of metal in a door should transform into a gloomy dungeon cell what, only one moment before, was a comfortable study, with its inviting easy chair, its reposeful sofa, and——"

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

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

And now the curate's thoughts wandered back to the mystery of the bishop's purse. Who could have taken it? There were two women in the railway carriage and two musicians. Horatio much preferred crimes with a woman at the bottom and he disliked musicians, so he decided that one of these fair travelers—of course, they were fair—had turned the trick. He loved the crisp vulgarity of that expression—turned the trick. And, forthwith, he loosed his fancy over the paths of fearless adventure that he loved to tread. Now he was a great detective, on the track of a desperate criminal, and his gentle soul thrilled in the conflict of plot and counter-plot. In all literature and theology there was nothing that stirred Horatio Merle like these imaginings.

Half an hour later, Harriet, listening at the study door, heard a faint scratching sound and smiled in satisfaction.

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

The scratching sound continued. It came, however, not from the writing table, but from the window casement, which presently swung open, apparently of its own accord. Whereupon Horatio came back, with a start, from his heroic wanderings, back to the world of drab reality and looked blinkingly about him. There, on the window ledge, sharply silhouetted against the wistaria leaves, stood Martin Luther. His tail swayed swiftly from side to side like the ebony baton of a chef d'orchestre. His staring eyes were like two circular holes through which you saw the green of the leafy background. He held his head proudly, he was carrying something. Horatio shut his eyes quickly. There were moments when he hated Martin Luther.

When he looked again the cat was standing by his chair purring noisily to attract attention to something that lay on the floor. It was a field mouse, just such a one as he had watched in the cornfield the day before and had scolded Martin Luther for frightening. Perhaps it was the same field mouse.

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

He pushed the cat away roughly and picked up the unconscious little creature. The field mouse stirred in his hand. Merle examined it tenderly and was surprised to find it apparently quite uninjured. He stroked it gently with his finger. Suddenly the mouse sat up and began preening itself with an incredibly rapid whirring movement of its tiny hands. Then just as suddenly the movements stopped, the little head drooped, and the eyes closed.

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

He had scarcely uttered these words when the mouse opened its eyes again and went on preening itself as if nothing had happened.

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

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

And now the Reverend Horatio, mindless of difficulties and dangers, set about keeping his rash promise to return the field mouse to its sorrowing relatives. First he tried the door in the vain hope that Harriet had secretly relented and unlocked it. No such luck. The window was his only means of exit. Very well, he would exit by the window. The thought of failing to keep his word never entered his head.

Looking out of the window, the kindly gentleman studied the situation with scientific mind. Three feet below was the glass roof of the conservatory, which was not more than eight feet wide at this point and curved downward like the brink of a glass waterfall. At its outer edge there was a drop of perhaps six feet to the driveway.

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

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

Having assured himself that the combined strength of the branches and the glass would bear his weight, Horatio proceeded with the descent and found this perfectly easy; but just as he had reached the jumping-off place, the curate was brought to a palpitating halt by the sound of steps in the conservatory beneath him. Parting the wistaria leaves and peering downward through the glass he saw Anton, the chauffeur, moving among the plants from the direction of the library.

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

As he came directly underneath the spot where Horatio was crouching, the chauffeur stood still and looked about him cautiously. Apparently satisfied that he was unobserved, he pulled a blue-and-white envelope from his pocket, and, skillfully loosening the flap, took out a paper which, as he held it scarcely two feet below him, Merle could see was a cablegram. After a glance at the contents, Anton replaced the paper in its envelope and quickly retraced his steps toward the library.

It all happened so quickly that, even had Merle tried to read the cable, he could not have done so. Some figures and the word "Gramercy" caught his eye. Then, as he looked away, the humorous appropriateness of the term eavesdropper to his position on the roof caused him to laugh aloud. It was fortunate for the Reverend Horatio that Anton was out of hearing, more fortunate than the gentle curate dreamed.

CHAPTER VI
HESTER OF THE SCARLET CLOAK

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

His errand of mercy accomplished, the curate's path of duty now led directly back to Ipping House, back to the prison cell where Roget and Cruden and all the police platoon of beetle-colored books and the funereal inkstand and the penholder of evil tasting wood grimly awaited him. A straight and narrow path between the high hedge and cornfields, over the meadow, across the old stone bridge, down the lane to the park gate on the Ippingford road—all to be drearily retraced. In the opposite direction lay a new and untrod path, a woodland way that whispered invitingly with mysterious darknesses and possibilities of adventure.

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

"In any case," he told himself, as he turned his back upon the cornfield, "I can think about Progressive Mothers just as well in this wood as I can shut up in my study."

Strange to relate, that was the last thought on the subject of Progressive Mothers that visited the curate for many hours. It was as if the spirit of the wood had overheard his rash boast and summoned all its forces to teach Horatio a lesson. Never was there such a conspiracy. With one accord birds, trees, flowers, butterflies, and all the creeping things of the wood united to compass the downfall of Horatio Merle. His surrender was complete and, from the moment of his entrance into the wood, the all-important matter of the address passed completely from the clergyman's mind. The Bishop of Bunchester was right when he said that Merle was a born naturalist.

At the end of two hours Horatio sat down to rest on the bank of a rocky brook, tired and happy, without the least idea where he was. His hat was gone, his feet were wet through, owing to the treachery of a moss-covered stone, and his coat was torn and smeared with leaf mold. Earlier in his wanderings the joyful curate had fallen into a deep saw-pit concealed by tall bracken and he bore upon his person the marks of his struggles to extricate himself.

Merle looked at his watch. The hands pointed to a quarter past one, indicating to Horatio that it was exactly five minutes to two. The original walk from Ipping House to the cornfield had taken him fifteen minutes, and this was the short cut home!

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

Comforted by this logic, Horatio followed the course of the brook. If it did not go in a circle, there were times when Merle was not sure whether it was the same brook or another one going in the opposite direction.

"It must go somewhere," he repeated firmly when, for the second time, he passed the chimney of a ruined paper mill he had left behind several minutes before. And, sure enough, another turn of the brook brought him to the edge of the wood. Here the brook surpassed all its previous feats of contortion and doubled back, growling and grumbling, as if to say it had come miles out of its way and missed an appointment with a most important river, all on account of an absent-minded curate.

Emerging from the wood and descending a steep bank, Merle found himself in a narrow lane which he recognized as a tributary of the Ippingford road. On the other side of the lane at the top of the bank was a thick hedge which formed one of the boundaries of the Millbrook golf course. Here the wanderer had a choice of two ways. The lane, though a trifle the longer, was easier walking than the golf course. On the other hand, it was the more frequented, the golf course at this season being often quite deserted, which was an important consideration in Horatio's hatless and earth-stained condition.

The sound of a distant auto horn decided the wavering curate and he scrambled up the bank, trusting to luck to find an opening in the hedge. The only opening provided by the playful goblin who was conducting Merle's fortunes was scarcely more than a thinness, but Horatio plunged into it, appalled by the thought that Harriet might be in the approaching vehicle. She sometimes went for a ride with the Winkles in their big car, and if Harriet should see him now, if anyone should see him now!

As the automobile shot past, Merle crouched motionless, safely obliterated by the hedge whose color scheme matched his own. Then, as he tried to push on through the branches, he was suddenly restrained, not by ordinary thorns, but by the uncompromising pull of a rope of barbed wire that formed an extra barrier along the top of the hedge and that now had hooked itself firmly into Horatio's coat. Squirm and struggle as he would, the agitated naturalist could not free himself, and, to make matters worse, as he reached his left leg forward and tried to brace himself for a better pull by digging his boot into the turf of the golf course, he felt his toe violently caught in a fierce grip and so powerfully held that he was now literally anchored in the middle of the hedge, unable to move a single inch forward by reason of the cruel barbed wire or a single inch backward on account of whatever savage creature had seized his extended toe—a most painful and embarrassing position for this kindly Christian gentleman!

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

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

"A most extraordinarily steady dog," reflected Merle. "And a silent dog." He wondered if it was possible that he had been bitten by a canine deaf mute. There was no question that he had been bitten by something, for he could feel the teeth on the toe of his boot.

At this moment Horatio was conscious of footsteps approaching along the path outside the hedge and, screwing his head around, he made out the figure of a woman in a brilliant red cloak. There was no longer any question of concealment. He must get out of this painful position and, in his most conciliatory tone, he addressed the lady from the depths of the hedge.

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

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

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

"He won't hurt you," said Merle reassuringly. "He's on the other side of the hedge. Can you see him, my dear?"

Encouraged by these words, the lady, now seen by Merle to be young and dark and decidedly good looking (although plainly dressed), drew nearer to the mysterious voice and was presently searching among the leaves and branches for an explanation of this singular summons.

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

"Perhaps if you threw a stone, or—could you go through the hedge? You see, I am caught on this barbed wire."

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

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

As he spoke Horatio, loosed from the restraining wire, stumbled on through the hedge, while the young woman stared apprehensively after him. There was a clank of metal, a few muttered words, and then Merle came struggling back, scratched, torn, and panting, but full of eager interest.

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

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

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

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

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

At the mention of Ipping House the Storm girl looked at him with startled interest and forthwith her whole manner changed.

"Is that where you live?" she asked.

