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LOADED DICE

LOADED DICE

BY

ELLERY H. CLARK

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

F. GRAHAM COOTES

INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright 1909
The Bobbs-Merrill Company

PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N.Y.

TO
MY FATHER

CONTENTS.

LOADED DICE

PART I

[THE FOOTHOLD]

LOADED DICE

CHAPTER I

[A GAME OF BRIDGE AT THE FEDERAL]

Half-way up the slope of the tall hill, beyond the park, looking far out over the city to where, in the distance, the broad blue waters of the bay sparkle and gleam in the sunshine, stands the Federal Club.

Serenely it has held its place there for more than half a century, alike undaunted by winter snows and unmoved by all the beauty of springtime's bud and blossom, by the cloudless blue of summer skies and the lingering glory of autumn's scarlet and gold. And ever, year by year, with tolerant interest, it has watched the great, new, busy city beneath it grow and grow, stretching always farther and farther away to north and south and east and west in eager, resistless advance. Regret and compassion and longing for the old, pleasant days of its youth, all of these the club has known, as it has seen green field and swamp and meadow vanish for ever, and crowded office-building and mill and factory spring up and reign in their stead. And thus it stands there to-day, looking quietly on at the rushing tide of life below, a type of the life of the older city, aristocratic, dignified and reserved.

The year was 1904; the month, August; the time, late evening. The long, low-ceilinged card room was all but deserted, the shades drawn, the lights turned low. The round, green-topped tables, appearing to the eye like some field of giant mushrooms, stood in orderly rows, their outlines blending faintly with the dark oak paneling in the gloom. In the far distance, at the end of the room, a waiter, white-aproned, napkin on arm, hovered expectantly, for generous winners did not always heed the club's injunction regarding tips. Thus he made a pretense of dusting the tables, and waited, biding his time.

Over by the window, where the faint cooling breeze from the bay stole softly in, four men were finishing their rubber of bridge. Vanulm, the portly brewer, prosperous, kindly, slow of speech, resolute of purpose, saying little, smiled often; from time to time, when perplexed as to the proper play, stroking his dark, closely-cropped beard with his large white hand. His partner, young Harry Palmer, scrupulously well dressed, carefully groomed, showed in his every action the handicap of having been born with more money than brains, of never having had to lift a finger to help himself, and, drifting with the tide, of never having wasted a thought on anything outside his own pleasures and how best to gratify them. Many times a millionaire, he had but recently come into his fortune, and was making a sincere and honest effort to spend as much of it as he could in the shortest possible time. His thoughts, seemingly, were far from being on the fall of the cards.

At times he sought restlessly to urge on the speed of the game; again, as if trying to get control of unruly nerves, he made an effort to pull himself together and strove to play leisurely, with a pretense at thought, the frown on his weak, good-natured face, however, deceiving no one. Dick Gordon, the stock broker, reputed to be one of the handsomest men about town, dark, saturnine, played in silence, his whole mind centered on the game, noting each card as it fell with observant, inscrutable gaze. The last of the four, little Mott-Smith, was the typical briefless barrister, who had sacrificed whatever chance of success he might have had in his profession for the dangerous charm of dabbling in the stock market, and whose continual struggles to keep above water financially had been severe enough fully to account for the nervous and worried expression that had now become habitual with him.

Vanulm recorded the score of the hand just ended, and laid his pencil aside.

"Game apiece, Gordon," he said, "and we're twenty-six to four on the rubber. Your deal. And your cut, Harry."

Young Palmer lit another cigarette with an elaborate show of nonchalance. In obedience to that curious law of our nature which makes us admire and aspire to be that which we are not, Palmer's fondest ambition was to be known as a humorist. Therefore, before cutting, he made a feeble and misguided effort to raise a smile.

"Oh, I say, Vanulm," he drawled, "don't be in such a deuced hurry to get their coin. It's bad form, you know, and besides, it's twice as much fun to keep them worrying."

From neither Vanulm nor Gordon was the hoped-for smile forthcoming. Mott-Smith, indeed, laughed, but nervously and with apprehension. For him, bridge at five cents a point was not in any sense a pleasurable pastime, but a serious and indeed a somewhat dangerous occupation.

Gordon, observing him, smiled faintly as he dealt with the mechanical dexterity born of long practice, each card falling quickly and smoothly from his skilful fingers. Tall, dark and unusually fine looking, he was by all odds the most noticeable man of the four; perhaps, indeed, the only one who would have attracted attention in almost any company. His face, especially when he smiled, was attractive beyond all question, and yet something in his expression hard to define made it difficult to say whether the charm was that of good or of evil.

As the last card fell, he gathered up his hand, sorting it quickly, yet without haste. Then, scanning his cards carefully for a moment, he smiled again as he looked up and met his partner's anxious gaze.

"Sorry, partner," he said, with a trace of mockery in his tone, "but I'll have to ask you to name a trump."

Mott-Smith's thin, nervous face was a study in conflicting emotions. Anxiety, caution, resolve, all were recorded there, until finally his regard for the laws of the game triumphed, and in a voice which he tried hard to make appear firm and determined, he announced, with real heroism, "Partner, we'll try it without."

Vanulm studied his cards for a moment only; then asked the conventional, "May I play?"

Palmer's face flushed. "No, by Jove, I'll be hanged if you may!" he exclaimed. "I'm going over."

Mott-Smith sighed with the air of one thoroughly accustomed to unpleasant surprises and reversals of fortune. "Perfectly satisfied," he said with resignation.

Gordon's expression alone did not change or alter in the slightest degree. There was a moment's tense silence. Then, "I'll come back," he said quietly.

Palmer stared at him wrathfully. "You will, confound you!" he exclaimed. "Well, I've got a mighty good mind to boost her again. No, I guess I won't, though. Satisfied here."

"Satisfied," echoed Vanulm, and Mott-Smith, as the lead was made, glancing fearfully at his partner's expressionless face, laid down his hand, ace, king and low in two suits, queen and two low in another, and queen, knave and two low in the fourth. Gordon studied the cards for a moment, glanced once at his own hand as if for confirmation, and then played in his turn.

The play of the hand, as the play of a close hand of cards always does, afforded an interesting character study. Vanulm played phlegmatically, cautiously, but with hesitancy and much painstaking effort; Palmer fidgeted in his chair, drummed on the table with his nervous fingers, and occasionally swore under his breath; Gordon played incisively, unhesitatingly, almost mechanically, much as if he had placed every card in the pack, knew already what the final result would be, and regarded the actual fall of the cards as a necessary but scarcely interesting detail of the game. Six tricks to six was the score when Gordon, left with the lead, made good the queen of Mott-Smith's long suit, Palmer's carefully treasured ace of spades falling useless, and game and rubber were won.

Mott-Smith made no attempt to conceal his relief. "That was great, Gordon!" he cried. "You did wonders. You couldn't have played it better if you'd tried."

Palmer scowled, and bit his lip with vexation. "What an ass I was!" he exclaimed irritably, "carrying home an ace like that. What the deuce did I want to double for, anyway? Then they couldn't have gone out. I'm awfully sorry, Vanulm."

The brewer shrugged his big shoulders philosophically. "Don't worry, Palmer," he said kindly. "It's all in a lifetime; anyway, we made them work. Have we time for another?"

Mott-Smith consulted his watch. He knew that the last hand must have left him a little better than even, and he hated to tempt Fate again, and perhaps pay for it with a sleepless night. "It's almost twelve," he demurred, "but if you fellows want to play another game—"

Vanulm smiled quietly. He knew of Mott-Smith's means, or rather lack of them, and his consequent little eccentricities. Therefore he yawned out of pure good fellowship. "It is late," he agreed. "I'm getting sleepy myself. What do you say, Gordon?"

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "Don't ask me," he answered indolently. "I believe up to date I'm the heavy winner. Stop now or play till morning. It's all one to me."

With a sudden impatient gesture Palmer swept the cards together. "Let's cut it out!" he cried. "We've had enough bridge, and, besides, I've got something I want to tell you fellows. It isn't really supposed to be out until to-morrow, but it's so near that I guess it's all right."

He paused a moment, as if uncertain how to proceed, while the others gazed at him curiously without speaking.

Then Gordon broke the silence. "This sounds suspicious, Harry," he said quizzically. "'Out tomorrow' has come to mean only one thing nowadays."

Palmer caught at the offered opening with evident relief. "That's what it is!" he cried. "I've had enough of sporting around, and I'm going to quit it and settle down. You all know who she is. May Sinclair, General Sinclair's daughter, and I think I'm the luckiest chap going."

Gordon was the first to extend his hand, and a careful observer might have noted an unusual gleam of genuine interest in eyes as a rule carefully schooled not to show any emotion whatever. "Lucky!" he exclaimed. "Well, I should say you were! You're a sharp one to steal a march on us like this. Why, that's the best news I've heard in a long time."

Vanulm and Mott-Smith in turn added their congratulations to his, and then Gordon touched the bell.

"John," he cried gaily, as the waiter appeared in answer, "will you kindly bring us the oldest, biggest and best magnum of champagne you've got in your cellar? We want to celebrate a great event."

Palmer raised a protesting hand. "Oh, I say, Gordon!" he exclaimed, his face flushing as he spoke, "thank you just as much, but please don't bother. I'm not drinking now. You know I really can't touch the stuff. I—"

Gordon cut him short. "There, there," he said good-humoredly, "I refuse to listen to any such talk as that. On any ordinary occasion I'd say you were perfectly right, but this is the one time in a man's life when a drink is really the only proper thing. It would hardly be fair to the lady, otherwise, Harry."

The appeal to Palmer's pride was successful. "Well," he assented half-doubt fully, "if you really think so, Gordon—perhaps this once—but I'm going to cut the whole thing out, you know," and Gordon's point, as usual, was gained.

Then, while they waited for John's reappearance, a slightly embarrassed silence fell upon them. Mott-Smith was thinking half enviously of a girl he himself knew, and of the difference between his income and Palmer's. Gordon, too, was thinking, not at random, but quickly, daringly and to the point. Vanulm began mechanically to figure up the bridge scores. Then he laughed. "'Unlucky at cards, Harry,'" he quoted. "You're sixty-eight dollars to the bad, I'm out forty-five, and Mott-Smith's plus thirteen. Our friend Gordon must be deucedly unlucky in love, for he's robbed us of an even century."

