DEAR LADY,

Apologies for my rudeness. If you won't accept a gift, at least wear

the ring for a week. I should like to know what effect it could have on

your cold little soul. Oblige my curiosity. It's only a little

reparation for the disappointment I gave you. J.G.S.

"Decidedly, he is cleverer than I thought," she said musingly. In the

box was the great ruby ring. She took it up, examined it carefully, made

a motion as though to replace it in the box, and then suddenly slipped

it on her finger.

*CHAPTER II*

Mrs. Kildair knew pretty nearly every one in that indescribable society

in New York which is drawn from all levels, without classification, and

imposes but one condition for membership--to be amusing. Her home, in

fact, supplied that need of all limited and contending superimposed

sets, a central meeting-ground where one entered under the protection of

a flag of truce and departed without obligation. She knew every one,

and no one knew her. No one knew beyond the vaguest rumors her history

or her resources. No one had ever met a Mr. Kildair. There was always

about her a certain defensive reserve the moment the limit of

acquaintanceship had been touched. Mrs. Enos Bloodgood, who saw her

most and gave her the fullest confidence, knew no more than that she had

arrived from Paris five years before, with letters of introduction from

the best quarters. Her invitations were eagerly sought by leaders of

fashionable society, prima donnas, artists, visiting European

aristocrats, and men of the moment. Her dinners were spontaneous, and

the discussions, though gay and usually daring, were invariably under

the control of wit and good taste.

As soon as Slade's present had been received she passed into the

dining-room to assure herself that everything was in readiness for the

informal chafing-dish supper to which she had invited some of her most

congenial friends, all of whom, as much as could be said of any one,

were habitues of the studio. Then, entering her Louis Quinze bedroom,

which exhaled a pleasant stirring atmosphere of perfume, she slipped off

her filmy purple tea-gown and chose an evening robe of absolute black,

of warm velvet, unrelieved by any color, but which gave to her shoulders

and arms that softness and brilliancy which no color can impart.

Several times she halted, and, seating herself at her dressing-table,

fell into a fascinated contemplation of the great ruby that trembled

luminously on her finger like a bubble of scarlet blood. When, in the

act of deftly ordering the masses of her dark ruddy hair, her white

fingers lost themselves among the tresses, she stopped more than once,

entranced at the brilliancy of the stone against the white flesh and the

sudden depths of her hair.

She rose and began to move about the room; but her hand from time to

time continued its coquetries above her forehead, as though the ring had

suddenly added to her feminine treasury a new instinctive gesture.

At half-past seven, having finished dressing, she opened the doors which

made a thoroughfare between the studio and the small dining-room, and

passed into the larger room, where, at one end, Kiki had brought forth

three Sheraton tables, joined them, and set them with crystal and

silver.

"Put in order my bedroom," she said, with an approving nod, "and then

you can go."

She moved about the studio, studying the arrangements of the furniture,

seeing always from the tail of her eye the scarlet spot on her finger.

"I wonder what it's worth," she said softly. "Ten, fifteen thousand at

the least." She held the ring from her, gazed at it dreamily. "I

wonder what woman's eye has looked upon you, you wonderful gem," she

whispered; and, as though transported with the vision of the past, she

drew it slowly toward her and pressed her lips against it.

At this moment a buzz sounded from the hall, and she recovered herself

hastily and, a little ashamed, said with a feeling of alarm as she went

to the door:

"Slade is entirely too clever; I must send it back tomorrow morning."

Before she could reach the door it had opened, and there entered, with

the informality of assured acquaintance, a young man of twenty-five or

-six, smiling, boyish, delighted at having stolen a march on the other

guests.

"You are early," said Mrs. Kildair, smiling with instinctive reflection

of the roguish enjoyment that shone on his handsome, confident face.

"Heavens, haven't I been beating the pavements for fourteen minutes by

the watch!" he said, laughing. "Regular kid trick." He took her hand,

carrying it to his lips. "The way they do in France, you know."

"You're a nice boy, Teddy," she said, patting his hand. "Now, hang up

your coat, and help me with the candles."