"That's where I am visiting," answered Merle, and his face clouded as he thought of Harriet. "Ah, well, we must make the best of it," he sighed. "That little field mouse is happy and—my dear young lady, I cannot express to you my gratitude for the admirable way in which you came to my rescue."

"Oh, that's all right."

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

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

Horatio was immediately interested. "The train from London?"

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

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

The girl shook her head and her dark eyes rested on the curate with such an expression of sadness and sweet resignation that he felt inexpressibly touched.

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

Miss Thompson knew her as Jenny Regan, the name she had given to the police, and it was in pursuit of Miss Thompson (and her golf bag) that she had come to Ippingford. On the other hand, various newspapers had chronicled the fact that a young woman named Jenny Regan was implicated in the robbery of the bishop's purse, and to give that name here might make trouble for her. And yet if she gave her real name, Hester Storm, what would Miss Thompson think?

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

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

So it befell that Hester Storm, having started out aimlessly along a country road, her mind filled with schemes for getting at Miss Elizabeth Thompson, had, by a lucky chance, fallen in with this guileless and amiable party who actually lived at Ipping House and who might be of the greatest use to her.

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

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

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

"Queer old girl!" repeated Horatio, focusing his vision in this new direction. "Why, bless my soul, it's Harriet!"

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

"Horatio!" breathed the lady, and that one word held such depths of scorn and menace that the curate never again doubted the possibility of eternal punishment.

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

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

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

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

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

Realizing the value of this suggestion and gaining confidence with every word, the curate continued, facing Harriet almost sternly now.

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

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

With accusing forefinger, as if Harriet herself were to blame, the curate pointed to the sinister hole in his boot. "There!" he said. "And if this young lady had not rushed to my assistance with a courage and resourcefulness that I have rarely seen equaled——" he paused to control his emotion, while Mrs. Merle wrung her hands in distress.

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

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

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

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

And presently these three, such was the effectiveness of Merle's new diplomacy, were walking on most amicably toward Ipping House, the subject of conversation being the wrongs suffered by Hester in a thankless world and the obligation of the Merles to now, in some measure, relieve these wrongs. It may be added that never, to the end of her days, did Harriet Merle fully and clearly grasp the details of the terrible danger from which this dark-eyed damsel had saved her husband.

As a turn in the road brought into view the tiny gable of the gray stone lodge of Ipping House, Harriet saw an opportunity to prove the genuineness of her penitence and gratitude.

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

"What, my dear?"

"Old Mrs. Pottle!"

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

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

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

Thus it came about that, on the following evening, Hester of the scarlet cloak was watching eagerly near the lodge when Hiram Baxter's big automobile swung in through the gate and moved swiftly up the drive with a musical murmur of its smooth running engine. On the back seat was Miss Elizabeth Thompson, and Hester thrilled with excitement as she recognized the fair American, the lady of the golf bag. Here was her chance, her great chance, but—she had one misgiving. Miss Thompson knew her as Jenny Regan, and now she had given the curate and his wife her real name, Hester Storm.

CHAPTER VII
THE NEW SECRETARY

Hester's problem was exceedingly simple; she wanted two or three minutes alone with Miss Thompson's golf bag. That was all she asked of fortune, two or three minutes; and, for the accomplishment of this purpose she had summoned all her wits and all her daring. Easy enough to talk about keeping straight, but if you happened to be a girl who knew where $25,000 was lying in wait for some one to pick it up and were the only person in the world who had a line on this pleasant bunch of money—say, what was the use of arguing? She had made the break and would see the thing through. It wasn't every well-meaning citizen who could land a fortune by putting in a little time chasing a golf bag!

Meantime, while this dark-eyed schemer waited for a chance to ravish the beautiful bank notes from their unsuspected hiding place, Betty Thompson, all unconscious of Hester's presence, was going through agitated hours in the little mezzanine chamber opening off the library that she had chosen for her bedroom, partly on account of its appropriate situation for a secretary and chiefly because of its quaint unusualness. At the first glance her fancy had been taken by the odd little staircase that curved up in a corner of the big room to a narrow door high in the paneled oak wall. For the rest it was a plain, convent-like chamber with whitewashed walls and one small window opening, like that of Horatio's study, over the roof of the conservatory.

Little it mattered to Betty whether her room was large or small and whether its furnishings were sumptuous or simple. She had more important things to think of, poor child, and a problem to face that required all her fortitude. Here were the hopes and dreams of her life rudely shattered and her whole outlook changed in a moment. Instead of being rich, as she had always thought herself, with a fortune that meant freedom, pleasure, everything, it now appeared that she was a poor girl with a burden of debt and must work for her living. She who had never learned to work and who hated drudgery, who had often asked herself how shop girls and office girls could possibly endure their dull existence, now she must work for her living! No wonder Miss Betty Thompson tossed sleepless and wretched and tearful through most of this first night at Ipping House, after a forlorn dinner sent to her room, under plea of headache, and then scarcely touched.

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

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

"Oh!" said Betty, and she recalled, with a thrill of pleasure, the tall, clean-cut, young American who had met them at the station. Nice eyes had little Bobby, who was now big Bobby! Very nice eyes! And rather good shoulders! Extremely good shoulders! Must have been an athlete at college—rowed on the crew and that sort of thing. She would ask him. Stop, she would do nothing of the sort! She mustn't ask personal questions or think of him as Bobby. He was Mr. Robert Baxter, a very serious person with papers for her to copy, and she was—she was the new secretary!

Strange to say, this thought that in the night had brought such gloom came now to Betty as a matter of amused contemplation. Mr. Robert Baxter! Ahem! And more than once, while she carefully dressed, the American girl flashed mischievous and approving smiles into the glass out of her deep, blue eyes and, when, shortly after ten, she descended to the library by her little winding stairs, she was as fresh and lovely a vision of a fair young woman as one would wish to see, quite in spirit with the pleasant sunshine flooding the park and the blackbirds rejoicing in the beeches. Miss Thompson's buoyant youth and sense of humor had come to the rescue.

A glance showed her that the library was empty and she spent some moments enjoying the dignity of this long, spacious room that was to be the scene of her labors. Those old carved oak panels of the napkin pattern, how she loved them! And the Elizabethan ceiling and the tall, deep windows opening on the conservatory! Surely the very last place where one would expect to find the desk of a hustling American man of business. Yet there it was, waiting for Betty to begin, not a roll-top desk, thank heaven, but an antique piece of curious design and richly inlaid standing near one of the great windows and now heaped with a pile of mail for Hiram Baxter that had accumulated since his sailing from New York.

At a little distance from this desk was a long, narrow table, also carved, but of a later period, with a standard telephone at one end and a typewriter at the other, while between these were rows of neatly arranged papers, pamphlets, and reports. On top of the typewriter lay a large sheet of paper, on which the new secretary read a blue-penciled message to herself:

"Dear Miss Thompson," began the message. "Father has gone to town. You will find some correspondence on the other desk that he wants you to look over. Please make a little abstract of who wrote the letters and what they are about. I'll be in shortly and explain. Yours truly, R. BAXTER."

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

Seating herself at the desk, Betty began with the letters, looking up from time to time to enjoy the changing greens of the conservatory that shimmered in through the leaded window panes. And presently she smiled at her foolish annoyance. Why shouldn't Bob be stiff and business-like? It was all her doing and it was too late now to draw back and——. Here was a task that she had given herself, a sort of penance that would show how deeply she realized her great obligation to Hiram Baxter. She had set out to be the new secretary, and, in spite of R. Baxter, with his eyes and his shoulders, in spite of annoyances or humiliations, she would be the new secretary.

Thus resolved, Betty threw herself zealously into her work and presently brought such a spirit of intensely modern activity into this ancient and solemn room that the row of ancestors in their dull frames above the paneling looked down in faded astonishment at this vivid, self-reliant, American girl bending busily over her desk by the window.

So absorbed was the new secretary in these duties that she did not hear a quick step in the conservatory nor the opening of the farther French window as Bob Baxter, glowing with health after a brisk walk, stepped into the library. He paused at the sight of Betty and waited, smiling, for her to look up, which she presently did with a startled "Oh!"

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

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

"I've just been for a walk around the pond. They call it a lake, I'm told." He settled himself comfortably on a fat blue davenport that offered its ample hospitality just beyond the typewriter.

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

"Why, yes."

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

Then she resumed her work, while the object of her approval picked up a newspaper listlessly, and for several minutes there was no sound in the library save the rustle of sheets. Then suddenly Bob's expression changed to one of absorbed interest.

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

Betty looked up quickly. "You mean the Bishop of Bunchester?"

"Oh, you've read it?"

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

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

"Yes?" she asked eagerly.

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

"How could it aid in discovering the criminal?" she questioned.

"Oh, they have detectives on the case."

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

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

"Yes," she replied, and he noticed her low pleasant voice and admired the rippling mass of her glossy brown hair as it lifted from her white neck. Here was a stenographer, he reflected, with the well-groomed look of a thoroughbred. The old gentleman certainly was a wonder!

Bob wanted to keep her talking, but could think of nothing in particular to say. Queer how this girl put him ill at ease. And why should he wish to keep her talking, anyway? His dealings with stenographers had always been on a basis of calmest and most business-like indifference, but somehow this one affected him strangely; she "rattled" him.

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

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

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

Young Baxter looked at her in surprise. "Not a stenographer?"