Gordon laughed again. "Poor consolation," he said. "I think we'll all agree that Harry's the real winner to-night." And then, as John filled the glasses, he added: "Here's to you both, my boy, and may the Goddess of Fortune bring you all the luck you deserve."

The glasses clinked, and were drained dry. Almost at once a subtle change came over Palmer's face. "That's great stuff!" he cried. "You were right, Gordon. I believe you always are. It wouldn't do not to celebrate the occasion. Lots of time afterwards, you know, and all that sort of thing. John, John—" and he tapped at the bell impatiently until the waiter again appeared, "John, your first bottle's all right. Now you want to get us another just like it, and then another just like that, and then you want to stand by for further orders—stand by for first aid to the injured, I mean—what the devil do I mean, anyway?"

The others laughed, but Gordon's laugh was too hearty to ring true, and the way in which he bent forward and slapped Palmer on the back savored of deliberate acting. "You'll be the death of me yet, old man," he cried. "I swear you're the brightest fellow in the whole club. You don't realize what a sense of humor you've got."

And then, as Palmer, glowing with the joy of just appreciation, went on to be more and more humorous still, John appeared with the second bottle, and later with the third; later still, long after Vanulm and Mott-Smith had gone home, at Gordon's suggestion he brought the fourth and fifth, and about two o'clock in the morning, as the young millionaire's unruly legs balked at the long flight of stairs which led to the sleeping rooms on the floor above, it was as "first aid to the injured," after all, that he was finally called upon to serve.

CHAPTER II

[A LITTLE DINNER AT THE ALBEMARLE]

Lieutenant Osborne, commander of the new submarine, Anhinga, wiry, alert, bronzed, had proved to be the most entertaining of companions, and the little dinner in his honor had turned out to be an entire success.

Osborne leaned forward in his chair and meditatively relit his cigar. "So that," he concluded, "was the first and only time the engines really bothered us. It was close enough while it lasted, though. Still, we got by."

Young Carrington drew in his breath sharply. "Close enough," he echoed. "I should say it was. That's the only trouble with you pioneers, Lieutenant. You get so interested in what you're doing that you get reckless, and then you blaze ahead with some fool experiment, and the first thing you know something happens. Then they grapple your boat up, and lay you all decently away on dry land, where you belong, and some other chap has the benefit of your experience, and knows one thing more to avoid if he's anxious to keep his health. It's glorious, Lieutenant, but it's going ahead too fast. There's such a thing as being too brave."

Osborne smiled. "Oh, well, of course there's some risk," he acquiesced; "no one would deny that. But not nearly so much as you think. We're pretty well prepared for all emergencies now, and in the last analysis the interior of a submarine isn't the only dangerous place in the world. It sounds trite to say 'you never can tell,' but that's what danger and death amount to, after all."

Vanulm nodded assent. "You're right, Lieutenant," he said. "You see it and read of it every day. A man makes a trip through darkest Africa and comes home to be run over by a trolley car. We take a thousand risks by land and sea, far and wide, and then come to peace and safety, and break our leg going down the cellar stairs. 'You never can tell' hits it about right for most of us."

Osborne nodded. "I'm afraid I've monopolized the conversation too much already," he said, "but I'd like to tell you a queer illustration of this that we had at the yards a year or so ago. One of the construction men there was a Norwegian named Rolfson, a man with the most remarkable head for heights, barring none, that I think I've ever seen. He was celebrated even among his mates, and you can imagine what that means among men who are just as much at home walking about like flies on top of a girder sixty feet from the ground as we are seated here at this table this moment. Well, one day this fellow—not out of bravado, you understand; he wasn't that kind, but just because he took a notion to do it—after he got through a job he was doing on the mainmast of a big seven-master, deliberately climbed clean up to the main truck, somehow crawled on top of it, and stood there, one hundred and eighty-seven feet above the deck, waving his cap to the fellows below. How was that for absolute nerve?

"Well, the point I am coming to is this: Three or four months later this same man, working on a staging about thirty-five feet above the deck of a bark, sitting down, mind you, with a support on either side of him to hang on to, fell and broke his neck. We never knew just what the trouble really was. He might have looked down, I suppose, or might have been taken suddenly ill; possibly all at once he lost his nerve. That happens sometimes. We never knew. So, you see, you can't always tell what's risky and what isn't."

He stopped abruptly. There was a moment's silence, broken presently by Gordon. "Still," he said, "to a landsman like myself there's something uncanny about a submarine. What does a man think about just before he goes down for a twenty-four-hour plunge, Osborne? Does he get worried about death and eternity and the state of his soul, or does he simply wonder whether or not he's forgotten his tobacco?"

Osborne laughed. "Why, speaking for myself," he answered, "I'm generally too busy figuring on where we're bound in this world to wonder much, if anything should happen, where I'd be bound in the next. I suppose it all depends on a man's temperament, and even that doesn't always work out the way you'd think. I know the last time we went down there was one of the crew, a quiet, rather gloomy old chap, with no nerves at all, just the kind of man you need in our business, who turned out, very much as you might have supposed, to be a firm believer in predestination. Now, going down didn't worry that fellow a bit. In fact, I'd have liked it better if he had worried a little more, I like to see the men just as anxious as I am to know that everything's in first-class shape. But his ideas were that if we were going to be drowned, we were going to be drowned, and that was all there was to it. Now, on the other hand, we had another chap who was the most reckless man in the whole bunch, really a regular dare-devil, afraid of nothing afloat or ashore. This fellow, also, as you might have supposed, so far from believing in predestination, didn't believe in anything at all—an out-and-out atheist. Result was that out of regard for his precious life he was tremendously in earnest to see we'd taken every possible precaution before we went under. Rather a curious result, I thought, and something of a blow at practical religion if we should advertise, 'Picked men wanted to ship on submarine Anhinga. Atheists given preference over all others.'"

There was a general laugh. "Poor old Religion," said Carrington reflectively; "she's had to take some pretty hard knocks lately. What with enemies without and factions within, I sometimes wonder what the future of the Church is really going to be."

Doctor Norton, the host of the evening, nodded assent. "I suppose the trouble really is," he said, "that there's such an endless field for speculation in such matters, and people's minds work so very diversely anyway, that no one ever really quite agrees with any one else about anything. Hence the rows."

Carrington shook his head in dissent. "That's going it a little too strong, Doctor," he objected. "I imagine most of us think along about the same lines on religious matters these days, don't we?"

Norton smiled. "Well," he answered, "nothing easier than to test the question, right here and now. I should say the five of us make up a fairly representative crowd—a stock broker, a merchant, a naval officer, a journalist and a medical man. Now, if we'll all agree to give our honest ideas—our honest ideas, mind you, not hackneyed stuff we've been told or that we pretend to believe—on religion, or the probability of a hereafter, or however you choose to phrase it, a comparison of results might prove entertaining, although the subject, I'll grant, is a little shopworn and not nearly so interesting as what the lieutenant has been telling us about submarines. Is it a bargain?"

There was a ready chorus of assent, and Norton, after a moment's pause, continued: "I don't mind setting the example and confessing first. My creed at least has the merit of simplicity. I haven't the faintest shadow of a belief in any kind of a future life. I haven't had the good fortune to see any evidence of it, and I never expect to. There's one view. Now, Carrington, suppose you unbosom yourself."

Carrington pondered. "Why," he said at length, "I suppose I might be described as a hopeful agnostic. Lots of hope, but no belief. I guess that covers it pretty well."

Norton nodded. "Well, we're not so very far apart," he said more gravely. "I suppose practically every man likes to indulge his hopes at times. Certainly, when I think of my wife and children, I like to try to convince myself against my reason and my judgment. That spark is born in us somehow, and of course furnishes a somewhat fanciful argument, if it's worthy of being called that, to our good friends in the pulpit. I'll concede that much to Carrington's view; I like to hope, but that's all it amounts to. Vanulm, enlighten us."

The brewer shook his head. "Not I," he said promptly; "I don't commit myself one way or the other. In fact, I never could see what difference the whole discussion really made. From one point of view, you argue why there should be a future life. From the other, you argue why there shouldn't. Nobody knows, and you can argue indefinitely. Nobody knows the answer, and there you are. Personally, I'm too busy to waste my time that way, even if I were inclined to, which I'm not."

Norton smiled good-naturedly at Carrington. "I believe I'm going to prove my point, after all," he said. "Lieutenant, let's hear from you."

Osborne flicked the ash from his cigar. "Well," he answered slowly, "you chaps have got me a little out of my depth, I'm afraid, but I was brought up to believe in God, and I guess it's the best way, on the whole. It's the most comfortable, anyway, and saves a nervous fellow a lot of worrying. Yes, I think I'm willing to go on record as a believer in a future state."

Norton laughed aloud. "Good for you, Lieutenant!" he cried. "You've raised the average, anyway. I'm afraid we're a pretty godless crowd here. Now, Gordon, it's up to you to complete the thing. Are you with the wicked majority or the select minority?"

Gordon gave no sign of hesitation, "Why," he cried quickly, "I confess I'm amazed at you fellows. I wouldn't believe you now, if you hadn't said beforehand that you were in earnest. I've always believed that if you throw over religion you're throwing over everything that makes for right and decency and the general welfare. Put me on record with the lieutenant, by all means, and we'll form what you call the respectable minority. You other chaps are a lot of rank atheists. I'm ashamed of you."

Norton clapped his hands softly. "Good! Good!" he cried. "I don't mean your ideas, Gordon, but that you've helped prove my point to perfection. I said that no two people would think exactly alike, and look at the result here. One atheist, one agnostic, one man too lazy not to believe, one too lazy—he claims too busy—to believe either way, and one noble example who goes the limit and believes everything, including, I suppose, that the devil has horns and a tail, and that the whale swallowed Jonah. Isn't that proof positive of my claim? Almost every known variety of belief and disbelief, I should say."

Gordon promptly demurred. "No, not quite all," he said quietly. "I ran across a queer case the other day, if you fellows care to hear about it."

