“Just a minute, Alice,” her husband called as she was mounting the broad stairway that led from the hall.

“Run along, Nora,” Alice said, “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“I’ll go and wait for Monty,” the girl returned. “I think you’re going to be lectured.” She sauntered out of the French windows toward the Pagoda.

“Well,” said Alice smiling, “what is it?”

“I just wanted to tell you how mighty glad I was to see you,” he confessed.

“And, Mikey dear,” she said simply, “I’m mighty glad to see you.”

“Are you really?” he demanded. “You’re not missing Paris?”

“Paris be hanged,” she retorted; “I’m in love with a man and not with a town.”

“It’s still me?” Michael asked a little wistfully.

“Always you,” she said softly. “One big reason I like to go abroad is because it makes me so glad to get back to you.” She sat on the arm of his chair and patted his head affectionately.

“But look here,” said Michael with an affectation of reproof, “whenever I want a little trot around the country and suggest leaving, you begin—”

“Oh, that’s very different. When we do separate I always want to be the one to leave, not to be left.”

“It is much easier to go than to stay,” he agreed, “and I’ve been pretty lonely these last six weeks.”

“But you’ve had a lot of business to attend to,” she reminded him.

“That’s finished two weeks ago.”

“And then you’ve had the insidious Lambart and all the Scotch you wanted.”

“’Tisn’t nearly as much fun to drink when you’re away,” he insisted. “It always takes the sport out of it not to be stopped.”

“Oh, Fibber!” she said, shaking her head.

“Well, most of the sport,” he corrected. He held her off at arm’s length and regarded her with admiration. “Do you know, I sometimes wonder what ever made you marry me.”

“Sometimes I wonder, too,” she answered, “but not often! I really think we’re the ideal married couple, sentimental when we’re alone, and critical when we have guests.”

“You are a dear old thing,” she said affectionately.

“Do you know I don’t feel a bit married,” he returned boyishly, “I just feel in love.”

“That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me,” she said, rising and kissing him. “But I’ve got to go and find Ethel now.”

“You’ve made me feel fairly dizzy,” he asserted, still holding her hand, “I need a drink to sober up.”

“Oh, Michael,” she cried reprovingly, and drew away from him “I believe you’ve been trying to get around me just for that!”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said smiling. “Now, do you?”

“No, I don’t, Mikey,” she admitted. “But be careful, here’s Monty and Nora.”

“Heavens!” cried Nora, looking in, “still lecturing, you two?”

“You do look rather henpecked,” Monty said, addressing his host.

“Yes,” Michael sighed, “we’ve been having a dreadful row, but I’m of a forgiving nature and I’m going to reward her. Monty, touch that button there, I want Lambart.”

Alice looked at him in wonderment. “What do you mean?”

On a silver salver Lambart bore in and presented to his mistress a large liqueur glass filled with a clear liquid of delicate mauve hue.

Alice looked at it a little fearfully. “Oh, Mikey,” she said, “is this another new invention?”

“My best,” he said proudly.

“Can’t I share it?” she pleaded.

“No more than I can my heart,” he said firmly. “It is to be named after you.”

Heroically she gulped it down.

“Oh, how sweet it is,” she exclaimed.

“I know,” he admitted. “But as it isn’t sugar you needn’t mind. I use saccharin which is about a thousand times as sweet. And the beauty of saccharin,” he confided to the others, “is that it stays with you. When I first discovered this Crême d’Alicia as I call it, I tasted it for days.”

“It’s a perfectly divine color,” Nora remarked enthusiastically. “I’ve always dreamed of a dress exactly that shade. How did you do it?”

“That was more than mauve,” Nora insisted. “I’ve plenty of mauve things.”

He raised his hand. “No you don’t, Nora! You don’t get the result of my years of close study like that. I’ll make you each a present of a bottle before you go. We’ll have it with coffee every night. Mauve was the foundation upon which I built.”

“It’s a little rich for me, Mikey dear,” his wife said anxiously. “I think it will make a far better winter cordial. I’m going upstairs to see Ethel now.”

He watched her disappear and then turned to Nora and Monty with a twinkle in his eye. “I think after my labors I need a little cocktail. In France they call this the heure de l’aperitif, as Monty probably knows, and I have a private bar of my own. Don’t give me away, children.”

Nora looked at her companion with a frown. She had been looking for his coming, and now when he was here, he had nothing to say.