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

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

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

Bob lowered his voice. "That's what I mean. You'll have to be very careful in this position, Miss Thompson. We're in a fight with the big copper trust and Father has enemies, people who are watching every move he makes and are doing their best to ruin him. That's why Dad went to town this morning. That's why I jumped on a quick steamer the day after he sailed from New York. I heard of things that——" he looked about him cautiously, "that I wouldn't trust in the mails."

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

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

"What is it, Anton?" he called.

A man with a twisted nose and a shock of black hair appeared at the French window and touched his cap politely. "Looking for a wrench, sir. I'm fixing up the runabout."

"Where's the car?"

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

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

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

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

"Then—why do you do it?"

"We can't help it."

"Why?"

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

Betty burned with eagerness to hear this story, to know more about her father, yet she dared not press her questions, and suddenly Bob became silent. Then, as if restless, he rose from the davenport and strolled over to one of the windows, then turned again, toying with a cigarette case.

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

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

"This machine is very dusty," she decided, after a preliminary examination. "Here's a brush to clean the keys, but—do you suppose I could have a little olive oil?" she asked.

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

When Bob returned with the oil Betty thanked him sweetly and then, while she fussed with the levers, managed tactfully to turn the conversation back to Mr. Baxter's partner. And presently she learned the sickening truth that Hiram Baxter's present difficulties were entirely due to the fact that her father had been led into speculation.

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

"He lost?"

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

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

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

"You mean she was extravagant?"

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

Bob had risen again and stood leaning against one of the stiff-backed chairs, blowing cigarette smoke thoughtfully toward the conservatory. For a few moments Betty could scarcely trust herself to speak.

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

"Oh, she's over in Paris, I believe. She doesn't know a word of this. I'm only telling you as Father's private secretary and—you understand this is absolutely confidential, Miss Thompson?"

"Of course."

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

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

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

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

"That's all right," declared Bob cheerfully. "Father and I will stand for it. We're pretty keen about Betty and—she's going to have everything she wants. So remember, if she shows up here, which she's apt to do, not a word about this, Miss Thompson."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is she—er—pretty?"

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

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

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

Betty smiled and bit her lip.

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

"Oh, but it does," she insisted. "I like to know about the people I am to meet. I suppose Miss Betty Thompson will visit here?"

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

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

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

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

"What? On the typewriter? What would Betty think?"

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

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

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

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

Thus it came about that Betty's first duty as private secretary was to take down a letter to her own sweet self from a man who seemed to like Betty Thompson, not only as he remembered her eleven years ago, but as he saw her now without knowing it, which struck the fair secretary as decidedly amusing.

"My dearest Betty—" Bob began, then strode about the room in search of further inspiration. "Have you got that?"

"My dearest Betty," repeated Miss Thompson.

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

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

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

"Is it true?" asked Betty.

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

"Do you think she would care?"

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

"Very well," obeyed the other, and drawing the sheet from the machine, she crumpled it up and threw it into the waste basket.

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

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

"Not she. She's got a temper all right. I wouldn't give a hang for a girl who hadn't a bit of temper. We used to have regular fights. Ha, ha, ha! I remember when we broke Father's glasses in one of our scuffles. I did it, but Betty took the blame, or she tried to. Dad gave me an awful scolding and made me spend three dollars of my money for a new pair. Three dollars is a lot for a little fellow; it was all I had in the world and Betty was so sorry for me that—what do you suppose that little monkey did?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Did I? Well, anyway, Betty stuffed that three dollars into my savings bank because she knew I wouldn't take it. Can you beat that?"

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

Betty was glad to be alone, and for some minutes she sat thinking—thinking—while a perplexed smile played about her sweet mouth and a new gladness shone in her eyes, a gladness that kept coming back and would not be denied, try as she would to frown it away. There were difficulties and sorrows attending Miss Elizabeth Thompson, but one great cheering fact rose above them and made life seem worth living after all, the eternally blessed fact that, when youth hears the call of love, then nothing else in the world matters very much. She rose suddenly from her chair and, searching eagerly in the waste basket, drew forth a crumpled sheet and, smoothing it out, gazed at it with quickening pulses.

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

CHAPTER VIII
A FACE IN THE GLASS

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

"Don't you think, my dear," began Eleanor, "that we had better stop this foolishness before it goes any farther? Really, now?"

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

Very much on her dignity, the new secretary began her meal, seated between Harriet Merle and Lionel Fitz-Brown and directly opposite the Countess Clendennin, whom she studied with alert feminine interest, partly because Kate was obviously a pretty woman of the dashing, showy kind that all other women regard as natural enemies (especially if they happen to be widows under thirty) and chiefly because the countess had Bob Baxter on her right and seemed disposed to make the most of this proximity. "She isn't losing any time," thought Betty, giving Lionel the "listening look," while she noted the breezy unconcern of Kate Clendennin's attack. "She'll be calling him 'old top' in another minute," she said to herself, and Kate, in the next breath, actually did say "my dear boy." Betty laughed aloud, causing Lionel to beam with the happy consciousness of having scored a hit.

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

This indication of Hiram's attitude toward extravagance cast a momentary gloom over the company, which was dissipated by the countess, who pointed out amusingly, and with surprising culinary knowledge, exactly what was wrong with the Hollandaise and added that the late count, her husband, had been an invalid for years before his death, during which time Kate had personally seen to the preparation of his meals.

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

Betty turned to scrutinize her neighbor and the sight of his jolly, wholesome countenance, as he put forth this singular suggestion, brought her back to complete good humor. England has produced various types of great men, great fighters on land and sea, great writers, great orators, and so have other countries, but England has undisputed preëminence in one variety of masculine product, that is the amiable, monocled, haw-haw, dear old chap, well-meaning, silly ass creation that blooms extensively in London clubs and drawing-rooms.

Such was Lionel Fitz-Brown, who had not been at Betty's side for five minutes before he had given her detailed information as to his dear old uncle in Upper Tooting, who had the title, don't you know, that would come to him one of these days if something would only happen to his cousin in Wormwood Scrubs, who stood between and was disgustingly healthy.

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

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

Betty's attention was now drawn to some remarks of Harriet Merle touching the Progressive Mothers' bazaar that was to be opened this afternoon in St. Timothy's parish house. Harriet dwelt with pride on the fact that her husband, the Reverend Horatio, was to deliver the address. The Reverend Horatio, she said, was at present resting in his room in preparation for his oratorical flights and Harriet would bring him up a light luncheon on a tray. Horatio found it necessary to be very abstemious at these periods of intense mental concentration.

At which Lionel again exploded softly for Betty's particular benefit. "Haw, haw, haw! I'll tell you about this intellectual concentration," he confided. "There's a jolly good reason why the Reverend Horatio isn't sittin' in that chair next to the countess puttin' down this beastly sauce and all the rest of it."

"Tell me," laughed Betty.

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

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

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

Whether this last was meant as a slur on Harriet or a compliment to Martin Luther Betty never discovered, for at this moment the luncheon came to an end with a murmur of talk as to afternoon plans. The countess, having flashed her fascinations on young Baxter, now carried him off with a suggestion of cigarettes. Mrs. Baxter proposed a drive and offered to drop the Merles at St. Timothy's, which offer Harriet accepted for herself alone, explaining that the walk would do Horatio good and would allow him to continue his oratorical meditations uninterrupted. This proved to be an unfortunate decision.

Betty returned to her work in the library, where she was glad to be alone, away from the chatter and the trivialities, alone with her thoughts; yet not alone, for every corner of this great room seemed alive with memories of the morning, memories of him. What a very great difference a few hours had made! How extraordinary that this vigorous young American, whom she had not seen for years, should have suddenly—without intending to do it, without dreaming that he had done it—should have—well, what had he done? What was the truth about her feeling for this playmate of her childhood, Bob Baxter?

Does a woman ever admit, even to herself, that a man has won her heart until she has good reason to believe that she has won his? Does a pretty woman, a young and charming woman, ever admit such a thing? Probably not, and Betty was no exception to this rule of feminine reserve. But there were two significant indications in her thoughts, one that she did not in the least enjoy the Countess Kate's flirtatious tendencies with Bob and the other a decision that now she could not break her incognito, even if she would. Her pride forbade it. To let Bob know that she was his old friend, Betty Thompson, would be a confession of weakness, as if she admitted that she was not charming or pretty enough to attract him simply as Miss Thompson. No, decidedly she would not tell him.

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

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

"Yes," said Betty.

Horatio consulted his watch and paused as if making an arithmetical calculation.

"Let me see, the bazaar opens at half past three. My watch says five minutes past three, which means that it is really a quarter past two. I like to keep my watch fifty-five minutes ahead of time, Miss Thompson," he explained, with a bright smile.

"Why not an hour ahead?" she laughed.

"No, no! An hour would be too much. Fifty-five minutes gives me exactly time to dress and shave and—I beg your pardon for going into these details. The point is I had just started for the bazaar—you see I like to go leisurely—and I was passing the lodge when I met a young woman, a fellow country-woman of yours—my wife mentioned to me, Miss Thompson, that you are an American?"

"Yes, I'm an American."

"Ah! Very fortunate! Extremely fortunate!" He stood twisting his long fingers together in great satisfaction. "The young woman I speak of is also an American, a most deserving person, but—er—she has met with reverses and—er—Mrs. Baxter has been kind enough to let her stay at the lodge and do what she can to—er—assist."