A chorus of assent greeted him, and he began slowly. "It was really rather a queer case, as I just said. I dare say the man isn't quite right mentally. A screw loose somewhere, I should judge. At all events, he's worked out the theory that everything on earth is nothing but a gamble, and that Life—and Death—and Immortality—are merely the biggest gambles of all. His reasoning—he talked to me a whole evening about it, but I'll try to give it to you in brief, and as near as I can in his own words—is this: Every man, if he knew for a certainty that there wasn't any God, would do exactly as he wished; that is, he'd live a pretty free sort of a life, behave about as he pleased, and in general have a mighty good time. On the other hand, if he knew there was a God, he'd probably live as straight as he could for the pleasure of enjoying eternal bliss, and all that sort of thing, afterwards, and keeping clear of the sulphur and brimstone. So there's your gamble, and it's really a very pretty one. Proceed on the assumption that there is a God, and get along without any fun here, in the hope of making up for it later when you get your harp and crown; or else choose the other end of it, go the pace, and when you die, if you've guessed right and there isn't any Heaven, you're away ahead of the poor devils who've played close to their chests here. On the other hand, if you've been unlucky enough to hit it wrong, you're down and out and bound straight for hell and eternal damnation."

He stopped abruptly amid an attentive silence. Then, as no comment seemed to be forthcoming, he continued even more slowly. "To me, I confess the man's way of putting the thing was undeniably interesting. What I didn't grasp at first was how far the proposition carried you logically. You fellows who profess not to believe in anything don't really act out your disbelief, because somehow in the very bottom of your hearts you feel that there may be a hereafter, and you don't want to take any chances. That is, not to put it too disagreeably, this fellow would consider you, in the slang of the track, a lot of cheap pikers. But suppose you have the courage to follow out his ideas to the limit, and choose one way or the other. You can't kick. Your chance is even, and if you're willing to put up all you've got that there isn't a God, your life becomes nothing but pleasure. Just think of it. You're no longer bothered by any moral law; you're free to indulge your passions and your appetites as you please. You can get drunk every day, if that's your idea of enjoyment, or you can steal your friend's money, or his wife, or both, provided you don't get found out. What odds? In place of the groveling worm the preachers make you out to be, you're Kipling's 'gentleman unafraid,' taking a gentlemanly gamble with a mythical creator. It's a bold conception of life; there's no denying it. The man certainly interested me."

He broke off abruptly. Doctor Norton was the first to speak. "It is interesting!" he exclaimed. "I call it a first-class sporting proposition, and he's dead right on one point. We don't any of us, when you come right down to it, try to be good or to do good just for the love of it; it's really only selfish prudence, sort of a credit account against a rainy day. But on his main proposition I should say your friend must have something wrong with his upper story. A man's good from reasons of prudence, or he's bad because he's got what we call criminal instincts, but no man in his senses would sit down and reason the thing out as this fellow has."

"Why not, Doctor?" demanded Carrington quickly. "It's all logical enough, as Gordon says, if you've only got the nerve. But most of us haven't. It isn't pleasant to think of your finish if you chose the sporting end of the thing and then there turned out to be a God after all. I claim there's something magnificent about it, though. Is he going to live out his theories, Gordon?"

Gordon shook his head. "I confess I don't know," he answered; "he's a queer chap, and I didn't like to ask him point blank whether he was in earnest or not. Personally, though, I believe he was, and that sooner or later he'll choose what you call the sporting end."

Gradually the conversation swung back to less serious channels, and in another half hour the little party broke up.

Leisurely enough Gordon strolled along on his homeward way. It was a perfect summer night, the park lying bathed in the mellow light of the full moon riding high in the peaceful heavens. Perhaps it was but the effect of the moonlight, but his face seemed to wear an expression very different from that of the man who had declared his faith so boldly an hour before.

"The old, old riddle," he muttered to himself; "worthless, and yet worth so much." And, after a pause, he added meditatively: "The sporting end."

CHAPTER III

[THE FLATFOOT]

South of the park, sloping away towards the east, lies the residential section of the city, highly respectable and always in its conduct a model of propriety. Across the park, to the north, lies the shopping district; and adjoining it, to the westward, is the great business section, with the Stock Exchange, the Markets, the Chamber of Commerce, and the Government Building. Turning north again, we come to the bay itself, dotted with steamers and sailing craft, and edged about with huge piers, where the great ocean liners dock, and busy wharves, the goal of the hardy fishermen, as they come driving home across the foam, lee rails awash, deep laden with their spoils hard won from the open sea.

So far, indeed, one may journey with naught save admiration and respect for civic pride; but farther to the northeast, across the bay, there lies a region of a far more doubtful sort. Here, dark and dreary and sinister, begins that inevitable portion of a great city, at the mention of which women are wont to raise their eyebrows, and men—of a certain stamp—to shrug their shoulders and smile meaningly. Here is the abiding place of those who for many varying reasons prefer to live in a district unhampered by the authorities; a place where each is a law unto himself alone; where the red blood pulses more swiftly through the veins, and where the primal passions of men and women hold freer sway.

To this wilderness in the otherwise well-ordered city, from time to time wander men of birth and breeding from the opposite end of town. Some of them come from real love of vice, due perchance to some inherited taint, perchance to some flaw or weakness in themselves. Others, for the most part younger men, fresh from school or college, come with a vague idea that they are thus seeing life, and earning for themselves the right to be classed as men of the world. A few, indeed, come out of mere curiosity, mere slummers, pleased and risen in their own estimation to find others so much wickeder and more miserably off than themselves.

The great majority, however, desirous of standing well in their own circle, deem it wise to let the district severely alone, for in the faintly Puritanical atmosphere south of the park to have it known that one has even been seen north of Fulton Street means always a possibility of ill-natured gossip and even of unpleasant scandal.

Therefore, on the night after the dinner at the Albemarle, if any one of Gordon's friends had chanced to follow him as he crossed the park, they would have had good cause for surprise, for, instead of following the avenue, or turning sharp to the west, he kept straight on northward, past the cove, past Fulton Street, almost to the bridge, and then, with one quick glance behind him, swung around to the east in a wide half-circle, finally turning up a little, narrow, unfrequented side street at the very limits of the city, beyond which the broad salt marshes stretched away until their outline was lost as they merged with the flats that bordered the broad tide-river flowing peacefully onward towards the sea.

A good place, one would have said, for carrying on some business not quite within the pale of the law, and so Jim Bradfield evidently thought when he chose the spot for the establishment of his gambling-house. Not that at the present time there was any great danger of a raid, the city, following one of its periodic "citizens' movements," with its accompanying spasm of virtue, having suffered a violent relapse, and fallen again into the hands of the spoilers, who, with a praiseworthy desire to make up for much valuable lost time, had issued orders near and far that everything was to be run "wide open."

Bradfield, however, shrewd and far-sighted, had never been over-anxious for that down-town notoriety which was sure to result in a flourishing business during the reign of some particular "boss" or "machine," and then, when the forces of reform again had their little day, was equally sure to mean a quick decision between an immediate change of climate or an involuntary visit to the handsome new prison across the bay. Rather, he desired to keep his trade quiet, safe, and, above all, sure, realizing the manifest advantages of a business which needed for stock-in-trade only his modest house, a good supply of liquor, a complete gambling outfit, and last, but not least, the patronage of a score or so of the city's beautiful and accommodating lights-o'-love. His creed was equally simple, philosophical and sound. Often, indeed, he was wont to observe: "Most trades run too much to seasons and fashions, but I figure mine pretty sure. Year in and year out men are going to gamble, they're going to drink rum, and they're going to run after the girls, and if I'm willing to take a chance on combining the three of 'em, and giving every sport a run for his money, why, where's the kick coming?"

The readiness with which Gordon ran up the steps and pressed the bell seemed to show that he was no stranger to his surroundings. A short, broad-shouldered, burly man, built ideally on the lines of a rough and tumble fighter, stepped to the iron grating in the thick oak door, peered sullenly out for a moment, and then released a spring, allowing the ponderous door to swing slowly back. Rather a needless amount of precaution, perhaps, in times of peace and ample police protection, but Bradfield, as we have seen, was a believer in system, and took no chances. Hence his enviable record for immunity from raiding parties, and his steadily accumulating balance at the bank.

With a nod to the guard, Gordon mounted the stairs, turned sharp to the right, and entered the café. It was still early in the night, and not more than a dozen or so of the little round tables were occupied. The men, as a rule, were sleek, well-fed, prosperous in appearance, with a tendency towards flashiness in their general get-up; the women were of the type to be expected in such a place, or rather, perhaps, on the whole, somewhat above it. All were young and well-dressed, many were pretty, and in some cases it needed a keener second glance to detect that inevitable hardness of expression and that trace of artificiality in their somewhat too obvious high spirits which mark the world over the calling of the lower-class courtezan.

Over in the corner by the window, however, half hidden in the shelter of a huge palm, sat a young girl of a type entirely different from the rest. Seated alone, the chair opposite her tipped forward against the table as a sign that she was not anxious for company, she sat with elbows on table, chin in hands, gazing with a look of bored indifference at the evidently only too familiar scene. Slender, blonde, possibly a shade too pale, her dress of filmy black lace, her dainty black gloves, her big black picture hat with its sweeping black ostrich plume, all showed an instinctive sense of good taste conspicuously absent in the costumes of her companions. So much for the first general impression. Coming to the girl herself, on closer examination one discovered with some surprise that she was undeniably beautiful. Her features were flawless, her pretty light hair was tastefully arranged over her low forehead, her blue eyes flashed a dangerous gleam from beneath her long lashes, and her red lips seemed framed in a perpetual challenge to the daring of mankind. More than this, one could not rid oneself of the impression that the girl's face, in spite of everything, was somehow a good face; the face of one who, if sinning, did so all but unconscious of the sin.

As Gordon entered, she leisurely assumed a more conventional pose, while he, with a quick glance in her direction, threaded his way across the room, and with a word of greeting dropped into the vacant seat.

It was evident from the whole manner of both that the meeting was no mere casual one, but that it had been planned for some definite purpose. Any doubt of this, indeed, was dispelled by Gordon's first words.

"Well," he queried, leaning forward across the table and lowering his voice a trifle, "did you get what we wanted?"

The girl, with evident complacence, slowly nodded. "I have found out," she said, "the whole story. He may be a very shrewd man in some ways, but in others he is—well, let us say vulnerable."

Gordon drew a deep breath of relief. "Good," he cried softly; "I didn't believe you could do it, Rose; and if you'd failed, we might just as well have given up the whole thing. It seemed like an awfully long chance, too. I don't see now how you pulled it off."