“What’s the matter with you?” she demanded suddenly.

“I’m wondering where Steven is,” he returned anxiously. “A blow-out oughtn’t to keep him all this time.”

He turned to her with an assumption of freedom from care.

“I am a bit nervous, Nora,” he admitted. “You see, Steven and I are in a big deal together, and, er, the markets go up and down like the temperature and it keeps me sorts of anxious.”

“You don’t mean to say you’ve gone into business?” she said.

“Not exactly,” he prevaricated, “and yet I have in a way. It’s something secret.”

“Well,” said Nora, with sound common sense, “if it frightens you so, why go in for it?”

“Well, everything was kind of tepid in Paris,” he explained.

“Tepid in Paris?” she cried.

“Why, yes,” he told her. “Paris can’t always live up to her reputation. I’d been there studying French banking systems so long that I wanted some excitement and joined Steve in his scheme.”

“Oh, Monty,” she said interested, and sitting on the couch at his side, “if it’s really exciting, tell me everything. Are you being pursued?”

“But what is it?” she insisted.

“I can’t tell you,” he said decidedly. “Steve is one of my oldest friends and I promised him.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about him,” she cried a little impatiently. “You and he went to college together and sang, ‘A Stein on the Table,’ and went on sprees together and made love to the same girls, and played on the same teams. I know all that college stuff.”

“But we didn’t go to college together,” he said.

“Alice said you did,” she returned, “or to school or something together, but don’t take that as an excuse to get reminiscent. I hate men’s reminiscences; they make me so darned envious. I wish I’d been a man, Monty.”

“I don’t,” said he smiling.

“Don’t try to flirt with me,” she exclaimed, as he edged a little nearer.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“You don’t know how,” she said and smiled provokingly.

For a moment Monty forgot pearls and Customs and all unpleasant things.

“Teach me,” he entreated.

“Well?” she said presently. “Go on.”

“I wonder where Steve is?” he said desperately.

“You’re hopeless,” she cried exasperated. “I don’t know where ‘Steve’ is, and I don’t care. I hope he’s under the car with gasoline dripping into his eyes.”

Poor Monty groaned; for it was equally true that he at this particular moment was anxious to forget everything but the pretty girl at his side.

“Nora,” he said nervously, “for the last year there’s been something trembling on my lips—”

“Oh, Monty,” she cried ecstatically, “don’t shave it off, I love it!”

He rose, discomfited, to meet his hostess coming toward him with Miss Ethel Cartwright, a close friend of hers whom he had never before met. He noticed Michael quietly working his unobtrusive way back to the position where Alice had left him, wiping his moustache with satisfaction.

“How do you do,” the girl said smiling.

“Be kind to him, Ethel,” Michael remarked genially. “He’s a nice boy and the idol of the Paris Bourse.”

“And an awful flirt,” Nora chimed in. “If I had had a heart he would have broken it long ago.”

“Do you know,” Alice said, “it has never occurred to me to think of Monty as a flirt. Are you a flirt, Monty?”

“No,” he said indignantly.

“You needn’t be so emphatic when I ask you,” she said reprovingly. She sighed. “I suppose it’s one of the penalties of age. I’ve known him a disgracefully long time, Ethel, before the Palisades were grown-up.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get down to meet you, Alice,” Miss Cartwright said, “I did mean to, but business detained me.”

“Business in August!” Nora commented.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” her hostess observed. “We were disgraced by having in our merry party a smuggler who was caught with the goods and narrowly escaped Sing Sing.”

“There you go again,” Monty grumbled. “I hate the very sound of the word.”

He knew that the division of the late Vernon Cartwright’s fortune was very disappointing and might narrow the girls’ income considerably.

“It turned out all right, thank you,” the girl answered nervously.

“How’s Amy?” Mr. Harrington asked. He was fond of the Cartwrights and had known them from childhood. “Why isn’t she here?”

“It isn’t to be a big party, Michael,” his wife reminded him. “Men are so scarce in August I didn’t ask Amy. She’s all right, I hope, Ethel?”

“Yes, thanks,” Miss Cartwright answered.

“I wonder where Steve is?” Monty said for the fifth time. “He ought to have that tire fixed by now.”

“I hope he hasn’t smashed up,” said Alice.

“So do I,” Michael retorted. “It was a mighty good car—almost new—and I left a silver pocket-flask in it, I remember.”

“Is someone else coming?” Ethel Cartwright asked.