"I see," nodded the girl.

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

"Of course I would."

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

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

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

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

"Yes. An interesting name, is it not?" chattered Merle, quite oblivious to the rapid pantomime that was passing between the two women. "She has been traveling with a Russian princess, but the princess drank—it was very unfortunate and—Hester will tell you about it—won't you, my dear?"

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

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

"Well?" questioned Betty, when the two women were alone.

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

"He called you Hester Storm."

"I know, but——"

"Your name is Jenny Regan—isn't it?"

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

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

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

Betty admitted that she would like to know this and straightway the other began her extemporization, the general lines of which, it must be said, had been planned in advance, for she realized that her benefactress was no fool. It was simply a plausible continuation of her hard luck story as outlined on the train, with a vivid insistence on the shock she had suffered through being unjustly suspected. This was the last straw and it had broken her spirit. No one would believe in her or help her, and she hadn't the courage to struggle any longer. She didn't care what happened to her, she didn't want to live and—just as she was in this wicked spirit, she had thought of Betty, and it had seemed as if she heard a voice telling her to go to this gentle lady who had befriended her and—trusted her and——

At this point, as Hester was working up to an effective climax of sighs and tears, Parker entered and addressed Betty in his most haughty manner.

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

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

"The new secretary?" questioned Hester, when the butler had gone. "He called you the new secretary?" Her eyes were on Betty steadily now, and they were no longer pleading, submissive eyes, but had suddenly become hard and suspicious.

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

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

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

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

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

"Why—er—I do it to help Mr. Baxter."

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

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

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

"All right, lady," she said, softening her tone, "I'll take your word for it, but—if you've had troubles yourself you know how I feel and—all I ask is a chance to work and—make a living."

"What kind of work can you do?"

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

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

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

"Why is it? We don't have to tell them about the train, do we? I'm here anyway. The Reverend Merle got me here. All I ask you to do is to let me fix over some dresses and shirtwaists."

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

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

"Mrs. Pottle?"

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

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

"It's a good time now," she said, with increasing friendliness. "I've nearly finished this work and, if you don't mind going to my room, we'll see what we can find."

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

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

So they climbed the winding stair, Hester thrilling with expectation. She had no doubt the bishop's purse was still in the golf bag's depths where she had dropped it, and the golf bag itself was probably in this very room where they were going; or, if not there, it must be knocking about in some odd corner or dusty closet, where she would quickly find it, now that she had the run of the house, and, having found it——

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

"What is it?" asked Betty.

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

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

As soon as she was alone Hester moved swiftly toward the golf bag, then paused and glanced cautiously about her. Every moment was precious, but she must make no mistakes. A chance like this wouldn't come twice to a girl and—what was that?

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

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

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

With a swift, instinctive movement Hester stood the golf bag back in its corner, then turned slowly, and, as her eyes swept the mirror, she saw that she was deathly pale. What was that creaking noise? A step? She strained her ears, but there was no sound save the steady typewriter murmur from below. Then, still looking in the mirror, she gazed, fascinated, at a door on the farther side of the chamber, not the door to the library stair, but another door, a green door, and, as she looked, this door opened slightly and she saw distinctly the reflection of a man's face, a man with a slightly twisted nose and a shock of black hair. He was standing there in the green door staring at her, and it seemed to Hester that she had seen this man somewhere before.

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

CHAPTER IX
A FLASH OF MEMORY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just to make sure, but—no, I don't know you; I've never seen you." He put down his arm and listened a moment to the reassuring sound of the typewriter. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm doing sewing for Miss Thompson," she answered innocently. She spoke in a low tone, and she noticed that he spoke in a low tone.

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

"Why I—I don't know. It was just an idea."

"Do you know me? I mean have you ever seen me before?"

She shook her head. "I thought I had, but—I've got you mixed with somebody else. No harm, is there?" she added, with a little laugh that parted her red lips while her dark eyes glowed on him alluringly.

"Not a bit. Say, you look like an Italian, but you talk like an American."

"I am an American."

"From New York?"

"From New York."

The chauffeur studied her admiringly for a moment. "That's my town. Good old Manhattan Island! Say, Miss Storm, why were you so pale just now?"

"Pale? Was I pale?" she trembled.

"You sure were; you looked as if you'd seen a ghost. And now that I think of it—say, that's funny!" He stopped short, his two hands on his hips, and eyed her with a keen sidelong glance.

"What is funny?"

"Why, when I come in you gave me the haughty look—like this," he struck the attitude of a tragedy queen. "Who are you? What do you want?" he mimicked her. "Then a minute later you're all smiles and friendly and ask if I don't remember you? How is that, Miss Hester Storm?"

"I don't see anything strange about it," she began uneasily. "I thought—er."

"You thought you knew me," he interrupted. "And if you knew me who did you think I was? That's what I want to know." There was a note of menace in his tone, as if he felt that he had the best of the situation.

"I've told you I was mistaken," answered Hester sharply. "I don't care to talk about this any more. You'd better fix that pane of glass—if there is any pane to fix."

It was a chance shot, but it went home. "What do you mean by—by that?" stammered Anton.

"Oh, nothing."

He took a step nearer and she saw that he was white with anger. "You'd better not take that smarty tone with me, young lady. I've got something on you, all right. You weren't doing much sewing when I opened that door. Oh, I saw you! Some time before you saw me. Say, what was there so very partic'larly interesting about that golf bag?"

It was a critical moment for Hester and she rose to it finely.

"Ha, ha, ha!" she laughed carelessly, although terror was clutching her heart. "Do you want to know why I was looking in that golf bag, Mr. Anton?"

"Yes, I do," he answered roughly, "and I'm going to know right now."

He strode toward the golf bag and seized it by the strap.

"You'd make a good detective, Mr. Chauffeur," she tittered. "I dropped my scissors into that bag and I'll be much obliged if you'll fish them out for me."

So natural was her tone and so convincing her air of good-natured derision that Anton turned, hesitating, while one hand rested on the golf bag. Then, as before, he ran the fingers of his other hand through his mane of hair and clasped the back of his head in perplexity. It must have been this characteristic attitude that brought the flash of memory.

"Ah!" cried Hester, in sudden inspiration. "Now I know where I saw you."

The thrill of exultation in her voice convinced the wavering chauffeur and he came toward her in alarm, leaving the golf bag.

"Where?" he demanded.

She half closed her eyes as if looking at a distant picture.

"In a rathskeller—on Forty-second Street—near Broadway—one night," she answered in broken sentences.

"Well?"

"You were sitting at a table with a man who looked like a Tenderloin sport or—a Bowery tough. He had a blue handkerchief around his head—so. He had lost a piece of his ear."

Anton listened, fascinated.

"How do you know he had?"

"I heard him tell you. He said the top of it had been bitten off. That's why I noticed him. Remember?"

"You're crazy. I never was in a rathskeller on Forty-second Street. And I don't know any man who's had his ear bitten off." He paused and again moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "What was the man's name?"

"I don't know his name," answered Hester, "but I heard some sweet things he said and a few that you said and——" she laughed at him tauntingly. "You have a nice, elegant line of friends, Mr. Anton."

"I tell you it wasn't me," he blustered.

"Oh, yes, it was. I know you by that white lock in your hair and—see here, I know you by another thing. I'll prove it. Let's see you smile."

"Smile? Why should I smile?" He tightened his lips into a grim line.

"Because you'd look much better, for one thing. You're not pretty that way, Mr. Anton. And if you smile, you'll show a gold tooth on—let me see—on this side, a big, shiny gold tooth. Come, now, smile."

It is a matter of conjecture whether Anton, thus challenged, would or would not have revealed the treasures of his bicuspid region. At any rate he did not do so on this occasion owing to the fact that developments were suddenly interrupted by the sound of voices in the library below, followed by a light, quick step on the winding stair. Whereupon Anton, without smiling, without explaining, and without any further sign of interest in the damaged conservatory, faded away as he had come, through the green door, and with the same cringing, apologetic manner. The honors of this brief but spirited engagement were easily with Hester.

Swiftly the adventuress caught up the skirt she was supposed to be mending and, seating herself, began some movements of measurement, while her face took on an expression of diligent interest. A moment later Betty Thompson swept into the chamber and, to the absolute astonishment of the sewing girl, went straight to the golf bag.

White-faced, Hester rose to her feet. She could feel her hands and her lips getting cold. Was this the end of the game?

"Can I—can I do anything?" she managed to ask.

"No, no," said Betty cheerfully. "Don't get up. Mrs. Baxter wants to play golf and I'm going to lend her my bag. There!"

She caught up the bag and disappeared with it down the stair, while Hester, stunned by this sudden change of fortune, listened to the mocking rattle of the clubs.

CHAPTER X
HORATIO DISCOVERS A PEPPERMINT TREE

A charity bazaar, generally speaking, is an invention designed to mitigate the sufferings of the rich during the painful operation of removing a small portion of their superfluous wealth for the benefit of the poor.

Charity, however, to appeal successfully to the taste feminine, must come in various shades and styles, and each of the ladies of St. Timothy's parish had her pet shade. So it happened that the date of this bazaar had been fixed and most of the arrangements completed long before the good ladies had agreed upon the charity to be benefited.