The girl made a little grimace. "It was not pleasant," she said. "Incidentally, the man is hopelessly vulgar and brutal. On the whole, I hope the information is worth all you think it is. The entire experience was a disagreeable one. In fact, it was disgusting."

Gordon seemed scarcely to heed what she was saying. "Yes," he said absently, "I imagine so," and then sat silent, lost in thought, unheeding the laughter, somewhat over loud, as new arrivals constantly added themselves to the noisy throng; not seeming to hear the hum of voices, now loud, now ceasing altogether, from the gaming room adjoining the café, whither the evening's play was now beginning to draw the crowd; undisturbed even by the young college boy who sat at the piano, dashing off ragtime with a brilliant touch. At length he looked up.

"Well, you've got us our start, anyway," he said; "that's sure. Without that, we were nowhere. Now, to get down to the details. I suppose he only talked generalities, or did he happen to let slip anything definite about prices?"

The girl smiled as she drew a tiny piece of paper from the palm of her glove and slowly unfolded it. "Not less than twenty-five cents," she read, and then paused. "I wrote it all out afterwards," she explained, "although I could have remembered it perfectly well. I knew you wanted it exact."

Gordon nodded impatiently. "Of course, of course," he said. "Never mind that. Go ahead with the figures. That's what I want now."

"Oh, very well," said the girl, somewhat piqued; "where was I? Oh, yes. Not less than twenty-five cents, and very likely twenty-six or higher. Some well-informed men even talk of thirty. The price will hold for two years, at least, and very likely for three. In fact, it is very doubtful if it ever goes below twenty cents again. Finally, there has been an agreement, not for publication, of course, between the Consolidated, the Octagon and Michigan, and the Wood-Kennedy interests. So, if a poor, friendless girl wanted a chance to make a few dollars in 'coppers,' why, it's possible that things might go off sharply the last two weeks in October on rumors of over-production and a hidden supply of the metal, and that's the time she might buy a few shares of some good producing mine, because about the first of November these rumors might be flatly contradicted, and there might begin the biggest bull market in 'coppers' the country has ever seen. There, does that suit you?"

Gordon's face betrayed no sign of emotion, but the smoldering gleam of excitement in his half-closed eyes had grown steadily as the girl read on, until, as she ended, he could scarcely repress an exclamation of mingled pleasure and astonishment.

"Rose," he cried, "you must be an enchantress to have got that out of him. We've got practically every card in the pack now. Why, good heavens, girl, the thing's a cinch. Properly played, what you've just told me means a fortune for us both."

The girl glanced at him shrewdly. "But for us to get it properly played," she said; "I take it that's where the rub comes."

Gordon nodded. "It comes right down to this," he answered; "in two months from now, at the latest, we've got to have at least a hundred thousand dollars. After that, everything's plain sailing. But getting the hundred thousand; there, as you say, is just where the rub comes."

"I suppose," queried the girl, "that between us we haven't the tenth part of that?"

Gordon shook his head. "We might have had it, and more too," he said, "if I'd only known a year ago what I know to-day; but I didn't, and instead of making a fortune, I came within an ace of bankruptcy instead. Well, there's no use in post mortems. We've got to get that money somehow. You remember the scheme I spoke of?"

The girl lowered her voice as she bent towards him. "Oh, Dick, not that," she murmured.

Gordon raised his eyebrows the veriest trifle. "I don't see why not," he rejoined. "I've been busy looking it up, and as far as I can see it looks first-rate. He's just the same as he ever was, and between the two, as I told you, we're sure to land him. Of course, what he'll do afterwards no one can tell, but I think we can count on his doing what's right, safe enough."

The girl wrinkled her pretty forehead. "I can't make myself like it, Dick," she answered. "It seems like taking so many chances. If there were just the two of us, I wouldn't mind so much, but right at the start we've got to get some one else—some older woman—and there's a risk right away. I can't think of any one I'd trust."

Gordon considered. "There must be some one," he said at last. "How about that Wilson woman?"

The girl shook her head. "Too stupid," she objected promptly.

"Wouldn't Helen Russell do it?"

"Not old enough. She isn't more than five years older than I am, and we'd have to go light on anything like make-up. There are risks enough anyway without adding one."

"Well," cried Gordon impatiently, "there must be some woman that can do it and will do it. You must be able to think of some one."

The girl reflected. "There's Annie Holton's mother," she said, half doubtfully, at last. "I think she'd do, but I don't like the risk of getting mixed up with Annie. She'd like nothing better than a chance to do me a bad turn, as you know, Dick."

Gordon frowned. Annie Holton's infatuation for him was such matter of common knowledge about Bradfield's that there was no use in making light of it, and the girl's rabid jealousy of Rose Ashton had been the occasion of many a prophecy as to what might happen some day if the occasion should serve.

"I don't know why that should make any difference," he said at last. "Mrs. Holton's a very clever woman, and she'd look the part remarkably well. Besides, getting at her doesn't mean telling Annie, especially as I don't believe from what I hear that there's much love lost between them nowadays. If it comes to that, it would be easy enough to get Annie away somewhere for a week. That's only a matter of detail, anyway. You'll find we can get some one. But the point is that we've got to try the scheme, whether you like it or not. I can't borrow what we want. Money's been tight as the devil for six months now, and I think I begin to see why. No, this looks to be the only chance, and I forgot to tell you one thing more that makes it a little better; I've just found out that he's engaged to be married."

The girl looked doubtful. "I don't know whether that makes it better or worse," she said at last. "Of course it makes a difference in one way. It would help a lot—afterwards; but—it might spoil the first part altogether."

Gordon laughed cynically. "You don't know Harry as well as I do," he quoted. "Getting engaged doesn't make a man grow wings all at once, especially a man that's led the life he has. Think of the inducement, too. No, I'll risk the first part for a certainty, and I guess the second is about as good, too."

Both were silent for a time. The noise from the adjoining room grew louder. Every table in the café was filled. The piano tinkled unceasingly. Still they sat unheeding. Finally the girl leaned forward, speaking with deliberation.

"Dick," she said, "I'll grant that it isn't impossible. We might pull it off all right, and the whole scheme really does you credit. But you've got to own up to the risk. It's one of those things where every move has got to come off just as we've planned it, and just on time. If any one of a dozen possible things happens, we're done. In a word, it's something we really ought not to try except as a very last resort."

Gordon nodded a trifle impatiently. "That's it, exactly," he acquiesced. "We don't differ a particle about it. But at the present moment I can't for the life of me see what other chance we've got. I'm afraid it isn't a matter of choice at all."

The girl hesitated a moment; then asked, apparently irrelevantly, "Have you any money with you, Dick?"

Gordon nodded again. "Bridge winnings," he said laconically. "About three hundred, I think."

"Three hundred," repeated the girl. "That would be enough. The wheel here is run straight, isn't it?"

Gordon glanced at her keenly. "Absolutely," he answered. "But I hope you're not planning to raise our hundred thousand that way, because I'm afraid it might take a long time."

He spoke in a tone of mild amusement. The girl smiled faintly. "No," she answered, "hardly that. I've seen and heard enough of 'systems' to know they're all impossible. But sheer, blind chance is always open to every one, and I'd like one try just to satisfy myself before we try your scheme. Let's chart the wheel thirty-eight times, then pick one of the numbers that hasn't come, and play it flatfoot three times running. If we lose, three hundred won't kill us, and if we win, you know what you told me about your friend McMurtrie and his black colt."

Gordon laughed, then shrugged his shoulders. "If you call my scheme a wild one," he said good-naturedly, "I wouldn't dare say what I think of yours. Still, it's possible. Everything's possible, for that matter, and, as you say, a few hundred won't be fatal. On the other hand, if we should win, I'll say frankly that I take considerable stock in old McMurtrie. He's crazy over racing, and knows the whole game, too, from A to Z. He'd never have told me what he did about his long shot if I hadn't made twenty thousand for him in two days shorting steel common. His gratitude for that took the somewhat doubtful form of this tip of his. I can't even remember the colt's name now, but I could find out to-night, I suppose—if we have any occasion to."

The girl rose. "Come on, then," she cried. "Fate's going to be kind to us, Dick. I feel it. We're going to win."

The man gazed at her curiously. "Fate, instinct," he muttered to himself, as he rose. "I wish I could feel sure—"

He broke off sharply, and together they left the café.

In the gaming room they found a good sized crowd around the roulette table, and a smaller group gathered at the faro lay-out farther down the room. Gordon bought the little stack of yellow chips, handed them to the girl, and stood beside her, pencil and note-book in hand, jotting down the swiftly recurring numbers as the croupier called them in his even, expressionless tones.

A half hour passed. Once the croupier, glancing at Gordon and noticing his occupation, smiled very faintly. There was no law or rule against the use of paper and pencil at Bradfield's; rather inventors of charts and systems were gladly made welcome. Their money, as Bradfield had once with some dryness observed, was just as good as anybody else's.

At last Gordon turned quickly to the girl. "They haven't run very even," he said hurriedly. "Here's your choice. These numbers here."

The girl glanced hastily at the ten numbers out of the thirty-eight left blank, and instantly made her decision. "Thirty-five, Dick," she whispered, and as she spoke she placed five of the counters on the chosen square. Momentarily heads were turned in her direction, and then the wheel was started once again. Bradfield's croupier wasted no time. "Do them now," might have been his motto. Even as Gordon leaned forward to get a better view, the ball stopped abruptly. "Seven," called the croupier, and Gordon smiled ironically at the folly of the whole proceeding. Once more the girl placed her bet on the thirty-five, once more the ball revolved, slackened its speed as the wheel spun more slowly, and stopped—in the single zero. Gordon turned to his companion with a laugh. "How about your presentiment?" he queried.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, we've a chance still," she answered, "and I rather think this is the time we win."