She watched him as he slipped his overcoat from the trim wide shoulders,

revealing all at once the clean-cut, well-tailored figure, full of

elasticity and youth. Teddy Beecher always gave her a sense of

well-being and pleasant content, with his harum-scarum ways and inviting

impudence. As he roused no intellectual resistance in her, she was all

the more sensitive to the purely physical charm in him, which she

appreciated as she might appreciate the finely strung body and

well-modulated limbs of a Perseus by Benvenuto Cellini.

"Will I help you? Command me," he said, coming in eagerly. "Don't you

know, there's a little silver collar about my neck, and the inscription

is, 'This dog belongs to Rita Kildair.' Jove, Rita, but you're stunning

tonight!"

He stood stock-still in frank amazement. He had known her but a short

while, and yet he called her by her first name--a liberty seldom

accorded; but the charm he unconsciously exerted over women, and which

impatiently mystified other men, was in the very audacity of his

enjoyment of life, which imparted to women the precious sense of their

own youth.

"Really?" she said, raising her hand to her hair, that he might notice

the glorious ruby.

"Look here--I've only got a miserable thirty thousand a year, but I've

got a couple of uncles with liver trouble and a bum heart. Say the

word--I'm yours."

While he said it with a mock-heroic air, there was in his eyes a flash

of excited admiration that she understood and was well pleased with.

"Come, Teddy," she said, a little disappointed that he did not perceive

the ring. "To work. Take this taper."

He took the wax, contriving to touch her fingers with feigned

artlessness.

"I say, Rita, who's the mob here tonight? Do I know any one? I get the

place next to you, of course?"

"Begin over there," she directed. "The Enos Bloodgoods are coming;

you've met her here."

"I thought they were separated, or something."

"Not yet."

"By George, Rita, there's no one like you--serving us up a couple on the

verge."

"That is not all--I like situations," she said, with her slow smile.

"I like Elise; but as for the old boy, he can slip on a banana peel and

break his neck, for all I care.

"Then there's a broker, Garraboy, Elise's brother."

"Don't know him."

"Maud Lille, who's written clever books--a journalist."

"Don't know her--hate clever women."

"Nan Charters--"

"Who?" said Beecher, with upraised wick.

"Nan Charters, who played in 'Monsieur Beaucaire.'"

"Bully!"

She smiled at his impetuousness, and continued:

"Mr. Majendie and the Stanley Cheevers."

"Oh, I say--not those--"

"Well?" she said as he stopped.

"You know the gambling story," he said reluctantly.

"Club gossip."

"Of course," he said, correcting himself. "One of my friends was

present. The Cheevers play a good game, a well-united game, and have an

unusual system of makes. They are very successful--let it go at that.

You don't mean to say that Majendie'll be here?"

"I expect him."

"He was a friend of the dad's--a corker, too. I don't know much about

those things, but isn't he supposed to be up against it?"

Three knocks in close succession sounded on the outer door, and Garraboy

entered with an air of familiarity that was displeasing to the younger

man. The two saluted impertinently, with polite antagonism, detesting

each other from the first look.

"Go on with the candles, Teddy," said Mrs. Kildair, signaling to the

newcomer, a young man of forty who seemed to have been born bald,

wrinkled, and heavy-eyed. The long, bald head on the thin, straight

little body, and the elongated white collar, gave him somewhat the look

of an interrogation-mark. He was heavily perfumed.

"What's the news of the market?" she asked.

"Another odd turn--went up a couple of points," he said, looking at her

hand. Unlike Beecher, he had instantly noted the new acquisition with a

malicious smile. His thumb gave a little jerk and he added softly:

"Something new?"

"Yes. Why should the market go up?" she said, seeming to be intent only

on the effect of the bracketed candles, that now licked the tapestried

walls with their restless tongues.

"There's a general belief that a group of the big fellows will stand

behind the trust companies in return for certain concessions. I say,"

he continued, watching the ruby ring, which instinctively she tried to

conceal from him, "I hope Elise isn't going to make a fool of herself

about Majendie."

"Teddy, Teddy, you've forgotten the two over the plaque!" she said

aloud--and, a little lower: "She won't; don't fear."

"I know her better," he said, without, however, betraying the slightest

brotherly agitation. "She is apt to do something crazy if anything went

wrong with Majendie. Bloodgood's a hard-skinned old brute, but if there

was anything public he'd cut up ugly."

"I hear he's in the market."

"Yes--on the short side, too--in deep."