“A perfectly charming man, a Steven Denby.”

“Steven Denby?” Miss Cartwright cried, her face lighting up. “Really?”

“Do you know him then?” Mrs. Harrington asked.

“What, you know Steve?” Monty asked in surprise.

“Tell us about him,” Nora besought her.

“Yes, who is he?” Michael wanted to know. “Alice has been trying to rouse me to the depths of my jealous nature about him!”

“Isn’t he fascinating?” Alice observed.

“I can only tell you all,” Ethel Cartwright declared, “that I know him. I met him in Paris a year ago.”

“Didn’t you like him?” Alice inquired.

“I did, very much,” the girl said frankly.

Nora spoke in a disappointed manner. “Well, he’s evidently yours for this week-end.”

“I daresay he won’t even remember me,” the other girl returned.

“Oh, I bet he will,” said Nora, who was able to give Ethel credit for her charm and beauty. “I shall just have to stick around with Monty—a wild tempestuous flirt like Monty!”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Monty said with an air of condescension, “not particularly.”

“It’s time to dress, good people,” Michael reminded them.

“Come on, Nora,” Alice said rising. “Come, Monty. Ethel, you’ll have to amuse yourself, as Michael isn’t to be depended on.”

“And only one, remember,” Alice warned him.

“You know me, my dear,” he said, “when I say one.”

“You sometimes mean only one at a time,” she laughed. “You are still the same consistent old Michael. And by the way, if Mr. Denby does happen to turn up, tell him we’ll be down soon.”

“I’ll send him in to Ethel if he comes.”

“Yes, please do,” the girl said brightly.

When she was left alone in the big hall, the coolest apartment in the big house during the afternoon, Ethel Cartwright went to the French windows and looked out over the smooth lawns to the trees at the back of them. A long drive wound its way to the highroad, up which she could see speeding a big motor. The porte-cochère was at the other side of the house and she retraced her steps to the hall she had left with the hope of meeting the man she had liked so much a year ago in Paris.

“Miss Cartwright,” he cried enthusiastically, “is it really you?”

She took his outstretched hands graciously. “How do you do, Mr. Denby,” she said.

“Mr. Harrington told me to expect a surprise,” he cried, “but I was certainly not prepared for such a pleasant one as this. How are you?”

“Splendid,” she answered. “And you?”

“Very, very grateful to be here.”

“I wondered if you’d remember me,” she said; “it’s a long time ago since we were in Paris.”

“It was only the day before yesterday,” he asserted.

“And what are you doing here?” she asked.

“Oh, I thought I’d run over and see if New York was finished yet.”

“Are you still doing—nothing?” she demanded, a tinge of disappointment in her voice.

He looked at her with a smile. “Still—nothing,” he answered.

“Ah,” she sighed, “I had such hopes of you, a year ago in Paris.”

“And I of you,” he said, boldly looking into her eyes.

“It’s so difficult to get a thrill out of business,” he complained.

“And you must have thrills?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, “it’s such a dull old world nowadays.”

“Then why,” she exclaimed jestingly, “why don’t you take to crime?”

“I have thought of it,” he laughed, “but the stake’s too high—a thrill against prison.”

“So you want only little thrills then, Mr. Denby?”

“No,” he told her, “I’d like big ones better. Life or even death—but not prison. And what have you done since I saw you last? You are still doing nothing, too?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling.

“And you’re still Miss Cartwright?”

“Only Miss Cartwright,” she corrected.

“Good,” he said, looking at her steadily. “By George, it doesn’t seem a year since that week in Paris. What made you disappear just as we were having such bully times?”

“I had to come back to America suddenly. I had only an hour to catch the boat. I explained all that in my note though. Didn’t you even take the trouble to read it?”

“I sent it by a porter and even gave him a franc,” she smiled. “I ought to have given him five.”

“I’d willingly have given him fifty,” Denby said earnestly. “It wasn’t nice to think that I’d been dropped like that.”

“And I thought you’d dropped me,” she said.

“I should say not,” he exclaimed. “I was over here six months ago and I did try to see you, but you were at Palm Beach. I can’t tell you how often I’ve sent you telepathic messages,” he added whimsically. “Ever get any of ’em?”

“Some of them, I think,” she said smiling. “And now to think we’ve met here on Long Island. It’s a far cry to Paris.”

“For me it’s people who make places—the places themselves don’t matter—you and I are here,” he said gently.