Down went the last five chips on the thirty-five. "Bets are closed," cried the croupier, and the little ball spun merrily away again on its accustomed journey. Gordon's eyes were fixed eagerly upon its progress—now slower and slower spun the wheel, more and more gently the little ball moderated its pace, hesitated, paused on the lip of nineteen, hung there, balanced, and then, as if with the faintest possible remaining effort, rolled on, and dropped—

"Thirty-five," called the croupier sharply. "Red wins—," and the rest was lost in the quick buzz of excitement, for at Bradfield's hundred dollar flatfoots were rare. The croupier leaned forward across the table. Thirty-five hundred was quite a sum to lose, but he knew that it would make talk, help trade, and doubtless eventually come back. So he even smiled deferentially. "I think I'll have to send for Mr. Bradfield on this," he said. "We're not prepared for quite such heavy plays, as a general thing. Will you have bills or a check?"

"A check, please," said Gordon half mechanically. "We'll be in the next room."

It was not until they were again seated at their table in the window that he was able to make the whole occurrence seem a reality. The girl was laughing half hysterically, the bright color in her cheeks making her prettier than ever. Gordon gazed at her in admiration.

"Well, Rose," he cried, "I'm not so smart as I thought I was. I guess the laugh's on me, or on Bradfield, I don't know which. Now for McMurtrie. I know just where I can locate him this very minute."

The girl bent across the table, her eyes bright, her whole attitude expectant, alluring. "To-night?" she murmured. "But I thought to-night—"

Gordon met her glance squarely, his eyes ablaze with passion. He leaned forward in turn until his hand touched hers. "In just one hour," he cried. "And an hour—can seem like a thousand years."

CHAPTER IV

[THE ESSEX HANDICAP]

Handicap Day, and true Handicap weather. A warm sun shining from a cloudless sky, a light cool breeze blowing from the west, a track in perfect condition—what more could the heart of horseman desire on the greatest day of the horseman's year?

As early as twelve o'clock the long procession began to wind its leisurely way toward the track. By automobile, by coach and carriage, by steam yacht and railroad train and electric car, even by bicycle and on foot the crowds surged and flocked and fought their way, until by two o'clock thirty thousand people crowded grandstand and betting ring and paddock, keen, alert, active, on tiptoe with eagerness to see the Essex run.

High up in the grandstand Major McMurtrie, a trifle flushed, more than a trifle excited, eloquent in the extreme, seated himself beside Rose Ashton and Gordon, and with a wealth of gesture fought and refought for their benefit the bygone Handicaps of twenty years.

"The race of the year, my dear boy, the race of the year," he repeated for perhaps the fiftieth time. "No race like it, sir, for the true lover of the racehorse, and a more perfect day for it, sir, I have never seen."

Rose, looking up from her race-card, nodded assent. "Forty thousand dollars to the winner," she said thoughtfully. "It's a tremendous sum, isn't it?"

The Major shook his head vigorously. "No, no, my dear young lady, you mistake me," he cried. "It isn't the money value of the race that makes it. Forty thousand is a snug little sum, of course, but the Metropole is worth fifty, and the Belleview upwards of seventy. But it's the public sentiment, not the cash, that makes this race what it is. The Essex isn't any six furlong scramble for two-year-olds; it's a mile and a quarter for three-year-olds and upwards. It's none of your get-away sprints; it's a horse-race, from start to finish. And more than all that, it's our oldest stake race, with its records for thirty years filled with stories of courage and speed and daring and skill; it's part and parcel of the turf history of the country. Yes, by gad, sir—I beg your pardon, Miss Ashton, I do, indeed—the Essex Handicap's a part of American history itself."

Gordon, himself no mean authority on the history of the track, nodded affirmatively. "True, every word of it, Major," he cried. "Why, away back in '78—"

The Major fairly caught the words from the younger man's lips. "'78!" he exclaimed. "Yes, sir, Kingstreet's year. The greatest sire this country has ever known. I saw him win, sir, by three lengths, in 2:07½. Think of it, sir, for those days: 2:07½! Eleven years that record stood the test, until Contender's year. Ah! Miss Ashton, he was a race-horse. Gentle and kind and true. Home he came that year—'89, wasn't it? Yes, '89—home he came, simply romping in, fighting for his head, and the time 2:06 flat. Ah, there was a race-horse for you. And all the others, too. '96, Gordon, you can remember that; that finish between True Blue and the Florentine. Forty races the mare had to her credit, and, by gad, sir, that was the greatest of them all. A slow first half, and then how they fought it out to the wire. Won by a short head, and she came within a quarter second of the record at that. She went lame afterwards, poor thing, and never faced the flag again. A game, true little mare was the Florentine."

He paused reflectively, and Gordon, seeing the girl's evident interest, again touched the tinder to the flame. "Two years ago, Major," he began.

It was enough. The old man, in his eagerness, half started from his seat. "Yes, yes," he cried, "Custodian! Gordon, that horse, when he was right, was the king of the track." Then, turning to Rose, "Custodian was his name, Miss Ashton, a four-year-old then, black as the ace of spades, and ugly as the devil himself. He had his set days for running and his days for sulking, and nobody but himself could ever pick the days. If it was one of his off days, he'd be last in a field of selling platers; if he made up his mind to run, he was a whirlwind, a thunderbolt, whatever you want to call it, something more than human, anyway. The day of the Essex he started badly, four lengths behind his field, sulked to the quarter, and everybody who'd backed him was properly resigned to walking home, when all of a sudden he took it into his crazy head that he'd mistaken the day, after all. Run! Nobody ever saw such a mile before or since. He nipped Disdain and old Yarboro' a furlong from home, never let up at all, and came under the wire, as if he were just starting to run away, in 2:03¾! The point has never been settled to my knowledge, but it is my solemn belief"—he lowered his voice confidentially—"that if that horse had ever been driven to it, really hard pressed, you understand, he could have made the distance in two minutes flat. Well, I must get down to the paddock. Good-by, Miss Ashton; good-by, Gordon; look for my black to come under the wire in the lead."

He left them, and Rose, half bewildered, turned to Gordon. "It's a world by itself, isn't it, Dick?" she said. "I never thought men followed it that way. It's all Greek to me, I'm afraid."

Gordon laughed. "The Major's certainly an enthusiast," he answered, "but it isn't so mysterious, after all." He held his race-card that she might see, checking with his pencil as he talked. "There, here's the description of the race, and the money value, and all that. Here are the entries down here. The Cynic's the favorite. He's a four-year-old who's had a great record this season; very speedy and one of the most consistent horses in training; he's quoted at 3 to 1 against. Here's Rebellious, one of the best of the three-year-olds, 5 to 1 against. He's a good one, too, but I believe they think a mile and a quarter's a bit too far for him. Old Yarboro' here's campaigning for his fifth season, and pretty near as good as ever, too. He's third favorite, 8 to 1 against. These two here are a couple of 100 to 1 shots. Here's our friend Highlander, 30 to 1 against, and here's—" he broke off suddenly; then, after a moment, added in a very different tone, "Well, of all the remarkable coincidences—"

"What's the matter?" asked the girl quickly, struck by the unusual surprise in his manner.

For answer Gordon passed her the race-card, his pencil under the name of the last starter in the race.

"Palmer's got a horse entered," he said, still in amazement. "I remember now his saying something a while back about starting a string."

The girl glanced at the card. Sure enough, the last entry was Henry D. Palmer's bay mare, Lady May, carrying one hundred and seventeen pounds.

"Well, that is unexpected!" she exclaimed. "Named for his fiancée, too, I suppose. Wouldn't it be strange if she should win?"

She seemed scarcely to realize the import of her words. Gordon nodded grimly. "Very strange, indeed," he assented dryly. "I rather think on the whole it would be better for our friend Palmer if she didn't."

The girl gave a little cry.

"Why, I never thought of that," she exclaimed. "If Lady May should win—oh, but she won't Dick, will she? She can't beat Highlander."

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "The Major doesn't think so," he answered; "but I suppose Palmer's trainer thinks no one can beat Lady May, and The Cynic's owner is sure he's the only horse in the race, and even the rank outsiders have somebody here who honestly believes they're going to win, even at 100 to 1. That's what makes racing. A fool born every minute, they say, or they couldn't keep it going."

The girl shivered. "Oh, Dick, don't frighten me," she cried. "If only the Major is right. Did you get the money all on, finally?"

Gordon nodded. "Three thousand, at 30 to 1," he answered. "I suppose McMurtrie's done considerably better. I understand he began to back the colt way back in the winter books. If he did, he's probably averaged as well as 40 to 1. If the colt's half what he thinks, I should say 10 to 1 would be nearer right. We'll know all about it in another ten minutes, anyway."

Even as he spoke, an expectant thrill seemed suddenly to run through the crowd. All eyes turned in the direction of the paddock. A big, red-faced man seated next to Gordon half started to his feet. "There they come!" he cried.

And then, walking up from the paddock in the dignified, time-honored procession before the race, the nine horses filed slowly by the grandstand on their way towards the start. The Cynic, a bright bay, third in the line, his jockey gorgeous in the blue and gold of the Highcliff stables, walked somewhat soberly along, but the glance from his big, kind eyes seemed to say, "I don't show off beforehand like some of these youngsters, but when the flag drops, then watch out." Even more sedate was old Yarboro', the veteran of a hundred races, to all appearance as fit as ever, but looking as if he considered he had fairly earned the right to an honorable discharge from active racing and a peaceful retirement to the big green pastures of some quiet farm. Farther back in the line Lady May, sporting the red and white of Palmer's stable, was doing her utmost to pull her jockey's arms off, and her dainty hoofs seemed scarcely to touch the track as she pranced and curvetted by the grandstand.

Gordon gazed at the mare in admiration. "She looks awfully fit," he muttered. "Good enough to take a lot of beating."

The girl, not hearing, laid her hand on his sleeve. "Oh, Dick," she cried softly, "look at Highlander. Isn't he the darling!"

The black colt, bringing up the rear of the procession, was undeniably a beauty. His glossy coat shone like satin in the soft sunshine, and he looked to be in the very top-notch of condition, lean and hard and wiry, and yet not overfine, but as if he had plenty of speed and strength in reserve. On his back was Bowman, the colored boy, known the country over as the "Kentucky Midget," McMurtrie's first string jockey, resplendent in the gorgeous crimson jacket that made the Major's entry by far the easiest to distinguish of the field.

Back to the barrier, a quarter of a mile away, walked the horses; then came that trying, nerve-racking five minutes of jockeying for position, cautioning of riders by the judges, fretting of the high strung horses, and then, just as it seemed as if the strain were growing unendurable, all at once the barrier leaped upward, the red flag flashed, and the great crowd gave vent to its pent-up feelings in one mighty roar as the nine thoroughbreds leaped forward through the faint haze of dust to a well-nigh perfect start.