It was only after several stormy meetings that, for the sake of peace, it was agreed to leave Charity out of the question. And then it was that the Bishop of Bunchester, by a happy inspiration, suggested starting a branch of the Progressive Mothers' Society at Ippingford and, as the expenses of stationery, stamps and the salary of a secretary must be met, the object of the bazaar settled itself without further discussion.

Thanks to the untiring energy and unfailing tact of Mr. Ferdinand Spooner, secretary of the Progressive Mothers' Society, the ladies of the committee were not only on actual speaking terms with each other, but were working harmoniously together for the great cause. Each of these ladies was happy in the consciousness that she had obtained, not through undue favor, but in recognition of her peculiar social preëminence, the table occupying the very best position in the hall. This also, it may be noted, was due entirely to the unfailing tact of Mr. Ferdinand Spooner.

Whenever Mr. Ferdinand Spooner was asked to admire any particular table, he praised it without stint, but he was ever careful to add that each of the tables was quite perfect in its own way, and, in the minutes of a subsequent meeting of the Progressive Mothers' Society, the resolution proposing that a vote of thanks be tendered to Mr. Ferdinand Spooner, for his untiring energy and unfailing tact, was moved, seconded and carried unanimously.

The bazaar had been advertised to open at half past three o'clock, and keenest interest had been aroused by the announcement that, on account of the indisposition of Dr. Dibble, the address would be delivered by the Reverend Horatio Merle. Almost every one in the parish knew Horatio Merle by sight. More often than not the curate and his wife were the only occupants of the Baxter pew, but such was his shrinking from grown up human society and so retired his walks that very few knew him personally. Harriet, too, for reasons of her own, worldly reasons, of which she was secretly ashamed, had responded meagerly to the friendly advances of the ladies of St. Timothy's. Nor, in this respect, were the Merles any exception in the Baxter household. Hiram, who with his son spent most of his time in America, regarded English society very much as he regarded the English climate and English business methods, and Eleanor preferred to share his seclusion to braving the leveled lorgnettes and monocled stares at Hiram's homely American speech and manners.

As for Lionel Fitz-Brown and Kate Clendennin, they were sufficiently occupied with each other and dismissed the entire parish as a "beastly bore."

From her chair at the back of the hall Harriet Merle watched the clock anxiously. The hands now pointed exactly to half past three, the time fixed for the opening address. For twenty-seven hours Harriet had waited for this moment, had mentally rehearsed the scene to its minutest detail—the expectant hush that would follow the introductory remarks by the harmless but necessary Spooner—then Horatio, solemn, transfigured, in the black surplice that Harriet had only the morning before shaken from its long camphorous sleep, would slowly mount the steps to the platform, looking neither to the right nor to the left—and, when the hush had become absolutely unbearable, he would cough nervously and——

In sudden panic Harriet looked at the clock. It was five minutes past the time. The decorous applause that had followed the secretary's remarks on the duties of Progressive Mothers (a Progressive Mother must be progressive, she must nurse her babies—progressively, she must bathe them—progressively, she must punish them—progressively, etc.) had died away a long minute ago. The expectant hush was becoming unbearable. Where was Horatio? Why didn't he come? What had happened?

Ferdinand Spooner tiptoed importantly from one to another of the ladies of the committee. People were beginning to whisper. Harriet shrank into her meager feather boa. She clasped her hands till they hurt in her effort to keep from crying. Tears came into her eyes and dropped upon the white gloves that she had worked so hard to clean for the occasion. Oh, why didn't he come? She had sat up half the night with him and made coffee to keep him awake till the address was written.

She thought of the money that Horatio would have received—one pound, perhaps even two pounds—and how she needed that money. Now there would be nothing.

What was the secretary saying? He feared that Mr. Merle had been unavoidably detained and the committee had decided that the address should be omitted, and he now declared the bazaar formally opened, and he asked them all to join in singing the national anthem. As the harmonium groaned the first bar of "God Save the King" and every one stood up, Harriet, grateful for the cover afforded by this ancient custom, but, for the moment, past all caring whether his majesty was saved or not, made her way to the door without attracting attention. Her only thought was to get out, out into the air and away from people—away from the sound of singing.

* * * * * * *

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

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

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

Fortunately it was only a couple of minutes' walk back to the lodge and there the cat could be left in the care of Mrs. Pottle or little An Petronia Pottle until his master was well out of range. Mrs. Pottle was properly shocked at the tale of Martin Luther's behavior—she had never seen the like of it, such a forward cat; she would think shame before trying to go where she wasn't invited, and what for would he be wanting to be mixing himself up with the likes of the Progressive Mothers—my word!

Martin Luther could listen respectfully to Merle for various reasons, one being that Merle was of his own authoritative sex, but Mrs. Pottle's theatricals only bored him and he retired to the square cave under the stone chimney seat which he assumed had been built for his exclusive use when he condescended to visit the lodge.

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

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

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

"I'm not saying if I likes the girl or don't like her," she went on; "but there's one thing I do say: She's never been taught how to make a bed, nor yet how to dust a room. And what's more," here Mrs. Pottle fumbled in her pocket, "I found this on her table." She held out a rabbit's foot, tinged at the end with pink powder.

"Bless my soul! The foot of a rabbit!" exclaimed Merle, in genuine surprise. "Dear me! This is most astonishing. Perhaps Miss Storm is interested in natural history."

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

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

"An Petronia?" The old woman shook her head. "There's no telling," she said. "It'll take a better head nor what I have to say what that child's thinkin' on. She's that deep and only eight years old come Michaelmas. She takes up with such funny people——" Mrs. Pottle stopped, confused and reddening at Merle's amused smile of acknowledgment. "Oh, Lor', sir; I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't mean——"

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

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

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

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

Horatio, taking advantage of a compulsory pause for breath on the part of Mrs. Pottle, thanked her hurriedly and set off at a brisk pace toward Ippingford, and, so steadfastly did the good man set his face against the temptations of the wayside, that in less than half an hour he had passed the main street of the village and was within five minutes' walk of St. Timothy's parish house.

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

"What a pity I did not meet An Petronia," he said to himself. She was a great friend of Horatio's, this strange little maid with gold-red hair and questioning deep-set eyes and that odd smile. Many were the walks and talks they had together, Petronia holding on by the curate's forefinger, asking questions. Such questions! How many buttercups full of rain can a mouse drink? Telling him tremendous secrets and confiding to him all her troubles, what mountains of troubles! And yet Merle had never heard Petronia cry, not even the time when she was bitten by the frightened squirrel, whose foot she freed from the weasel trap, did An Petronia cry. Once when she had been disobedient and Mrs. Pottle had felt it necessary to whip her granddaughter, the child had not uttered a sound, which so frightened the old lady that she had never lifted a hand to the child since and never would.

The sound of children laughing startled Horatio from his reverie. He was passing the little sweetshop at the end of the village street, kept by one Mrs. Beadle, and behold, there was An Petronia surrounded by a mob of laughing, chattering playmates. They were looking in at the window and playing some game of Petronia's invention, in which the objects displayed in the shop window played an important part.

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

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

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

"Does peppermints gwow on twees?"

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

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

When things had arrived at the hair-pulling and slapping stage, Merle, feeling Petronia's hand tighten round his finger, had a sudden inspiration. Clapping his hands to attract attention, he called out suddenly in the most thrilling tones at his command, "Who wants to know a secret?"

In an instant the clash of battle ceased, for a moment there was perfect silence, tiny tears were brushed away by grimy little fists, touzled hair was smoothed or tied back as the case might be, little girl arms stole around little girl waists and little boy elbows around little boy shoulders and then there burst forth a chorus of voices clamoring as one child, "Tell us the secret! Tell us the secret!"

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

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

"A peppermint tree!" echoed the others.

"Yes," said Horatio, "a really truly peppermint tree with really truly peppermints on it, and I'm going to shake the tree and you shall catch the peppermints as they come down."

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

"Where is it?" eagerly chorused the others.

"It is only a little way from here," said the curate, as the plan formed itself in his mind, "but before we start I must go into the shop and see Mrs. Beadle. I am not quite sure just which tree is the peppermint tree, and, as Mrs. Beadle is so fond of peppermints, she will be able to tell me exactly how to find it. You had better wait for me at the corner," he added, "I shall only be a moment or two."

As the children trooped across the street, chirping and chattering, the curate, full of his happy little scheme and all oblivious of the flight of time, stepped into the shop. A few moments later he reappeared and, if in the interim Mrs. Beadle's stock of peppermints had appreciably diminished, no corresponding increase of bulk was apparent in the region of Horatio Merle's pockets, so artfully had the sweets been bestowed about his clerical person.

At the corner of the lane the children awaited him in expectant silence. Without a word An Petronia slipped her little hand in his and down the lane they went, this strange hushed processional led by the gray-haired curate hand in hand with little An Petronia.

"Here it is!" cried Merle at last, pointing to a small acacia, a toy-like tree with slender trunk and bushy top that stood on the very edge of the wood. An unmistakable peppermint tree, thought An Petronia.

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

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

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

"Now, then, children, all together!"

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

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

Once more the cherub chorus rang through the wood and this time the branches of the peppermint tree were heard to swish and shiver and shake in the most exciting manner. Then all of a sudden the swishing and shivering and shaking stopped and down came a terrific shower of peppermints like big round sugar pennies, skipping and rolling on the grass at the children's feet.