The girl sighed a little. “Still, Paris is Paris,” she insisted.

In the adjoining room Nora was strumming the piano, and was now playing “Un Peu d’Amour.” She had looked in the hall and finding the stranger so wholly absorbed in Ethel Cartwright, had retired to solitude.

“And do you remember the hole in the table-cloth?” Ethel demanded.

“And wasn’t it a dirty table-cloth?” he reminded her. “And afterwards we had tea in the Bois at the Cascade and the Hungarian Band played ‘Un Peu d’Amour.’” He looked at the girl smiling. “How did you arrange to have that played just at the right moment?”

They listened in silence for a moment to the dainty melody, and then she hummed a few bars of it. Her thoughts were evidently far away from Long Island.

“And don’t you remember that poor skinny horse in our fiacre?” she asked him. “He was so tired he fell down, and we walked home in pity.”

“Ah, you were tender-hearted,” he sighed.

“Ah, but the string-beans were an event,” he asserted. “And that evening, I remember, there was a moon over the Bois, and we sat under the trees. Have you forgotten that?”

“I don’t think that would be very easy,” she said softly.

“And we went through the Louvre the next day,” he said eagerly, “the whole Louvre in an hour, and the loveliest picture I saw there was—you.”

Denby glanced up with a frown as Lambart’s gentle footfall was heard, and rose to his feet a trifle embarrassed by this intrusion. Lambart came to a respectful pause at Miss Cartwright’s side.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but there is a gentleman to see you.” She took a card that was on the tray he held before her.

“To see me?” she cried, startled, gazing at the card. Denby, watching her closely, saw her grow, as he thought, pale. “Ask him to come in. Mr. Denby,” she said, “will you forgive me?”

“Surely,” he assented, walking toward the great stairway. “I have to dress, anyway.”

“Your room is at the head of the stairs,” Lambart reminded him. “All your luggage is taken in, sir.”

“Till dinner,” she said, and watched him pass out of sight. She was a girl whose poise of manner prevented the betrayal of vivid emotion in any but a certain subdued fashion. But it was plain she was laboring now under an agitation that amounted almost to deadly fear.

A few seconds later Daniel Taylor strode in with firm assured tread and looked at the luxurious surroundings with approval.

“Good evening, Miss Cartwright,” he exclaimed genially. “Good evening.”

“My sister,” she returned, trembling, “nothing’s happened to her? She’s all right?”

“Sure, sure,” he returned reassuringly, “I haven’t bothered her; the little lady’s all right, don’t you worry.”

“Then what do you want here?” she cried alarmed. No matter what his manner this man had menace in every look and gesture. She had never been brought into contact with one who gave in so marked a degree the impression of ruthless strength.

“I thought I’d drop in with reference to our little chat this afternoon,” he remarked easily. “Nice place they’ve got here.”

“You haven’t forgotten our little conversation, I hope?”

“Of course not,” she said.

“Well,” he continued, “you said when I needed you, you’d be ready.” He looked about him cautiously as though fearing interruption. “I said it might be a year, or it might be a month, or it might be to-night. Well, it’s to-night, Miss Cartwright. I need you right now.”

“Now?” she said puzzled. “Still, I don’t understand.”

He lowered his voice. “A man has smuggled a two hundred thousand dollar necklace through the Customs to-day. For various reasons which you wouldn’t understand, we allowed him to slip through, thinking he’d fooled us. Now that he believes himself safe, it ought to be easy to get that necklace. We’ve got to get it; and we’re going to get it, through one of our agents.” He pointed a forefinger at her. “We’re going to get it through you.”

“But I shouldn’t know how to act,” she protested, “or what to do.”

Taylor smiled. “You’re too modest, Miss Cartwright. I’ve seen some of your work in my own office, and I think you’ll be successful.”

“You don’t have to leave,” he told her.

“What do you mean, then?” she demanded.

“That the man who smuggled the necklace is staying here, too. His name is Steven Denby.”

“Steven Denby!” the girl cried, shrinking away from him. “Oh, no, you must be mad—he isn’t a smuggler.”

“Why isn’t he?” Taylor snapped.

“I know him,” she explained.

“You do?” he cried. “Where did you meet him?”

“In Paris,” she replied.

“How long have you known him?”

“Just about a year,” she answered.

“What do you know about him?” Taylor asked quickly. It was evident that her news seemed very important to him. “What’s his business? How does he make his living? Do you know his people?”