Then fell silence, far more eloquent than any mere din of voices could have been, as thirty thousand pairs of eyes were strained to watch the flying racers as they tore down the track. Past the stand they came, Firefly, a rank outsider, running wild a length or two in the lead, then The Cynic, Rebellious and Lady May, bunched close, then Yarboro', a length and a half back, with Highlander at his girth, and the others already tailing, for Firefly had carried the field along at a tremendous clip, the watches catching twenty-four and three-fourths as she flew past the quarter.

Too fast, indeed, for the light-weighted filly, and at the half she had fallen back, leaving The Cynic and Rebellious in the lead, Lady May dropping back a half length and Yarboro' and Highlander moving up almost on even terms with the mare. Forty-nine seconds for the half, and still the five ran true and strong, with no change in the long, steady, machinelike strides. Past the five furlongs, past the three-quarters, and then, as if riding to orders, the jockey on Rebellious for the first time raised his arm and brought it down once, twice and again. Nor had he to wait for his answer; with a mighty bound the game colt shot forward, and in a trice a clear length of daylight showed between him and The Cynic.

A cry burst from the crowd. "Rebellious wins! They'll never head him! The favorite's beat!" The big, red-faced man snarled like a wild beast. "The fools," he muttered savagely. "A half mile more to go. They've spoiled his chance now."

Gordon nodded in mute assent, but for the next furlong it looked as though the crowd was right. Away and away drew the colt, crazed with the joy of feeling the choking pull released from his tender mouth; two lengths, three, four, and then—still he strove, still he seemed to run as fast and free as ever—but the four lengths remained four, and rounding the turn, just before coming into the straight, the colt, suddenly tiring, was thrown for a moment from his stride, and when he swung into the stretch, The Cynic's head was at his shoulder and it was a fresh horse against a beaten one.

And then, as the field squared away for home, old Yarboro' made his challenge for the lead. Out from the ruck he came, past Rebellious, past The Cynic, the long gray head just for a moment showing clear in the lead, and then, with a rush, fresh and strong, The Cynic again shot by, and the old hero of a hundred races, game to the core, disputing desperately every inch of the way, fell slowly back, beaten by a younger but not by a better horse, the old, remorseless, inevitable story of youth and age.

Long afterwards some horsemen dubbed the Essex of the year "The race of surprises," and surely it merited the title. For now the chestnut colt showed clear in the lead, only a furlong from home, and the sight had brought the multitude to its feet, wild with delight, already shouting itself hoarse in anticipation of the favorite's win. And now the mighty roar for just an instant died away, only to burst forth again in redoubled volume as a gleam of crimson and black flashed like lightning, and McMurtrie's colt, the pride of all Kentucky, shot forward like a thunderbolt and challenged the leader in his turn. And this time it was not old Yarboro' who was to be shaken off. This time it was youth against youth, strength and speed and spirit the same, the same brave blood of racing sires surging and pulsing in their veins, the same fleet limbs and mighty hearts opposed, and now it was the black, and now the chestnut, that seemed to gain.

Gordon sat motionless, his face showing no sign of emotion, but his race-card was torn in his hands, and his nails were gripped deep into the flesh. The girl, her lips parted, her breath coming in little gasps, oblivious of everything else, sat with eyes riveted on the flying Highlander, Bowman's crimson jacket gleaming, as the little jockey, riding far forward, brought into play the last ounce of skill and cunning for which he was famous as, nearing the wire at every stride, he lifted his willing mount along. Only a hundred and fifty yards to go, but half a lifetime seemed crowded into those few brief moments. Now, both jockeys crouched low over their horses' withers, at last gone to the whip and riding like demons, the two thoroughbreds came tearing down the stretch, locked stride for stride, Highlander not only holding his own, but gaining inch by inch, the crimson showing clear ahead of the blue and gold, and the win only a hundred yards away; and then—suddenly, hugging the outside rail, a flash of red and white caught the crowd, and Palmer's mare, nostrils distended, eyeballs bloodshot, glaring, with a mad burst of speed, bore down on the struggling leaders, caught them twenty yards from the finish, and flashed under the wire a scant head to the good, queen of the turf, and winner of the fastest Essex ever run.

CHAPTER V

[THE TRAP IS BAITED]

The dilapidated little engine, with its train of two battered cars, puffed despondently away around the curve, and disappeared in the forest, leaving Rose and Gordon standing alone, the sole occupants of the small station platform.

Everything about the place spoke of desolation. With each gust of wind the weather-beaten door swung to and fro on its rusty hinges; the two cracked windows stood open; beneath their feet the rotting timbers sagged creaking; around them, on every side, the tall black pines towered upward against the sky, save where the narrow ribbon of the little single track stretched away a stone's throw to right and left before losing itself among the winding curves of the forest wilderness.

The girl, glancing about her with much disfavor, gave a shiver of repulsion. "You must be fond of shooting," she said, "if you can stand coming here for it. It's worse even than your description."

Gordon smiled. He remembered vividly his own first impressions of the place, and his wonderment that such a spot could exist only fifty miles from civilization.

"Oh, well," he answered defensively, "it isn't exactly Fulton Street, of course. This is the worst of it, though. Wait till you've seen the island, and you'll change your mind."

For twenty minutes they followed what was by courtesy known as the road, and then, turning abruptly down a narrow wooded path, plunged ahead straight into the heart of the huge pines. To the girl, after the ceaseless roar and tumult of the city, the silence was almost appalling. No sound echoed from their footsteps as they trod the carpet of fragrant pine needles and velvet moss. About them all was dark, and solemn with the hush of the great forest's majestic repose. Far overhead the sun appeared to shine less brightly and the blue of the sky seemed infinitely far away. Ahead and to the right a bluejay screamed. A squirrel poised a moment on the top of a stump before darting away in headlong flight. The girl, subdued and silent, kept close to Gordon's side. "I wish I hadn't come," she sighed, half in jest, half in earnest. Gordon, less imaginative, thoroughly familiar with his surroundings, smiled at her mood. "Just you wait," he kept repeating encouragingly; "you'll see."

At last the trees grew less thickly together. Bushes, higher than one's head, began to appear, and tangled vines stretched themselves underfoot Occasional gleams of sunlight lay quivering across their path. Faintly, as if from far away, a swamp-sparrow's song rang sweet and clear. Chickadees bustled and scolded in the branches. And then, on the instant, Gordon and his companion turned straight to the left, and the lake burst on their sight.

The girl uttered a sharp cry of delight, and Gordon, smiling, stood and watched her in silence. Far away, seemingly to the utmost limit of the eye, the blue waves danced and sparkled before the westerly breeze. Far away to the north, the distant shore eluded the vision with the unreality of a mirage. To east and west, the low black line of the pines stretched on and on till they too melted away against the dark blue of the water and the fainter blue of the sky. Half a mile or so from the shore, a little island, pine-covered, also, like its parent shore, lay sleeping in the afternoon sunshine, and the girl's glance, slowly withdrawn from the sweep of the distant horizon, fell suddenly upon it.

"Oh, that's it," she cried. "It's beautiful, Dick."

Gordon smiled a brief self-satisfied smile, not altogether pleasant to witness. "Yes, isn't it," he answered; "and I think useful as well. You really couldn't find a better place for duck shooting—or for other things."

Instantly the girl's expression changed, and her face clouded. "Ah, don't, Dick," she said. "Let's not spoil our day while we're here. There'll be time enough later to talk of that."

Gordon's expression hardened a trifle. "As you please," he rejoined coolly; "only don't forget that we're here primarily on business, and not for pleasure. If you don't care to discuss things as we go along, I shall take it for granted that you'll at least keep your eyes open."

The girl nodded as if relieved. "Of course," she rejoined, "I'll do that anyway. But out here, on a day like this, to be deliberately planning—well, I can't put it in words exactly, but you know perfectly well what I mean. It's too—cold-blooded—that's the word I want. I've got to get back to Bradfield's before I'll be any good at scheming."

Gordon made no reply, but busied himself with launching the boat. Five minutes later, lying back at ease in the stern of the little rowing skiff, the girl watched the island grow steadily larger and larger as the boat shot forward under Gordon's long, steady strokes. As they approached more nearly, she could see that the whole southern side was guarded by gray cliffs rising sheer from the water's edge, but as they rounded the eastern point they shot into a quiet little cove, narrowing as it ran inland, and ending in a short stretch of smooth gray sand. Here they beached the boat, and walked slowly up the pebbled pathway to the house. Gordon fitted the key to the lock, threw open the door, and stepped back to allow his companion to enter. The girl moved quickly forward, and then paused on the threshold with a soft cry of pleased surprise.

Built square and low, with its back against a huge gray boulder so that winter northeasters might thunder overhead in vain, the shooting-box was little more than the one huge living-room and dining-room combined. To the right were two bedrooms and to the left the tiny kitchen and pantry, but it was on the living-room that Gordon had lavished all his care. Everything was in keeping: the big center-table of dark oak, the enormous fireplace with its store of logs, the heavy rugs on the floor, the guns and shells in their racks, the shooting and fishing prints upon the walls, all combined to make up a room ideal to the sportsman and charming even to the girl's more critical eye.

Crossing swiftly to the cushioned window-seat she tossed hat and coat aside, and with a deep sigh of contentment threw herself back among the cushions. A pretty enough picture she made, and Gordon, gazing at her a moment, crossed the room, and seating himself by her side, drew her to him and covered her face with kisses. Yielding herself to him, the girl suddenly lifted her face to his and clasped her arms around his neck. "Let's not go back," she whispered; "let's stay here for good and all."

Gordon smiled, humoring her mood. "All right," he answered, "I'm agreeable. I suppose my customers might miss me a little, though. And you," he added, a trifle maliciously, "I know they'd miss you at Bradfield's."