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

The clock of St. Timothy's was striking. One—two—no need to count, he knew it was four o'clock. Harriet's look had told him everything. He had failed in his duty, he was disgraced—before everybody—and Harriet—how she must have suffered!

Close by, the children shouted and laughed and scrambled for peppermints. How little they knew the cost of their laughter. Their voices grew fainter as Horatio ran, ran despairingly, to overtake his wife. A moment later he was by her side breathless, pleading.

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

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

Horatio stood still. Dazed, stupefied, he watched his wife until she was out of sight, then, with unsteady steps, he turned into the shadow of the quiet, questionless woods and sank face downward among the ferns. Presently there was a sound of something moving through the ferns and bushes. Nearer and nearer it came until it was quite close to him, then a warm little hand, a pepperminty hand, stroked his wet cheek and a tear-shaken voice, the voice of An Petronia, quavered close to his ear, "Don't cwy, Daddy Merle."

CHAPTER XI
LAUGHTER IN THE DARK

Neither Lionel Fitz-Brown nor Kate Clendennin knew the precise degree of cousinship that constituted the bond of relationship between them. That such a bond existed had been the natural inference from their common relationship to Mrs. Baxter, since, to paraphrase Euclid, cousins that are related to the same cousin must be related to one another.

But when Cousin Lionel attempted to solve the genealogical problem with a proposition beginning "If your greatuncle, who was second cousin to Mrs. Baxter's grandmother, was a first cousin once removed to my aunt——" Kate put her hands to her ears and fled from the room. And when a few days later he attempted it again she threw a book at him.

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

Lionel's frame of mind after meeting the new secretary at luncheon was a perplexing one. He retired to the billiard room to think it over, under cover of the noisy osculation of compulsory billiard balls. Lionel had never made claim to cleverness; indeed, he regarded it as rather stupid to be clever and downright bad form to be brilliant. "If a chap is a good shot and isn't afraid of a hedge with a barb wire in it, and knows how to fasten his tie, what more does he want?"

But this American girl—strange a girl like that should be a secretary!—had discovered to him unsuspected possibilities in himself. He had actually talked, he had even gone so far as to say one or two rather good things—that about aeroplanes, for instance—no, come to think of it, it was she who said that—what was it he had said? Anyhow, it had made the American girl laugh, so it must have been rather good. Extraordinary people, these Americans; how they sharpen one's wits! On the whole, he was rather pleased with himself. He wondered if Kate had noticed it.

As he thought of Kate, there rushed through his brain a succession of pictures of the countess and Robert Baxter at the luncheon table, mental snapshots forgotten at the moment, now vividly developed.... Kate with her head thrown back, laughing at something Baxter had said and incidentally displaying a curve of throat that would humiliate the most conceited lily petal.... Kate, leaning forward on her elbow, her chin slightly elevated on the palm of her hand, with an expression of rapt attention that is well worth while for a girl whose eyelids have such a delicious downward sweep.... Kate, in profile perdu, showing the pink lobe of an exquisite ear and her "jolly well brushed tan-colored hair" curving smoothly up from the nape of her neck.... Kate, with her upturned palm resting on the hand of Robert Baxter—confound him!

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

The next instant an osculatory outbreak of earsplitting intensity echoed through the billiard room, and the red and white affinities went spinning round the table, as Lionel slammed his cue into the rack and stormed out of the room. A few minutes later (when Kate came in to look for him) there was no sign of Lionel, and the demeanor of the billiard balls was as frigid and standoffish as if they had never been introduced—or were lately married.

At the evening meal, called supper by Hiram, Lionel did not appear, to the keen disappointment of Kate, who had descended into the kitchen in the loneliness of the late afternoon and prepared a crême renversée for his especial benefit.

It was late dusk when Fitz-Brown returned, by the golf course, from a ten-mile ramble over Ippingford downs. All his rancor, jealousy, if you will, had disappeared. He had clarified his mind by a physical process, a process at once primitively simple and profoundly scientific. For, if it is true that a physical ailment may be healed by a mental process, it is equally true that a mental ailment can be cured by a physical process. All Lionel did was to walk and walk and walk and allow the fresh summer wind, bounding over miles of gorse and heather, to sweep the fog from his brain. So that, by the time he emerged upon the Millbrook golf course he was able to see himself quite clearly and his self-appraisement was not flattering. He stood on the top of a high bunker and took a long breath as he delivered this ultimatum: "I'm a beastly ass," he said to himself. "Kate would be a fool to marry a duffer like me."

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

Kate had already caught a glimpse of him as his tall figure stood for an instant silhouetted against the fading sky, and, divining his intention to take her by surprise, she addressed herself to the business of putting with convincing absorption.

As the ball for a breathless moment hesitated at the rim of the cup, then, Curtius-like, plunged into the dark abyss, a cheery "Bravo! Kate!" directly behind her caused a genuine start as perfect as any imitation she could have given.

"Gad! How you startled me!" There was an alchemy in Kate's personality that transmuted the sounding brass of profanity into the gold of pure speech. She swung round as she spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To Mrs. Merle?"

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

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

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

"You've just said it was fluffy."

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

"How unfortunate," purred Kate. "You should have written it down."

"It really wasn't bad," he went on. "Anyway it made her laugh, but—she wouldn't look at a duffer like me." He sighed athletically. "She's much too clever; half the time you don't know what she's driving at, but you can bally well believe what she says."

It was nearly dark and they had drifted toward a semi-circular rustic bench at the foot of a towering horse-chestnut. Lionel lighted his briar and sank, in sack-like ease, into the uncomfortable seat, lulled by the incense man burns only to himself, the envy of the watching gods who invented eating and drinking and fighting and loving, and created the tobacco plant, but never thought of smoking.

Kate lighted a cigarette. But rustic seats with tree trunks for backs are not made for women. After picking some pieces of bark from her hair and attempting to fish others from the back of her neck, only to push them hopelessly out of reach, she jumped up impatiently and fell to pacing the soft turf behind the tree, the wavering light of her cigarette swaying hither and thither in the deepening gloom like a dissipated firefly.

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

Lionel watched a ball of gray smoke unravel itself and trail swiftly into the darkness above. "What's funny about mind reading?" he asked. "It strikes me it isn't any funnier than palm reading." Then after a contemplative pause, "That Baxter chap seemed to find your palm very interesting. Did he tell you anything exciting?"

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

"I say, mayn't I know?"

"Oh, it wouldn't interest you."

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

"Then you do believe in palmistry?"

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

"Why do you want to know?"

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

A fear he could not explain had come upon Lionel and stopped his speech. A few moments ago his only word for palmistry was tommyrot and now the writing on Kate's hand was to him the most momentous thing on earth.

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

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

There was no answer. He circled the tree swiftly with outstretched hand, guiding himself by the edge of the seat.

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

The next instant his free hand touched something and his arms closed around her. It was as if, in the space of a minute, he had lost this woman forever and suddenly found her again. And now he, Lionel Fitz-Brown, was holding Kate Clendennin in his arms. If the stone Diana in the sunken garden had turned to flesh and blood and found her way into his embrace it would not have been more astonishing, incredible. Here she was resting limply against him, her lovely head on his shoulder. He could feel her hair against his cheek.

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

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

"Kate!" he said in a low tone.

"Yes? What is it?" she whispered.

"How do you feel?"

"Pretty comfy." She nestled closer.

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

"Faint?" Kate sat up suddenly. "Is that what you thought?"

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

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

"Giving me the slip? What for?"

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

Lionel struck his repeater. The tiny chimes clinged the hours and quarters against his right and Kate's left ear. They counted nine and three-quarters.

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

Then an inspiration came to Lionel, born of romantic literature. "I say, Kate, I—er—I wish we could count all our hours that way."

There was an agonizing pause.

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

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

"Yes? And what would we live on?"

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

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

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

"You don't really believe that tommyrot?"

"I do this time because what he told me is going to come true." She placed her hands on his shoulders with an affectionate movement. "He told me I'm going to have heaps and heaps of money! Lionel, aren't you glad?"

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

His thoughts flew back to the day of their first meeting three months ago—to the first time she had called him "Cousin Lionel"—to the time when somehow or other they had dropped the "cousin" and were Lionel and Kate to one another—three milestones on the road that led to—where might it not lead to? And now she was turning back. Where? He reflected that he knew nothing of Kate's world before she had come to Ipping House. From time to time there had been letters for her with German or Swiss postage stamps. That was all.

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

Lionel shivered. He seized her hand which showed dimly white at his side. It was like ice. It slipped from him upward and his ear caught the multitudinous whisper of chiffons.

"Come on," she said.

He rose stupidly and followed her in the darkness.

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

"What was that?" She clutched his arm.

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

CHAPTER XII
THE GRAY LADY

The shadowy form seen by Kate Clendennin near the conservatory was no phantom born of emotional excitement, but a flesh-and-blood creature, a keenly alert sentinel, stealthily waiting and watching for a specific and serious purpose.

For more than one of the dwellers at Ipping House this had been an important day. To Betty Thompson it had brought, the suddenly revealed glory of a deep love, to Lionel and Kate the first delicious whisperings of mutual passion and the pain of renunciation, to Horatio Merle it had brought humiliation and self-abasement, and to this poor, soul-stifled girl, Hester Storm, it had brought the opportunity to steal $25,000.