"And you?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I thought we never told secrets, Mrs. Kildair. Who else is coming? Am

I representing the element of respectability again tonight?"

"The what?" She looked at him steadily until he turned away nervously,

with the unease of an animal. "Don't be an ass with me, my dear

Garraboy."

"By George," he said irritably, "if this were Europe I'd wager you were

in the Secret Service, Mrs. Kildair."

"Thank you," she said, smiling appreciatively, and returned toward young

Beecher, who was waiting by the piano with ill-concealed resentment.

The Stanley Cheevers entered--a short, chubby man with a bleached,

vacant face tufted with mustache and imperial, devoid of eyebrows, with

watery eyes that moved slowly with the motion of his gourd-like head;

Mrs. Cheever, voluble, nervous, over-dressed, young with the youth of a

child and pretty with the prettiness of a doll.

Beecher, who knew them, bowed with a sense of curiosity to Mrs. Cheever,

who held him a little with a certain trick she had of opening wide her

dark, Oriental eyes; and dropped, with a sense of physical discomfort,

the hand that Cheever flabbily pressed into his.

"Decidedly, I am going to have a grand little time by myself," he said

moodily. "Where the deuce does Rita pick up this bunch?"

The Enos Bloodgoods were still agitated as they entered. His lips had

not quite banished the scowl, nor her eyes the scorn.

"Permit me, my dear," he said, taking off her wrap, and the words struck

those who heard them with a sudden chill.

He was of the unrelenting type that never loses its temper, but causes

others to lose theirs, immovable in his opinions, with a prowling walk,

a studied antagonism in his manner, while in his bulgy eyes was an

impudent stare which fastened itself like a leech on the person

addressed, to draw out his weakness.

Elise Bloodgood, who seemed tied to her husband by an invisible leash,

had a hunted, resisting quality back of a certain desperate dash which

she assumed, rather than felt, in her attitude toward society--just as

she touched with red, cheeks that were meant to be simply the background

of eyes that were extraordinary, with a lurking sense of tragedy.

"Rita, dear, I am almost frantic tonight," she said hastily, in one of

those intimate moments of which women avail themselves in the midst of

their enemies.

"The last rumors are good," said Mrs. Kildair, bending over her

ostensibly to arrange her scarf.

"Who told you?"

"Your brother. Every one downtown believes the panic is stopped. The

market has gone up. Gunther and Snelling are Bernard's personal

friends."

"Friends?" she said bitterly. "Yes, that's just the trouble."

"Besides, he is coming tonight--you knew?"

"Yes, I knew," said Mrs. Bloodgood, with a glance at her husband, who,

at the other side of the studio, seemed intent only on examining a

reliquary in carved stone.

"Then he will tell you himself," said Mrs. Kildair, rearranging a little

ornament that made a splash of gold on the black hair of her companion.

"Be careful---don't talk too much now."

"What do I care?" she said rebelliously. "It has got to end sometime."

She passed her husband, her dark shoulder flinching unconsciously at his

near presence, and gave her hand to Stanley Cheever and young Beecher,

who, though utterly unconscious of the entanglements of the evening, was

struck by the moody sadness in her eyes that so strangely contradicted

the laugh that was on her lips. But as he was wondering, a little

constrained, how best to open the conversation, the door opened once

more and two women entered--Nan Charters, who arrived like a little

white cloud, vibrantly alert and pleased at the stir her arrival

occasioned, and Maud Lille, who appeared behind her as a shadow, very

straight, very dark, Indian in her gliding movements, with masses of

somber hair held in a little too loosely for neatness.

"Oh, dear, am I dreadfully late?" said Nan Charters, who swept into the

studio the better to display her opera-cloak, a gorgeous combination of

white and gold Japanese embroideries, which, mounting above her throat

in conjunction with a scarf of mingling pinks, revealed only the tip of

her vivacious nose and sparkling eyes.

"You are strangely early," said Mrs. Kildair, who presented Beecher with

a gesture which at the same time directed him to attend to the wraps.

"Thank you," said Miss Charters, with a quick smile, and by an

imperceptible motion she allowed the cloak to slip from her shoulders

and glide into the waiting hands, revealing herself in a white satin

shot with pigeon red, which caused the eyes of all the women present to

focus suddenly. Garraboy, Cheever, and Bloodgood, who knew her, came up

eagerly.