“I don’t think he does anything,” she said hesitatingly.

“Nothing, eh?” Taylor laughed disagreeably. “I suppose you think that’s clear proof he couldn’t be a smuggler?”

“Your friend!” Taylor returned. His manner from that of the bluff cross-examiner changed to one that had something confidential and friendly in it. “Why, that ought to make it easier.”

“Easier?” she repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you can get into his confidence. See?”

“But you’re wrong,” she said indignantly. “I’m sure he is absolutely innocent.”

“Then you’ll be glad of a chance to prove we’re wrong and you’re right.”

“But I couldn’t spy on a friend,” she declared.

“If your friend is innocent it won’t do him any harm,” Taylor observed, “and he’d never know. But if he’s guilty he deserves punishment, and you’ve no right to try and protect him. Any person would only be doing right in helping to detect a criminal; but you,”—he paused significantly,—“it’s just as much your duty as it is mine.” He showed her his gold badge of authority for a brief moment, and although it terrified her there was too much loyalty in her nature to betray a friend or even to spy upon one.

“No, no! I can’t do it,” she said.

“You wouldn’t do that,” she cried horrified at his threat.

“Why not?” he returned. “It’s give and take in this world.”

“But I couldn’t be so contemptible.”

Taylor shrugged his shoulders. “If I were you I’d think it over,” he recommended.

“But supposing you’re wrong,” she said earnestly. “Suppose he has no necklace?”

“Don’t let that disturb you,” he retorted. “Our information is positive. We got a telegram late this afternoon from a pal of his who squealed, giving us a tip about it. Now what do you say?”

“I can’t,” she said, “I can’t.”

He came closer, and said in a low harsh voice: “Remember, it’s Steven Denby or your sister. There’s no other way out. Which are you going to choose?”

He watched her pale face eagerly. “Well,” he cried, “which is it to be?”

“I have no choice,” she answered dully. “What do you want me to do?”

“Good,” Taylor cried approvingly. “That’s the way to talk! Denby has that necklace concealed in a brown leather tobacco-pouch which he always carries in his pocket. You must get me that pouch.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” he answered.

“But couldn’t you do it?” she pleaded. “Or one of your men? Why ask me?”

“It may be a bluff, some clever scheme to throw me off the track and I’m not going to risk a mix-up with the Harringtons or tip my hand till I’m absolutely sure. It don’t pay me to make big mistakes. You say Denby’s your friend, well, then, it’ll be easy to find out. If you discover that the necklace is in the tobacco-pouch, get him to go for a walk in the garden; say you want to look at the moon, say anything, so long as you get him into the garden where we’ll be on the lookout and grab him.”

“But he might go out there alone,” she suggested.

“If he does,” Taylor assured her, “we won’t touch him, but if he comes out there with you, we’ll know.”

“But if I can’t get him into the garden?” she urged. “Something may happen to prevent me!”

“If you’re sure he has it on him,” Taylor instructed her, “or if you make out where it is concealed, pull down one of these window-shades. My men and I can see these from the garden. When we get your signal we’ll come in and arrest him. Sure you understand?”

“I’m to pull down the window-shade,” she repeated.

“Yes, yes,” she said.

“And under no circumstances,” he commanded, “must you mention my name.”

“But,” she argued, “suppose—”

“There’s no ‘buts’ and no ‘supposes’ in it,” he said sharply. “It’s most important to the United States Government and to me, that my identity is in no way disclosed.”

“It may be necessary,” she persisted.

“It cannot be necessary,” he said with an air of finality. “If it comes to a show-down and you tell Denby I’m after him, I’ll not only swear I never saw you, but I’ll put your sister in prison. Now, good night, Miss Cartwright, and remember you’ve got something at stake, too, so don’t forget—Denby to-night.”

He went silently through the French windows and disappeared, leaving her to face for the second time in a day an outlook that seemed hopeless.

Directly he heard Denby’s voice talking to Lambart as he was shown into his room, Monty burst in and wrung his hands again and again.

“Why, Monty,” his friend said, “you overpower me.”

“I thought you’d been held up and robbed,” the younger man cried.

“Neither one nor the other,” Denby said cheerfully, “I was merely the victim of two blow-outs. But,” he added, looking keenly at his confederate, “if I had been held up the pearls wouldn’t have been taken. I didn’t happen to have them with me.”