With her own eyes Hester had seen the purse; it was there in the golf bag, she had almost had it in her hands. Almost! If that tumble-haired, shifty-eyed chauffeur had kept away she would have had the money. And if Mrs. Baxter hadn't borrowed the golf bag, just at the wrong moment, she would have had it. Hard luck twice. Well, the third time would be different, and she would land the goods. In the whole world she was the only person who knew where this purse was, so all she had to do was to watch the golf bag and wait for another chance.

Through the long afternoon Hester watched and waited in Betty Thompson's chamber, showing an industry and zeal in her sewing that Betty thought most commendable. All this time the girl was eyeing the clock, wondering if, before she finished her work, Mrs. Baxter would return the golf bag. But no Mrs. Baxter appeared and at six o'clock she was obliged to go. Miss Thompson wished to dress for dinner and—no, she did not need a maid.

Hester walked slowly back to the lodge considering what her next move should be. Evidently she must act quickly or someone else might see the purse. Someone might already have seen it. Some caddy boy! Or Mrs. Baxter herself. There it lay, down among the clubs, quite unguarded except by the darkness in the bottom of the bag. Hester's hope lay in that little layer of darkness and in the unlikelihood that any one would search there.

What would Mrs. Baxter do with the golf bag after she had finished using it? She would naturally return it to Miss Thompson. She would return it this evening and Miss Thompson would naturally put it in her chamber, just where it was this afternoon, there in the corner by the dressing-table.

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

At a quarter before seven Hester heard the panting of an automobile near the lodge gate and, hurrying to the window, she watched Mrs. Baxter and Robert as they swept past in the big, closed car, the young man driving. Stare as she would the agitated girl was unable to catch sight of the golf bag, but she knew it was inside the car, it must be there; in a few moments it would be back in Ipping House, where she might get it—if she only could think how—later in the night.

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

Hester finished her supper soon after seven and immediately went to her room—to be alone—to think. She felt impelled to do this thing, but she must plan every move with the utmost caution. No one, better than she, knew how dearly she might have to pay for one mistake.

At nine o'clock the girl stole softly out into the park. Old Mrs. Pottle had gone to bed early and the lodge was still. An Petronia, with her four beloved "Pottles" ranged beside her, was dreaming of "Reginal" and his misfortunes. Over the beeches and the dim, gray mass of the manor a purple darkness was settling and the little creatures of the night were pulsing their strange chorus. The air was warm and the girl went forth, bareheaded, gliding among the shadows like one of them. There were several small objects in her trunk that she might have taken to help her on this sinister expedition, several objects that she was impelled to take, but, on reflection, she left them behind, all but one.

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

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

And now two dim figures approached across the lawn, Fitz-Brown and the Countess, and Hester shrank away among the shadows. Lionel took down a key from a nail outside the conservatory (where he often left it when he came in late) and, opening the door, bowed Kate in, then followed, closing the door, but quite forgetting to lock it. Thus fortune favored the young adventuress, as it had before many times.

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

Very cautiously Hester opened the conservatory door and stepped inside, closing the door silently after her. Motionless, almost breathless, she listened as the others parted at the stairs. Queer lovers! Was that the best they could do?

"Good-night, Kate."

"Good-night, old chap."

Lionel extinguished the hall light and, with flaring candle-shadows dancing behind them, these two climbed the stairs. Then came the closing of distant bedroom doors and Ipping House, dark and silent, settled down to slumber, while the adventuress waited.

Eleven! Twelve! One o'clock! to the slow, soothing voice of the bells. Those who prowl by night under strange roofs must learn patience and, while these hours passed, Hester scarcely stirred, except from chair to bench, then back again from bench to chair, noiselessly, for she wore sneakers with rubber soles. She played odd little games with the moon-beams, making bets with herself as to how long, measured in heart beats, it would take a certain little flickering yellow fellow with a funny tail to creep from one crack to another. And she found that she could make her heart beat slower by taking long, deep breaths, which sometimes helped her to win.

At half-past one Hester turned the switch of a tiny electric lantern that hung from a cord around her neck. A beam of concentrated light flashed across the room and instantly vanished as the switch went back. The storage battery was working well. It was time to start.

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

For several minutes Hester pondered this, while disconnected memories of her troubled life came and went through her mind, like pictures, memories of when she was little and of her sister Rosalie. It seemed as if now, in the darkness, she could see Rosalie's sad, tired face and loving eyes fixed on her. Well, she was doing this for Rosalie, she wanted the money for Rosalie and—she had gone pretty far already, why not go a little farther?

In this resolve the intruder moved back into the library and, without giving herself time for further hesitation, she cautiously ascended the winding stair that led to Betty Thompson's room. If the worst came, she did not believe this kind-eyed girl, her fellow country-woman, would betray her. Besides, why should there be any trouble? It was only a matter of silently turning the knob. The noiseless creeping light would do the rest. If she saw the golf bag, there by the dressing-table, she could get it without a sound. And, anyway, Betty must be in her deepest sleep. It would take more than the squeak of a board or the crack of a too tense knee-joint to rouse her. None of which reasoning availed, for now, when Hester turned the knob and pressed, she found an unyielding barrier against her; the door was locked.

So that was settled. If the golf bag was in Betty Thompson's chamber it must stay there. She would take no risks of picking a lock and—perhaps this wasn't her lucky night. Perhaps she had better fade away before anything went wrong.

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

The girl was perfect in the geography of the house. Mrs. Baxter's room was one flight up by the main staircase, the second door on the right going down the hall. It was easy enough to go to this door and—very well, she would go there and then decide. No great harm could come from listening at a door. Alas! One never knows how harm may come!

Swiftly and silently the restless searcher glided through the great hall, then up the massive stairs of heavy polished oak, finding her way through the darkness by the guiding flashes of her lamp. But when she reached the head of the stairs and turned cautiously down the corridor, she stopped with a frightened gasp, for there, beyond her, spreading under the second door, Mrs. Baxter's door, was a band of light. And even as she stood, hesitating, her fears were increased by the sound of footsteps in the bedroom. Not only was Mrs. Baxter awake, she was coming toward the door.

Like a flash and noiselessly, the Storm girl darted on and vanished into the black depths of the corridor beyond. If the mistress of the house had heard her on the stairs, it was toward the stairs that she would go now, so the safest place was away from the stairs. Trembling and breathless the girl shrank behind some heavy curtains at the end of the hall and waited.

A moment later the door opened and Mrs. Baxter appeared in a long loose garment and carrying a candle. The light was full on her face, which was deathly white and bore, Hester thought, a look of terror. And, as the lady moved down the corridor, holding her flickering taper, she seemed to shrink away from the black shadows around her. And when she reached the stairs she hurried down with furtive glances behind, as if she felt herself pursued. What trouble or mystery was here?

The girl listened until Mrs. Baxter's footsteps sounded in the hall below, then she followed softly and, leaning over the railing, watched the movements of the candle. It disappeared into the library and presently there came the sound of an opening door. Mrs. Baxter had gone through into the conservatory. What could she want in the conservatory at this time of night? Could she suspect there was an intruder in the house? Was it this that caused her fears? Impossible! No woman would leave her room to meet a hidden burglar. She would scream: she would alarm the house; she would do anything but face the dangers lurking in a shadowy conservatory.

Then what was the explanation? Why had Mrs. Baxter, with pallid face and haunted eyes, gone down those stairs? She must be searching for something that she needed very much. Strange, that there should be two women in this house searching for something that they needed very much! And, suddenly, Hester realized that here was her chance to look into Mrs. Baxter's bedroom. The door was ajar, the light was still burning. One quick glance would tell her what she so much wanted to know.

There! The door opened noiselessly as she pressed it back. Not a sound from below. Now, then! The girl stepped into the chamber and looked about her. On a small table at the head of the rumpled bed lay a book, face downward, by a shaded lamp. Mrs. Baxter had evidently been trying to read herself to sleep. Some exciting story, no doubt, that had made her wider awake than ever.

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

Well, this finished her effort for the night. She had had no luck and—the best thing she could do was to get out of the house. What could that woman be doing down in the conservatory?

Again Hester listened at the stairs, but her straining ears caught no sound nor could her eyes perceive the faintest glow from Mrs. Baxter's candle. Absolute darkness! Absolute silence!

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

Even as these gruesome thoughts chilled her heart the girl's foot touched the lowest stair and a moment later, as she stepped out gropingly into the black hall, she felt herself held from behind, as by a hand, whereupon, in a burst of terror, she tore herself violently free. At the same instant there resounded through the house a great clanking of metal and the crash of a heavy body falling. Then silence again, while Hester stood still frozen with fear. And now, from the direction of the conservatory, there came a piercing, agonized shriek.

It was an emergency to daunt the stoutest heart, but Hester rose to it, conquering her panic, because she realized that she must conquer it. Everything depended upon what she did in the next few minutes: her happiness, her freedom, her whole existence depended upon her getting out of this house immediately. Some frightful thing had happened that would presently throw the whole establishment into tumult.