Teddy Beecher, his arms crowded with the elusive garment, which gave him

almost the feeling of a human body, bore it to the hall and arranged it

with care, pleasantly aware of the perfume it exhaled. He returned

eagerly, conscious of the instantaneous impression her smile had made on

him as she turned to thank him, a look that had challenged and aroused

him. She was still chatting gaily, surrounded by the three men, and he

was forced to occupy himself with Mrs. Bloodgood. His eyes, however,

remained on the young girl, who was listening with unaffected pleasure

to the compliments of her male audience. Something in the chivalry of

the younger man revolted at the spectacle of the sophisticated Garraboy

and the worldly appetites in the eyes of Cheever and Bloodgood. He felt

almost an uneasy sense of her peril, which was in effect an instinctive

emotion of jealousy, and, profiting by the moment in which Mrs.

Bloodgood turned to Miss Lille, he slipped to Miss Charters' side and

contrived to isolate her.

The studio was now filled with chatter. Mrs. Kildair passed from group

to group, animating it with a word or two. With the exception of Teddy

Beecher and Nan Charters, in the several groups there was but one

question--the events of the day in the financial world and the probable

outcome of the secret conference at Gunther's.

Every one watched the clock, awaiting the last arrival with an

impatience that was too truly founded on the safety of their personal

fortunes to be concealed.

"The conference ended at six-thirty," said Maud Lille to Bloodgood and

Cheever; "Majendie left for his house immediately after. I had it from

the city editor on the telephone."

"Was any statement given out?" said Cheever, who put one finger to his

lip, as he did when a little nervous.

"None."

"If he goes under, it means the bottom out of the market," said Cheever,

fixing his owlish stare on Bloodgood's smug face.

"Are you long?" asked Bloodgood, turning on him with curiosity.

"A thousand shares," answered Cheever, but in a tone that carried no

conviction.

"He won't come," said Maud Lille obstinately.

"If he does," said Cheever slowly, "he's pulled through and the market

ought to go up." And a second time his finger jerked up to his lips,

with the gesture of the stutterer.

"He won't come," repeated Maud Lille.

Bloodgood gave her a short look, trying to fathom the reason of her

belief, a question he did not care to put before Cheever.

At this moment Majendie appeared at the entrance of the studio. The

conversation, which had been mounting in nervous staccatos, fell with

the hollowness that one sometimes feels in the air before the first

crash of a storm. By an uncontrollable impulse, each turned, eager to

read in the first indication some clue to his personal fate.

The last arrival had opened the outer door unheard, and, profiting by

the commotion, had removed his overcoat and hat in the anteroom.

When the rest of the party perceived him, Majendie was standing erect

and smiling under the Turkish lamp that, hanging from the balcony, cast

a mellow light on his genial, aristocratic forehead. In every detail,

from the ruddy, delicately veined cheeks and white mustache to the

slight, finely shaped figure at ease in the evening coat that fitted him

as a woman's ball gown, he radiated the patrician, but the patrician of

urbanity, tact, and generous impulses.

"My dear hostess," he said at once, bending over Mrs. Kildair's hand

with a little extra formality, "a thousand excuses for keeping you and

your guests waiting. But just at present there are quite a number of

persons who seem to be determined to keep me from my engagements. Am I

forgiven?"

"Yes," she answered, with a sudden feeling of admiration for the air of

absolute good humor with which he pronounced these words, mystifying

though they were to her sense of divination.

"I think I know every one," he said, glancing around without a trace of

emotion at Bloodgood and Cheever, whose presence could not have failed

to be distasteful. "You are very good to be so lenient, and I will

accept whatever penance you impose. Are we going to have one of those

delightful chafing-dish suppers that only you know how to provide?"

"What pride!" she murmured to herself, as he passed over to Miss

Charters with a compliment that made her and Beecher break out laughing.

Up to the moment, the group had found not the slightest indication of

the probable outcome of the afternoon's conference. If anything, there

was in his carriage a quiet exhilaration. But the moment was

approaching when he must come face to face with Mrs. Bloodgood, who,

either in order to gain time for the self-control that seemed almost

beyond her, or that she might draw him into more immediate converse, had

withdrawn so as to be the last he should greet. Majendie perceived

instantly the imprudence of the maneuver, and by a word addressed to

Mrs. Kildair, who followed at his side, contrived to bring himself to

the farther side of the group, of which little Mrs. Cheever and Garraboy

were the other two.