The girl's face flushed, and she drew herself from his embrace. "I hate it, Dick," she cried passionately, "I loathe it more and more every day. Nobody can be happy leading a life she was never meant to lead. You know that yourself. And every word I've told you about Bradfield's is God's own truth. What was I when they started me going there? Fifteen years old. Nothing but a baby, Dick. I swear I never knew what it all meant. And now I've met you. Oh, Dick, if only you'd marry me, and let us have a little home somewhere, I'd be so happy. I'd make you the best wife in the world. I'd see to it—" She broke off quickly, with a laugh mirthless, almost of self-contempt; then added, in a very different tone, "but there's no use in saying all this. No man that ever lived can know for a minute what real love—or what a real home—means to a woman. We might as well forget it, I suppose, and go on as we are."

Gordon's face had seemed imperceptibly to harden as she spoke, but his tone, as he answered her, was kindness itself, as one might try to soothe a too insistent child. "I do know," he said, "and I think you're right about it; entirely so. And you know how much I love you, Rose. Just let us get this one thing out of the way, and I give you my sacred word of honor I'll get out of this sort of thing for good, and we'll buy the finest little home in the state, and settle down to farming, or anything else you want. Or we'll go around the world in a steam yacht, if we hit things right. Just which you'd rather. But we can't quit the thing now. It looks too good. After we pull it off, I promise you anything in the world in return, and I shall be very proud of my wife."

He rose quickly, and then, as if to forestall a reply, added with an entire change of manner. "Well, we mustn't get too serious over things, Rose. You were the one that didn't want our day spoiled. So we might as well get down to the point while daylight lasts."

Reluctantly enough the girl rose, with a vaguely dissatisfied feeling of having once more been put off from a definite decision on the unwelcome plan. Gordon's mood, on the contrary, was cheerfulness itself. Taking down his favorite little sixteen-bore from the rack, he snapped it open, ran his eye lovingly through the glistening barrels, tested the safety-catch, and caught up a box of shells from the table. "Come on," he cried, with boyish enthusiasm, "ducks for supper, unless I've forgotten how to shoot."

Leisurely enough, in all the glory of the crisp autumn air just tempered by the pleasant warmth of the mellow, waning sunlight, they made their way down towards the point. Gordon, in a mood entirely different from any the girl had ever seen him display, eager as a boy set free from school, kept constantly calling her attention to one thing and another as they strolled along. Here he pointed out the hollow in the rocks where he had lain all through the great northeast gale of two years before, when the frightened wildfowl, storm driven, low sweeping to the southward, had passed over his head all day long in countless flocks; there he showed her the little cove where he had stalked the Canada geese, and, nearing the point, he made her shudder as he pointed to the treacherous quicksand beyond the clump of pines where, in reckless pursuit of a wounded duck, he had come within an ace of losing his life.

Twenty minutes later found them in readiness, safely hidden in the gunning box sunk level with the ground on the pebbly point of land which stretched far out to the westward of the island. Before them, the little flock of wooden decoys, moored in the lee of the point, nodded and dipped gaily to the rising breeze. The girl's eyes were bright with excitement. "Will the ducks really come, Dick?" she whispered.

For answer Gordon pulled out his watch for the twentieth time; then nodded reassuringly. "Of course they will," he answered. "In fact, it's pretty near—there, look! There they come now!"

The girl peered through the screen of bushes that fringed the box. Sure enough, off to the southward, a flock of ducks was flying swiftly towards them. A moment more, and they swerved farther to the west. She heard Gordon swear softly under his breath, and strangled a hysterical desire to laugh. Then all at once the birds caught sight of the decoys. Just for an instant they seemed to hang motionless against the sky; then, with set wings, came on straight for the blind. The girl felt her heart leap with excitement; for, all in the same breath, she saw the flock wheel quickly, and Gordon rise to his knees. The little sixteen-bore cracked spitefully once—twice—and two of the flock, doubled up in mid-air as if struck by lightning, fell stone dead among the decoys, the others, towering high into the air, made off far to the westward and safety.

Gordon, obeying the wild-fowler's first instinct, swiftly slipped in fresh shells, then turned to his companion, his eyes bright with the triumph of the hunter, his whole bearing alert, eager, confident.

"Well," he queried briefly, "what do you think?—Look out, there they come again!"

A second flock, larger than the first, was bearing down upon them. Just in time to escape detection, Gordon sank into the box. Again the birds swung, again Gordon rose, and again two ducks fell dead to the quick right and left of the little sixteen-gage.

Twenty minutes passed. Fainter and fainter grew the light, until the sun sank low behind the pines, and the laughing blue and white waves turned sullen and gray. Together they left the blind, and, walking along the beach, Gordon began to gather up his spoils. Poor little wild ducks, there they lay, rising and falling as the tiny waves splashed gently against the shore, as if vainly seeking to rouse them once more to flight. No, they would never fly again; quietly enough they lay there, their bright, glossy feathers stained with a faint crimson, their wild, bright eyes closed in death.

With a swift revulsion of feeling the girl knelt over a mallard duck and drake, the little brown mate by some trick of fate, with her dusky head lying across the neck of her bright-plumed lord. "Oh, the poor darlings!" she cried pitifully. "Oh, Dick, we can't wish them alive again."

Gordon stood silent. The faint afterglow still hung in the fading west, but elsewhere all was dark. A star or two shone far up in the blue. The wind, erstwhile such a jolly companion, seemed graver now, as it moaned through the swaying tops of the dark pines. Suddenly the world became a solemn place, sad, unfriendly, vast. Gordon's face set hard as he looked at the kneeling girl and the two little dead wild ducks. "No," he said, with a world of meaning in his tone; "no, we can't wish them alive again," and together they turned toward home.

CHAPTER VI

[COUNTRY COUSINS]

The breakfast room, flooded with October sunshine, was such a pleasant place that Palmer, leisurely glancing through the columns of the morning paper, deliberately lingered as long as possible over his toast and eggs. Finally he laid the paper aside, slowly poured out a second cup of coffee, and with an expression of good-humored resignation glanced across the table at his secretary.

"Well, Morton," he said pleasantly, "let's have it. What have you got to bother me with to-day?"

The secretary smiled deferentially, as it behooves one to smile when one is earnestly desirous of keeping an easy, gentlemanly position, with little work and good pay.

"There's really very little this morning, Mr. Palmer," he answered. "There were the usual number of begging letters, which I answered in the usual form; a notice of the annual meeting of the polo club; one or two dinner invitations; a letter from Mr. Gordon asking you out to his shooting-box, and the check from the racing club for first money in the Essex."

Palmer chuckled. The winning of the Essex had been one of the never-to-be-forgotten incidents of his life. "Gad, Morton," he cried, "we hit it that time, didn't we? I can see the mare coming under the wire now. Traveling! I'll bet she was traveling! By rights I ought to make the check over to her. She deserves it, if any one ever did. Well, there's nothing very exciting in that mail outside of the check, is there? Nothing immediate, anyway."

Morton smiled faintly. The last three words embodied Palmer's whole philosophy of enjoying life to the best advantage. To live calmly, without haste; to know what was coming in time to enjoy it in anticipation; to be able to put off unpleasant tasks until the latest possible moment—that was Palmer's creed. Some men, nervous and high strung, when the final moment of life itself has to be faced, pray for a sudden death. To Palmer, that would have appeared highly undesirable. Rather, he would infinitely have preferred to have the whole matter indefinitely postponed. So the secretary smiled.

"No," he said, "nothing really immediate, except Mr. Gordon's note. Shall I read it?"

"If you please," answered Palmer indolently, and the secretary read in his even, pleasant voice,

"My Dear Harry:

"Do you recall that you were going to put in a day's shooting with me this fall? I write to tell you that the ducks are just on their flight. I killed over forty in two hours' shooting one day last week, over half of them redheads. Can't you meet me at my office at three to-morrow, and run out for the night?

"Your sincere friend,

"Richard Gordon."

Palmer set down his cup of coffee untasted. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "that's really very decent of Gordon. I didn't know the ducks were flying like that. Yes, Morton, telephone him I'll go with pleasure. And, Morton, get Smith to pack my shooting things, and look over my gun, and put in about two hundred shells, number six shot. Yes, by gad, I'll go."

Deep down in his heart, although he would not have admitted it, and indeed was perhaps hardly aware of it, Palmer had an immense admiration for Gordon, doubtless based on the fact that Gordon did those things best which Palmer himself would most have liked to do well. Palmer's game of bridge was mediocre. Gordon's was masterly. Palmer played a passable game of golf, sometimes brilliant, always dangerously erratic. Gordon's steadiness had won him a rating among the first dozen on the state handicap list. Palmer could always bring home a fair bag of ducks, shooting being perhaps his greatest enthusiasm, but Gordon's clean right and left kills were little short of wonderful in their precision. Of course, as regarded popularity, Palmer had by far the greater number of hangers-on, retainers, satellites,—friends, he chose to call them—for when a genuine multimillionaire turns out to be a lavish spender as well, the combination furnishes unusual opportunities to those wise in their generation, and yet somehow the men whose friendship Palmer would most have liked, while always civil to him, never seemed to treat him in just the same way they did Gordon.

Thus the prospect of a day at Gordon's shooting-box, sure of good shooting and a pleasant time generally, startled him a little out of his usual calm, and three o'clock found him at the door of Gordon's modest office. Gordon came forward to meet him, his face troubled, a telegram in his hand.

"Confound it, Harry," he cried, as he shook hands, "I'm afraid I've done an awfully stupid thing. About a month ago I got a letter from an old lady up country, one of my mother's oldest friends,—awfully good to me when I was a boy, and all that—saying that she and her daughter were going to run down here for a little trip some time this month. Of course I wrote back, as in duty bound, and told her that I should be out at the shooting-box then, and that she must surely let me entertain her there. I never gave the matter a second thought, and here I've just got a telegram—delayed, of course,—saying they're due in town about half-past two, and will come right over to the office. I suppose they'll be here any minute. I'm infernally sorry. I never meant to let you in for anything like this."

Palmer made a not over successful attempt to conceal his disappointment. "Well, never mind, Gordon," he said reluctantly. "Can't be helped, of course. Better luck another time."

Gordon crumpled the telegram in his hand, and threw it into the waste-basket. "Confound it all!" he cried; "I wouldn't care so much if it wasn't right in the middle of the flight, but this is the very top of the season for redheads and widgeon. The wind's been fresh to the westward all day, too, and now it's just starting to haul out to the north. If it holds there, I'll bet we could kill twenty-five to-night, and God knows how many to-morrow morning at daylight. I don't want you to do anything you don't want to, Harry, but I wish you'd come along just the same. You needn't see anything of them, and, anyway, they're not a half bad sort. The little girl gave promise of being quite a good looker the last time I saw her, three or four years back. I really think you'd better come along just the same, and not mind them at all."