“Thank God!” Monty cried fervently. “I wondered if that telegraphing to people was just a ruse or not. Hooray, I feel I can eat and drink and be merrier than I’ve been for a month. I never want to hear about them again.”

“I’m sorry, old man,” Denby said smiling, “but I shall have to ask you for them.”

“Me?” Monty stammered. “Don’t joke, Steve.”

Monty looked at him reproachfully. “Sometimes I think I ought to have gone into the ministry. I’m getting a perfect horror of crime.”

“You’re not a criminal,” Denby said. “You helped me out on the voyage, but here you are free to do as you like.”

Monty set his jaw firmly. “I’m in it with you, Steve, till you’ve got the damned things where you want ’em, and you can’t prevent me, either.”

When he brought the precious necklace back Denby calmly placed the pouch in his pocket. “Thanks, old man,” he said casually. “Now the fun begins.”

“Fun!” Monty snorted. “Do you remember the classic remark of the frog who was pelted by small mischievous boys? ‘This may be the hell of a joke to you,’ said the frog, ‘but it’s death to me.’”

“I’ve always been sorry for that frog,” Denby commented.

“But, man alive, you are the frog,” Monty cried.

“Oh, no,” Denby returned, making a tie that had no likeness to a vast butterfly.

He sauntered down the stairs cool and debonair to find Ethel Cartwright still looking listlessly across the green lawns.

“Those gentle chimes,” he said, as the dinner-gong pealed out, “call the faithful to dinner. I wish it were in Paris, don’t you?”

She pulled herself together and tried to smile as she had done before Taylor had dashed all her joy to the ground.

VERY much to Denby’s disappointment he found that he was not to take Ethel Cartwright in to dinner. Nora Rutledge fell to his lot, and although she was witty and sparkling, she shared none of those happy Parisian memories as did the girl his host had taken in.

Plainly Nora was piqued. “I thought from what Monty told me you were really interesting,” she said.

“One must never believe anything Monty says,” he observed. “It’s only his air of innocence that makes people think him honest. His flirtations on board ship were nothing short of scandalous and yet look at him now.”

And poor Monty, although to him had fallen the honor of taking in his hostess, was paying no sort of attention to her sallies.

Nora glanced at him and then looked up at Denby. “I’m really awfully fond of Monty, and I’m worried—if you’ll believe it—because he seems upset. Monty,” she called, “what’s the matter with you, and what are you thinking about?”

“We’ll have some to-morrow,” Michael observed amiably. “They induce in me a most remarkable thirst, so I keep off them on that account.”

“He’s thinking,” Denby reminded her, “of the old song, ‘A frog he would a-wooing go!’ I’ve heard of you often enough, Miss Rutledge, from Monty.”

“Well, I wish you’d started being confidential with the hors d’œuvres,” she said, “instead of waiting until dessert. If you had, by this time you’d probably have been really amusing.”

She rose at Mrs. Harrington’s signal and followed her from the room.

“What I can’t see,” observed she, “is why we didn’t stay and have our cigarettes with the men.”

“I always leave them together,” Alice Harrington said with a laugh, “because that’s the way to get the newest naughty stories. Michael always tells ’em to me later.”

“Alice!” cried Nora with mock reproof.

“Oh, I like ’em,” Alice declared, “when they’re really funny, and so does everybody else. Besides, nowadays it’s improper to be proper. Cigarette, Ethel?”

Miss Cartwright shook her head. “You know I don’t smoke,” she returned.

“What do you think of our new friend, Mr. Denby?” Alice asked of her.

“I like him in spite of the fact that he hardly noticed me. He couldn’t take his eyes off Ethel.”

“I saw that myself,” Mrs. Harrington returned. “You know, Ethel, I meant him to take you in to dinner, but Nora insisted that she sit next to him. She’s such a man-hunter!”

“You bet I am,” the wise Nora admitted—“that’s the only way you can get ’em.”

Mrs. Harrington turned to Ethel Cartwright. “Didn’t you and Mr. Denby have a tiny row? You hardly spoke to him through dinner.”

“Didn’t I?” the girl answered. “I’ve a bit of a headache.”

“I’ll bet they had a lovers’ quarrel before dinner,” Nora hazarded.

Alice Harrington arched her eyebrows in surprise. “A lovers’ quarrel!”

“How perfectly ridiculous,” Ethel said, with a trace of embarrassment in her manner. “Don’t be so silly, Nora. I met him for a week in Paris, that’s all, and I found him interesting. He had big talk as well as small, but as for love—please don’t be idiotic!”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” laughed her hostess.