"I make my excuses to the ladies first," he said, with a nod to

Garraboy, whom he thus was enabled to pass. He offered his hand to Mrs.

Bloodgood, saying: "Grant me absolution, and I promise to do everything

I can to make you as gay as I feel now."

Elise Bloodgood took his hand, glancing into his face with a startled

glance, and immediately withdrew, murmuring something inaudible.

Mrs. Kildair, who with everyone had been listening to his words for the

double meaning that seemed to be conveyed, stepped in front of Mrs.

Bloodgood to cover her too evident agitation.

"Elise," she said sharply, pressing her hand, "get hold of yourself.

You must! Everything is all right. Didn't you understand him?"

"Ah, if he were going to die tomorrow he would never tell me," said Mrs.

Bloodgood, pressing her handkerchief against her lips. "Nothing will

ever break through his pride."

"But he told you in so many words," said Mrs. Kildair--who, however,

didn't believe what she said.

"He told me nothing--nothing!"

"You must control yourself," said Mrs. Kildair, alarmed at her emotion.

"What do I care?"

"But you must! Listen. When I go into the dining-room don't follow me.

I will contrive to take your husband with me. Profit by the chance.

Besides, you are in no state to judge. Does Bernard look like a man who

has just been told he is ruined? Come, a little courage."

She left her and, stepping into her bedroom, donned a Watteau-like

cooking-apron, and, slipping her rings from her fingers, fixed the three

on her pin-cushion with a hatpin. From the mirror in which she surveyed

herself she could see the interior of the studio--Nan Charters' laughing

face above the piano, where she was running off a succession of topical

songs, surrounded by a chorus of men, while Beecher, at her side,

solicitously turned the pages.

"Teddy seems quite taken," she thought. But the tensity of the drama

drove from her all other considerations. Completely mystified by

Majendie's manner, she was studying the moment when she could throw him

together with Elise Bloodgood, convinced that from the woman she would

learn what the man concealed.

"Your rings are beautiful, dear, beautiful," said the deep voice of Maud

Lille, who, with Garraboy and Mrs. Cheever, was in the room.

"I never saw the ruby before," said Mrs. Cheever in a nervous voice.

"My dear, you are the most mysterious woman in the world. Think of

having a ring like that, and never wearing it!"

"It is a wonderful stone," said Mrs. Kildair, touching with her thin

fingers the ring that lay uppermost.

"It is beautiful--very beautiful," said the journalist, her eyes

fastened on it with an uncontrollable fascination.

Mrs. Cheever, her lips parted, her black eyes wide with eagerness,

leaned over. She put out her fingers and let them rest caressingly on

the ruby, withdrawing them as though the contact had burned them, while

on either cheek little spots of red excitement showed.

"It must be very valuable," she said, her breath catching slightly.

Garraboy, moving forward, suddenly looked at the ring.

"Yes, it is valuable--very much so," said Mrs. Kildair, glancing down.

Then she went to the door that led into the studio, and clapped her

hands:

"Attention, everybody! Beecher and Garraboy are the chefs. Each one

must choose his scullery-maid. Mr. Majendie is to make the punch.

Everyone else is butler and waitress. Mrs. Cheever, did you ever peel

onions?"

"Good heavens, no!" said Mrs. Cheever, delicately recoiling.

"Well, there are no onions to peel," said Mrs. Kildair, laughing. "All

you have to do is to carry dishes or make the toast--on to the kitchen!"

"Miss Charters, you are engaged at any salary you may name," said

Beecher, forestalling Garraboy, who was coming forward.

"But I shall drop every dish," said Nan Charters, rising from the piano.

"I don't know anything about cooking."

"Splendid! Then you'll make no mistakes."

He installed her at one end of the table, and went off for the

chafing-dish. When he returned, gingerly balancing it on a silver

platter, Garraboy, profiting by his absence, was seated beside Nan

Charters, speaking in a purposely low voice. She was listening,

perfectly composed, looking straight before her with a tolerant,

uninterested smile.

If women often can conceal their true natures from women, men seldom

deceive one another. There was a fixity in Garraboy's glance which

Beecher understood and hotly resented. But at the moment when, setting

the tray on the table, he was meditating some ill-advised remark, Mrs.