Palmer looked uncomfortable. "Oh, thanks, no," he said, somewhat hastily. "Country cousins, you know, and all that. Not much in my line, I'm afraid."

Gordon laughed. "Well, I don't blame you," he said, "only I feel ashamed of myself to have mixed things up so. I can't help the—"

A knock on the door interrupted him, and the office boy appeared. "Two ladies to see you, Mr. Gordon," he announced, and close upon his heels an elderly lady, clad in sober black, came bustling into the room. Her plain, spectacled face fairly beamed with pleasure as she advanced toward Gordon, both hands outstretched in greeting.

"Well, Dick, my dear boy," she exclaimed, "I am glad to see you again. And how well you're looking."

Gordon took her outstretched hands, and shook them cordially. "The same to you, Aunt Dora," he cried; "I declare you've positively grown younger. And where's Marian?"

Mrs. Francis turned toward the door. "Why, she's here," she answered, "I expect I got ahead of her, I was so anxious to set eyes on you again. Here she is now."

Gordon could hardly repress a start of surprise as he glanced up at the girl standing hesitatingly in the doorway. A prettier picture, he thought quickly, he had never seen. Possibly the simple white muslin dress, with its band of crimson at waist and throat, spoke a little of the country girl on her holiday visit to the city, and the girl was evidently a trifle shy and embarrassed, but these small defects only added to the general impression of freshness and charm. Evidently, too, her shyness was not the shyness of gaucherie, but of becoming modesty, and as she raised her blue eyes at Gordon's greeting there was a sparkle in them eloquent of plenty of spirit and humor to be disclosed on closer acquaintance.

"Why, Marian," he exclaimed, "I'd never have known you! You oughtn't to surprise a man like this. I'll swear you were wearing short dresses the last time I saw you."

The girl blushed and laughed. "Don't be silly, Dick," she protested. "Three years is a long time, and we're awfully glad to see you again."

Gordon turned quickly to Palmer, who stood staring at the girl with a surprise evidently greater than Gordon's own. "Where are my manners?" he cried. "Aunt Dora, my friend Mr. Palmer. Marian, Mr. Palmer. Harry, my oldest friend, Mrs. Francis, and her daughter, Miss Marian Francis. I call Mrs. Francis my aunt principally because she isn't. I was just trying to persuade Palmer to go with us on our little trip, Aunt Dora, but he's obdurate. I wish you would try your hand."

The older woman turned to Palmer with much cordiality. "Why, I wish he would," she cried. "Please do, Mr. Palmer. Dick will be bored to death anyway with two women on his hands to entertain. We'll look after the housekeeping, and you men can have all the shooting you want. I'll guarantee one thing, too. I can cook a duck with any woman in the county."

Gordon nodded in vigorous assent. "I'll back that up, Palmer," he cried. "Leaving out of consideration all question of the pleasure of Aunt Dora's society, her cooking is an inducement no sane man ought to think of refusing. I believe you'll go, after all."

Palmer wavered. The "country cousins," one of them especially, were far from being the curios he had imagined. And the thought of the shooting—he could see in imagination the long lines of ducks fighting their way up the lake against the stiff northerly breeze, swinging to the decoys, with set wings—and yet he hesitated—

"Come, Marian," cried Gordon gaily, "try your hand. Apparently Aunt Dora and I have failed. We've promised him plenty of good shooting and plenty of good cooking. What can you offer to make him change his mind?"

The girl blushed charmingly, but her eyes, nevertheless, met Palmer's squarely. "You see," she murmured demurely, "I don't really know Mr. Palmer's tastes."

Gordon roared. "But you'll do anything you can," he cried broadly. "Well, that's fair. There's a challenge direct, Harry. Do you dare refuse now?"

Palmer's face reddened a trifle. His eyes had scarcely left the girl. "Go?" he cried, "of course I'll go. I was only afraid I might be in the way, but since the ladies are so kind—"

Gordon clapped him on the back. "Good boy," he cried, "and now we mustn't lose any time. Just a half minute till I leave word where I'm going."

He pressed a button, and almost immediately the office boy appeared. "Oh, John," he began, and then caught sight of a yellow envelope in the boy's hand. "What's that you've got there?" he asked sharply.

"Telegram for you, sir," answered the boy promptly. "Just came this minute."

Gordon caught the envelope from the boy's hand, and hastily tore it open. Then, as he read it, his face clouded with vexation. "Well, if this isn't too bad," he cried, "I never knew such luck. Here's a telegram from the one man in the world I can't afford to offend. The biggest customer I've got. Says he reaches town at five and wants half an hour kept absolutely free for business of great importance. I guess that means there's no getting out of it for me. It's too bad, though; I hate to see our plans spoiled like this."

Mrs. Francis was the first to speak. "Why, Dick, what nonsense!" she exclaimed. "We know the way perfectly well. It was only three years ago Marian and I were there, and I don't believe things have changed a great deal since then. We'll go ahead and get everything ready, and you can come out on a later train. That's a great deal better than our staying here or going to a hotel, isn't it, Marian?"

The girl, thus appealed to, glanced quickly at Palmer. "I think you forget, mother," she said quietly, "that we ought to consult Mr. Palmer. He may not care to escort us out there without Dick, and I'm very sure I wouldn't care to go through those woods alone."

Palmer rose gallantly to the occasion. "Not care to?" he cried. "Indeed, I shall be honored, Miss Francis. We'll show Gordon here how well we can get along without him, and I'll have all the shooting to myself. Go? Of course we'll go!"

Gordon turned to him gratefully. "You're awfully good to take it this way, all of you," he said, "and I'll surely be out a little after eight. You'd better be starting, though. You haven't but just time. Oh, and Aunt Dora," he called after them, "you don't change at Fairview any longer the way we used to. Remember not to change. Good-by. Good luck. I'll be there about eight."

As the door closed after them he dropped into a chair with a sigh of relief. "Thank God that's over," he muttered, "so far, so good!"

CHAPTER VII

[THE TRAP IS SPRUNG]

The tickets secured, the baggage safely stowed away, Mrs. Francis and Marian fitted out with papers and periodicals, Palmer began thoroughly to enjoy his trip. Mrs. Francis insisted on a seat by herself, and an uninterrupted chance to read the October Bazaar and Palmer, in the seat behind with Marian, inwardly blessed her literary taste. Not only did the girl's obvious beauty attract him, but as their acquaintance developed, he found her in every way a charming companion; as he himself would more probably have expressed it, "A ripping fine girl."

Thus everything went well until Fairview was reached. Here Mrs. Francis roused herself from her magazine, and turned around to Palmer. "Didn't Dick say we changed at Fairview?" she demanded.

Palmer shook his head. "No, Mrs. Francis," he answered, "I think not. I understood him to say that was just what we didn't do."

Mrs. Francis glanced around her apprehensively. "I was sure he said to change," she replied, "I know we always used to change here. This train waited five minutes for the connection. I'm going to ask the conductor, to make sure."

Palmer started to rise, when the girl laid a detaining hand on his arm. "Please don't bother," she whispered. "Mother's always like this when she's traveling. It wouldn't do any good for you to go. She'll have to find out for herself before she'll be satisfied. And I hate being made conspicuous. So please don't trouble yourself, really."

Palmer perforce kept his seat, and they saw Mrs. Francis walk down the car aisle, and then out on to the platform. The girl laughed.

"I can't cure her," she declared. "She's the best mother in the world, but to travel with her is a nightmare. I've been going through this all day yesterday and part of to-day, so I believe I'm getting a little hardened to it."

Palmer smiled in sympathy. Then, suddenly, as the engine whistled and the cars began to bump and grind, he started to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. "By Jove," he cried, "isn't that your mother coming out of the station? She'll get left, as sure as fate."

The girl glanced hastily from the car window. Sure enough, Mrs. Francis, evidently determined to get her knowledge at first hand, had ventured too far from the train, and had succeeded in getting left behind. Even as they watched her, she began to run awkwardly, waving her umbrella. Her mouth seemed to Palmer to frame the words, "Wait! Stop!" and then, as their speed increased, they turned the curve, and Fairview and Mrs. Francis were left behind together.

Fully expecting a burst of tears or a scene of some kind, Palmer turned apprehensively to his companion. But to his surprise and to his infinite relief, the girl, meeting his glance, suddenly burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and his own revulsion of feeling was so great that involuntarily he joined in her mirth.

"Oh," cried the girl, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Palmer. I oughtn't to laugh, but the humorous side of this awful trip was too much for me. A friend of my mother's was going to escort us yesterday, and he was taken sick at the last moment and couldn't come. Then Dick got that telegram, and now my mother's lost the train. It's like the rhyme of the ten little nigger boys. I wonder which of us will drop out next. Please promise you won't desert me without warning."

Her blue eyes sought Palmer's frankly and innocently enough, and yet with just a trace of coquetry. Palmer leaned a little toward her. "I promise," he said, "if you won't run away, I won't."

The girl laughed delightedly. "It's a bargain," she cried. "I think it's really fun. Thank goodness, I have the key to the house. Mother will get the next train with Dick, I suppose, and we can have everything ready for them. We'll have a fair division of labor. You will have to carry all the luggage and row me over to the island, and then you can have your shooting for a reward, and I'll cook the supper. Is that fair?"

"That's fair," acquiesced Palmer. "At least, it sounds fair. But how do I know how good a cook you are."

"Well, I like that!" exclaimed the girl. "And how do I know whether you can row a boat or not? We've got to take each other on trust, as near as I can see."

Palmer laughed. He found his little adventure much to his liking, and more and more, as the train rattled on, he found himself yielding to the spell of the girl's charm.

Down from the little station through the woods to the lake she piloted him, and he made good the first part of the bargain as he rowed the little boat across, in the teeth of a stiff northerly breeze, in a style as good as Gordon's own. Once arrived at the house, she showed him the way to the point, and a few moments later, Palmer, gun in hand, was striding down the path.

Left alone, a curious change came over the girl. The laughter faded from her face, leaving it white and drawn, and she half fell, half threw herself into the big easy chair in front of the fire which Palmer had set blazing.