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

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

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

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

Swiftly the Storm girl retreated into the library. Her case was desperate. Mrs. Baxter was in the conservatory, so her escape that way was blocked. To hide in the house now would be madness. It was only a matter of minutes when the whole household would be aroused, when lights would be blazing in every room and——

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

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

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

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

"Bob!" she cried faintly, and staggered toward the library door. "Bob!" she called, louder, and took a step into the shadowy room. Then, as the candle light flamed forward, she came, suddenly, face to face with a still figure, a shrouded, sinister woman in gray. It was too much. It was more than Eleanor Baxter could bear. With a stifled moan she sank down on the library floor and was conscious of nothing more until she opened her eyes weakly and found Bob bending over her.

CHAPTER XIII
FIRST AID TO THE INJURED

As regards the gray lady whose seeming apparition had spread such wide alarm, anyone curious to know something of the ghostly Ladye Ysobel Ippynge (she was believed to have been poisoned by her husband, Sir Gyles Ippynge, Knight, and first earl of Ippingford in the early part of the twelfth century) will find a true account of her pious life and tragic death in a volume entitled, "Kronicon Uxorium," in the Bodleian library of Oxford, written by the monk Abel of Ipswich and printed in London in 1529.

The pious Lady Ysobel would have been sore distressed had she known what a fearful pother her counterfeit presentment (by Hester Storm) would one day cause. What had really happened was perfectly simple, although the consequences were complicated and far-reaching. When Hester came to the bottom of the stairs she had turned out of her way in the darkness and passed close to a pedestal supporting a suit of armor that kept impressive guard there in the ancestral hall. So close had she passed that the cord of her electric lamp had caught on one of the links in the coat of mail, whereupon, in her plunge away from this ghostly restraint, she had toppled over the grim warrior, pedestal and all, with a crash and rattle of his various resounding parts that had alarmed the entire establishment. And this uproar had terrified Mrs. Baxter all the more because she was already quivering with superstitious dread after reading that creepy tale of Bulwer Lytton's, "A Strange Story"; in fact, it was to seek relief from this obsession that the agitated lady had gone downstairs for some sulphonal sleeping tablets that she had left in the conservatory. And the silent, silver-draped apparition, looming suddenly in the shadows, had done the rest.

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

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

It must not be supposed, however, that either the gray lady or her understudy, Hester Storm, was responsible for the series of happenings at Ipping House that ended in converting that comfortably appointed English home into as uncompromising a wilderness, as far as the relatives were concerned, as the most resourceful Swiss Family Robinson could hope to be wrecked upon. There was another agency at work; to-wit, Parker.

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

In appearance Parker was of the candle-complexioned, patent-leather-haired type that nature seems to have distributed impartially between the pulpits and pantries of Great Britain. Parker's greatest personal asset was a subtle fluidity of temperament which caused visitors at a house where he had been engaged only the week before to believe that he was an old family retainer. It was to this priceless gift that Parker owed his success in New York, where he had spent ten profitable years and adorned many expensive houses, seldom staying long in any one place as new accessories to social elegance outbid each other for his services. It was in New York that Parker's face took on its expression of impeccable superiority, the envy of more than one bishop, an expression acquired through his practice of combining with his office of butler (for an extra charge, of course) that of private tutor of social usages to his employers.

In the eyes of Mrs. Edge, and to quote her own words, Parker was the "cream of gentlemen." Between Mrs. Edge and the "cream of gentlemen" there was an understanding. When the Baxters returned to New York in the autumn and the house would be closed for the winter, a small but desirable hotel at Inwich (the next village beyond Millbrook) would be reopened under the management of Mr. and Mrs. Parker.

Hiram Baxter, in spite of his homely American speech, which grated painfully on the butler's fine cockney ear, somehow commanded the respect of this "cream of gentlemen," who felt that there was good material in him. He would like to have taken Baxter in hand. He longed to tell him that detachable cuffs and collars were not permissible; that a black bow tie, if one must wear such a thing in the daytime, should not have its ends tucked under the flaps of the collar. Twice Parker had deliberately hidden the silver clasps with which Hiram suspended his serviette to the lapels of his coat.

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

And now he was turning his back on these liquid joys and two months' wages into the bargain. To be separated from Mrs. Edge was out of the question. She was his fiancée, also the lease of the "Golden Horseshoe" was in her name. The wily Parker, however, saw in the ghost incident a way of visiting his resentment on the Baxter household, and he set about it at once.

At the time of the night alarm Parker had been the first to reach the hall from the servants' wing, and, striking a match, had discovered the figure in armor lying on its face. With an instinctive alacrity, born of former kindly and remunerative ministrations to elderly gentlemen who had "dined," Parker lifted the helpless dummy to his feet and replaced the helmet, which had rolled some distance along the oak floor.

A moment later, when Bob appeared, supporting his mother to the stairs, the butler heard Mrs. Baxter exclaim with hysterical triumph: "There, you can see for yourself, Bob, it wasn't the armor; it's standing up—it never fell down at all——"

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

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

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

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

The next day at noon the cook and the first and second housemaids gave three days' notice. It was thought advisable not to tell Eleanor, and, after a consultation with Hiram, Betty engaged a new cook and one housemaid by telephone from a London agency.

That afternoon the cook confided to the laundress, in a frightened whisper, that she had been told in strict secrecy by Parker, who got it from Gibson, Mrs. Baxter's maid, that Mrs. Baxter had a white mark on her forehead she would carry to her grave, made by the icy fingers of the Gray Lady. The story spread among the servants like an epidemic.

As night came on the last remnant of courage accumulated in the daylight oozed away, the frightened females refused to be separated and passed the night on sofas and chairs in the servants' parlor.

As for Mrs. Baxter, the shock she had received was no mean tribute to Hester's histrionic power. Nothing could remove from Eleanor's mind the conviction that she had actually beheld the supernatural shape of Lady Ysobel Ippynge, dead and buried these hundreds of years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No ghosts there?" chuckled the big fellow.

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

Hiram sent Bob back in the automobile and walked home. With this mention of Brighton there had come to him an idea that he wanted to work out, an idea having to do with his general plan of reducing expenses. If a stay at the seashore was what Eleanor needed, why not give her enough of it, say a fortnight or a month? And, if they were going to be away a month, why not close Ipping House and get rid of a raft of servants? And why not—— then frowning he thought of his relatives and of his favorite purpose regarding them as he had outlined it to the Bishop of Bunchester, and then he thought apprehensively of Eleanor.

"Holy cats!" he muttered. "It's goin' to be a job, but I'll do it."

That evening, after dinner, he went to his wife's room and asked her carelessly how she would like to go down to Brighton for a week or two. Eleanor beamed. She would love it. Was he really going to take her? How soon? Could they stay a whole fortnight in Brighton?

Hiram assured her most considerately that they could stay a whole month in Brighton, if she wished. And they would start the next day. She had been through a great strain. It was no joke to see a ghost, he understood that. They ought to have known better than to take a house that had a ghost in it. And then, as tactfully as he could, the old boy came around to his point that it might be just as well to close Ipping House and—and give the ghost a rest.

Eleanor's eyes narrowed dangerously as she watched him from her lace pillow.

"Close Ipping House?" she repeated in a cold, even tone. "Do you realize what you are saying?"

Hiram took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief, first blowing on them deliberately.

"Sure I do; that's why I'm sayin' it. If we shut this house we can fire the servants, all of 'em; then, when we come back we can get new ones, half as many and twice as good. Don't look at me that way, dearie. I hate like everything to disappoint you, but——" he reached over and stroked her white hand tenderly, "you know what I said about expenses? Well, I meant it then and I mean it now. We've got to economize."

"What about my relatives? Our guests?" the wife demanded angrily.

"I guess your relatives'll have to take their chances in a new deal, Eleanor. I'm goin' to have a little talk with 'em to-morrow morning. I told 'em at dinner. Don't worry, I ain't goin' to say a thing but what's for their good. Bet ye three dollars and a half, when ye hear my little speech—

"Hear your speech?" she blazed. "Do you think anything could induce me to be present while you humiliate members of my family? I think it's abominable."

"Hold on! There ain't anything humiliating in a little honest work."

"Work?" she gasped. "Hiram, you don't mean—you're not going to put my relatives—to work?"

Hiram shifted his legs with exasperating calmness, pulled at his short, gray mustache, and was about to reply, when Robert strolled in cheerily and went at once to Eleanor's bedside.

"How's the little mother to-night?" he asked affectionately. Whereupon, to his surprise and to Hiram's great discomfiture, the lady burst into a flood of tears.

"I'm so unhappy," she wailed. "Your father is treating me most—unkindly and—and——" her words were lost in hysterical sobbing.

THEBISHOP'S PURSE

THE BISHOP'S PURSE

CHAPTER IHESTER STORM GIVES HER NAME AS JENNY REGAN

CHAPTER IISHOWING THE IMPORTANCE OF A GOLF BAG

CHAPTER IIIPRESENTING HIRAM BAXTER

CHAPTER IVA SHOCK FOR BETTY

CHAPTER VTHE REVEREND HORATIO MERLE

CHAPTER VIHESTER OF THE SCARLET CLOAK

CHAPTER VIITHE NEW SECRETARY

CHAPTER VIIIA FACE IN THE GLASS

CHAPTER IXA FLASH OF MEMORY

CHAPTER XHORATIO DISCOVERS A PEPPERMINT TREE

CHAPTER XILAUGHTER IN THE DARK

CHAPTER XIITHE GRAY LADY

CHAPTER XIIIFIRST AID TO THE INJURED