Cheever, passing by, said with ill-concealed impatience in her thin,

hurried voice:

"Mr. Garraboy, I am sorry for you, but I have been assigned as your

assistant, and I should like to know what I am to do."

Garraboy rose immediately, bowed with perfect suavity, and rejoined Mrs.

Cheever, who said to him something that the others did not hear, but at

which they saw him shrug his shoulders.

"Well, what are we going to make?" said Nan Charters, with the enjoyment

that this exhibition of feminine jealousy had brought still in her eyes.

"I don't like Garraboy," said Beecher directly.

"Why not?" she said, smiling a little, and raising her eyebrows as

though interrogating a child.

"Because I like you," he answered abruptly.

Accustomed to contend with men, she was surprised by the genuineness of

his remark, which was inspired by a sentiment deeper than jealousy. She

looked at him again with that sudden second estimate which is vital.

"He is not difficult to handle," she said carelessly, unaware of the

touch of intimacy which her reply permitted.

"I don't like him," he said obstinately, "and I don't like his

crowd--the crowd that is here to-night. They're like a pack of wolves.

What the deuce does Rita see in them?"

"Mrs. Kildair has generally, I should say, a very good reason for whom

she invites," she said carelessly.

"But these Cheevers--they're impossible. How the deuce do they live?"

"I thought Mr. Majendie very charming."

"Oh, Majendie--yes, I except him," he said enthusiastically. "He's a

gentleman."

"That counts a good deal with you?" she said, with a touch of raillery.

"It does. I think a gentleman is almost the rarest thing you meet with

today," he said, holding his ground, "a gentleman in the heart. I know

only four or five."

"Yes, you are right," she said, changing her tone. She looked at him a

third time, at the honest, boyish loyalty so plainly written on his

face, and said: "You haven't gone out much here?"

"No; I'm just back from knocking around the world, hunting in Africa and

all that sort of uselessness."

"Come and tell me about it sometime.

"May I?"

She laughed at his impetuousness, and pointed to the contents of the

chafing-dish, which had been simmering neglected; but more than once

during the operation her glance returned to the eager, earnest face.

Meanwhile, Garraboy, at the other end of the table, assisted by Mrs.

Cheever and Maud Lille, was busy with a lobster a la Newburg. Mrs.

Kildair, having finished in the kitchen, had entered the dining-room,

where she established a sort of provisional serving-table. She called

to her side Cheever and Bloodgood, and, under the pretext of arranging

the dishes from the china-closet, kept them isolated. At this moment

Elise Bloodgood approached Majendie, who, at the rear end of the studio,

was occupied with the brewing of a punch. Natural as was the movement,

it was instantly perceived by the four or five persons vitally

interested. A moment afterward Mrs. Bloodgood passed into the bedroom;

but there was in her carriage a triumph that she did not care to

conceal.

"He's won out," thought Bloodgood.

"The shorts will be caught," thought Cheever. "The devil! I must

cover."

"Has he lied to her?" said Mrs. Kildair to herself. "If everything is

all right, why should he conceal it from any one?"

She went across the room, stopping at the punch-table.

"Have you everything you need?" she asked.

"Everything, thank you," Majendie answered gently; but there was in his

voice a tired note, as if some effort had suddenly exhausted him.

"I understood what you meant," she said, looking at him not without a

little pity--an emotion which was rare with her. "Let me congratulate

you on the result of this afternoon."

"Thank you very much for your congratulations," he said quietly, taking

her hand. "If you knew, you will understand why I was kept so late."

As he bowed, the front of his jacket opening a little, she saw or

fancied she saw in the inner pocket a strip of green, slightly

protruding. She left him, still unconvinced, and turned to the company.

"Everything ready, Teddy? All right. Every one sit down. Mrs. Cheever

and Mrs. Bloodgood are appointed butlers--because real work will do them

good. Sit down, sit down. I'll be back in a minute."

As she turned to her bedroom, there came a strong ring, twice repeated.

She paused, astonished.

"Who can that be?" she thought, frowning, and directing her steps toward

the antechamber. "No one is allowed to come up. It must be a

telegram."

She opened the door, and Slade entered.