“I don’t blame you, Ethel,” Nora admitted frankly. “If he’d give me a chance I’d fall for him in a minute, but attractive young men never bother about me. The best I can draw is—Monty! I’m beginning to dislike the whole sex.”

“Theoretically you are quite right, my dear,” said the maturer Alice; “men are awful things—God bless ’em—but practically, well, some day you’ll explode like a bottle of champagne and bubble all over some man.”

“Speaking of champagne,” Nora said after a disbelieving gesture at the prophecy, “I wish I had another of Michael’s purple drinks. He’s a genius.”

“Does he really drink much?” Nora demanded.

“Not when I’m at home,” Alice declared. “Nothing after one. If he goes to bed then he’s all right; if he doesn’t, he sits up till five going the pace that fills. I wouldn’t mind if it made him amusing, but it makes him merely sleepy. But he doesn’t drink nearly as much as most of the men he knows. What makes you think he does, is that he makes such a ceremony out of drinking. I don’t think he enjoys drinking alone. Nora,” she added, “do sit down; you make me dizzy.”

“I can’t,” Nora told her. “I always stand up for twenty minutes after each meal. It keeps you thin.”

“Does it?” Mrs. Harrington asked eagerly, rising from her comfortable chair. “Does it really? Still, I lost nine pounds abroad!”

“Goodness!” Nora cried enviously. “How?”

“Buttermilk!” Alice cried triumphantly.

“And I walked four miles this morning in a rubber suit and three sweaters, and gained half a pound,” Nora declared disconsolately.

“I do wish hips would come in again,” Alice Harrington sighed. “Ah, here come the men,” she said more brightly, as the three entered.

“It’s delicious,” Denby declared.

Michael sighed. “I used to think so until my wife stopped my drinking.”

Even Monty seemed cheered by it. “Fine stuff,” he asserted. “I can feel it warming up all the little nooks and crannies.”

“Purple but pleasing,” Denby said, with the air of an epigrammatist.

“Did they tell you any purple stories?” Michael’s wife demanded.

“We don’t know any new stories,” Denby told her; “we’ve been in England.”

“Do sit down, all of you,” Alice commanded. “We’ve all been standing up to get thin.”

“If they’re going to discuss getting thin and dietetics,” Michael said, “let’s get out.”

“Woman’s favorite topic,” Monty remarked profoundly.

“But you mustn’t sit down, Alice,” Nora warned, as her hostess seemed about to sink into her chair. “It isn’t twenty minutes!”

“Well, I think it is twenty minutes,” she returned smiling, “and if it isn’t I don’t care a continental.”

“Women are so self-denying,” Michael Harrington observed with gentle satire.

“Twelve pounds,” Michael exclaimed, and then by a rapid-fire bit of mental arithmetic added: “Why, that’s sixty dollars. How women do gamble nowadays!”

“Pounds of flesh, Michael, pounds of flesh. She was on a diet. She didn’t eat for three days.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Nora said approvingly. “Sometime when I’m not hungry I’ll try it.”

Ethel Cartwright had refrained from joining in the conversation for the reason she had no part just now in their lighter moods. Their talk of weight losing had been well enough, but Michael’s misinterpretation of the twelve pounds brought back to her the cause of Amy’s misfortune and plunged her deeper into misery.

She walked toward the window and looked over the grass to the deep gloom of the cedar trees opposite. And it seemed to her that there were moving shadows that might be Taylor and his men ready to pounce upon a man to whom a year ago she had been deeply drawn. There was a charm about Denby when he set himself to please a woman to which she, although no blushing ingénue, was keenly sensible.

She assumed a lighter air. “No,” she told him brightly. “Ghosts belong to the past. I was seeing spirits of the future.”

“Can’t we see them together?” he suggested. “I shall never tire of Parisian ghosts if you are there to keep me from being too scared. Let’s go out and see if the moon looks good-tempered. The others are talking about smuggling and light and airy nothings like that. Shall we?”

“No, no!” she said, with a tremor in her voice that did not escape him. “Not yet; later, perhaps.”

She could, in fact, hardly compose her face. Here he was suggesting that she take him into a trap to be prepared later by her treachery. But she had what seemed to her a duty to perform, and no sentiment must stand in the way of her sister’s salvation. And there was always the hope that he was innocent. At any other time than this she would have wagered he was without blame; but this was a day on which misfortunes were visiting her, and she was filled with dread as to its outcome.

“So you are talking of smuggling,” she said. “Alice, did you really bring in anything without paying duty on it?”

“Not a thing,” Alice returned promptly. “I declared every solitary stitch.”

“I’d like to believe you,” her husband remarked, “but knowing you as I do—”

“I paid seven hundred dollars’ duty,” his spouse declared.

“Disgusting!” Nora exclaimed. “Think of what you could have bought for that!”

“Please tell me,” Michael inquired anxiously, “what mental revolution converted you from the idea that smuggling was a legitimate and noble sport?”

“I still don’t think it’s wrong,” Alice declared honestly. “Some of you men seem to, but I’d swindle the government any day.”

“Then, for Heaven’s sake,” Nora wanted to know, “why waste all that good money?”

Alice waved a jewelled white hand toward Steven Denby.

“Behold my reformer!”

Ethel Cartwright looked at him quickly. Her distrust of motives was the result of her conversation with Daniel Taylor, who believed in no man’s good faith.

“What has Mr. Denby to do with it?” Nora cried, equally surprised that it was his influence which had stayed the wilful Alice.

“He frightened me,” Alice averred.

“I want to have a good look at the man who can do that,” Michael cried.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Harrington is exaggerating,” Denby explained patiently; “I merely pointed out that things had come to a pass when it might be very awkward to fool with the Customs.”

“They didn’t give us the least bit of trouble at the dock,” she answered. “I wish I’d brought in a trunk full of dutiable things. They hardly looked at my belongings.”

“That sometimes means,” Denby explained, “that there will be the greatest possible trouble afterwards.”

“I don’t see that,” Nora asserted. “How can it be?”

“But you said a whole lot more than that,” Mrs. Harrington reminded him. “When our baggage was being examined at Dover, you spoke about that man of mystery who is known as R. J. It was cumulative, Mr. Denby, and on the whole you did it rather well. My bank-book is a living witness to your eloquence.”

Ethel asked rather eagerly, “But this R. J., Mr. Denby, what is he?”

“I’ve heard of him,” Michael answered. “Some man at the club told me about him, but I very soon sized that matter up. If you want to know my opinion, Ethel, R. J. is the bogey man of the Customs. If they suspect an inspector he receives a postal signed R. J., and telling him to watch out. It’s a great scheme, which I recommend to the heads of big business corporations. I don’t believe in R. J.”

Ethel looked up at Denby brightly. “But you really believe in him, don’t you?”

“What an awfully unpleasant position,” Nora shuddered.

“Think of a man deliberately choosing a job like that!” Monty commented.

“So,” Denby continued, “when a friend of mine in Paris told me that R.J. had been requested by the government to investigate Customs frauds, I knew there would be more danger in the smuggling game than ever. I warned Mrs. Harrington because I did not want to see her humiliated by exposure.”

“That’s mighty good of you, Denby,” Michael said appreciatively; “but all the same I don’t see how—supposing she had slipped in without any fuss some stuff she had bought in Paris or London and ought to have declared—I don’t see how if they didn’t know it, they could blackmail her.”

“They do that?” said Michael indignantly. “I never did trust Frenchmen, the sneaks. I’ve no doubt that the heure de l’aperitif was introduced by an American.”

Miss Cartwright had been watching Denby closely. There was forced upon her the unhappy conviction that this explanation of the difficulties of smuggling was in a sense his way of boasting of a difficulty he had overcome. And she alone of all who were listening had the key to this. It was imperative—for the dread of Taylor and his threats had eaten into her soul—to gain more explicit information. Her manner was almost coquettish as she asked him:

“Tell me truly, Mr. Denby, didn’t you smuggle something, just one tiny little scarf-pin, for example?”

“Nothing,” he returned. “What makes you think I did?”

“It seemed to me,” she said boldly, “that your fear that Mrs. Harrington might be caught was due to the fear suspicion might fall on you.”

“It does sound plausible,” he admitted.

“Then ’fess up,” Michael urged. “Come on, Denby, what did you bring in?”

“Myself and Monty,” Denby returned, “and he isn’t dutiable. All the smuggling that our party did was performed by Monty out of regard for you.”

“I still remain unconvinced,” Ethel Cartwright declared obstinately. “I think it was two thoughts for yourself and one for Alice.”