"I came right up," he said directly, "because I had no success on the

telephone. You rather excited my curiosity this afternoon. Please

invite me to your party."

The first moment of irritation was succeeded, on her part, by the

feeling of elation. The impulse that had brought Slade so unexpectedly

there was a feeling of jealousy, in which Beecher and Majendie were

confusedly mixed.

"He wishes to watch me with his own eyes," she said triumphantly. "Very

well; he shall be well punished."

Slade's arrival produced a moment of profound astonishment. Bloodgood

and Maud Lille exchanged quick glances, believing the meeting between

Majendie and Slade had been premeditated. Garraboy plucked Cheever

nervously by the sleeve, while Majendie, as if realizing that he was

dealing with an antagonist of a different caliber, rose with a little

nervous inflation of the chest. Rapid as had been the interim in the

antechamber, Mrs. Kildair had had time to say:

"Majendie is here. Do you know what happened this afternoon?"

"I do," said Slade, with malicious enjoyment, and he added: "Do you?"

"Yes," she replied, convinced, likewise, of the falsity of his

statement. Then aloud she added: "Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Slade, an

impromptu guest."

She passed with him about the table, introducing him where it was

necessary. Slade and Majendie did not offer hands; each bowed with a

quiet, measured politeness. On the contrary, when Beecher was reached,

the older man grasped the hand of the younger, and held it a moment with

a grip that, despite Beecher's own strength, made him wince.

"Teddy, be a good boy and place Mr. Slade somewhere," she said, resting

her hand purposely on the young man's shoulder. "I'll take off my apron

and be back immediately."

She stopped near Majendie, who had returned to the punch-table for an

extra glass, and, seeing that her movements were followed by Slade,

said:

"Bernard, believe me, I did not plan it. I had no idea he was coming."

"It makes not the slightest difference," he said instantly. "Mr. Slade

and I have no quarrel. Please don't worry about me."

"You're an awfully good sort," she said abruptly.

"That is high praise from you," he said, with a little critical smile

which showed he was not entirely the dupe of her maneuvers.

She went into her bedroom, and, divesting herself of her apron, hung it

in the closet. Then, going to her dressing-table, she drew the hatpin

from the pin-cushion and carelessly slipped the rings on her fingers.

All at once she frowned and looked quickly at her hand. Only two rings

were there. The third one--the ring with the ruby--was gone!

*CHAPTER III*

Her first emotion was of irritation.

"How stupid!" she said to herself, and, returning to her dressing-table,

began to search among the silver and ivory boxes. All at once she

stopped. She remembered with a vivid flash putting the pin through the

three rings.

She made no further search, but remained without moving, her fingers

slowly tapping the table, her head inclined, her lips drawn in a little

between her teeth, watching in the glass the crowded table reflected

from the outer studio.

In that gay party, one person was the thief--but which one? Each guest

had had a dozen opportunities in the course of the time she had been in

the kitchen.

"Too much prinking, pretty lady," called out Garraboy, who, from where

he was seated, could see her.

"Not he," she said quickly. Then she reconsidered: "Why not? He's

shifty--who knows? Let me think."

To gain time, she went slowly back to the kitchen, her head bowed, her

thumb between her teeth.

"Who has taken it?"

She ran over the characters of her guests and their situations as she

knew them. Strangely enough, with the exception of Beecher and

Majendie, at each her mind stopped upon some reason that might explain a

sudden temptation.

"And even Majendie--if he is bankrupt or running away," she thought.

"No, I shall find out nothing this way. That is not the important thing

just now. The important thing is to get the ring back. But how?"

All at once she realized the full disaster of the situation. Slade

would never believe her; and yet, how was it possible to admit before

others who had lent her the ring?

"What could I say to him?" she thought desperately. "No, no; I must have

the ring back, whatever happens. I won't give him that hold. I must

get it back--some way--somehow."

And mechanically, deliberately, she continued to pace back and forth,

her clenched hand beating the deliberate, rhythmic measure of her

journey.

In the studio, meanwhile, under the gay leadership of Majendie and Nan

Charters, the spirits of the company began to rise. The rival chefs

were surrounded by anxious admirers, who shouted laughing instructions

or protested with mock agony against the shower of red pepper.

The ceremony had served to bring Beecher and Nan Charters on terms of

sympathetic familiarity. The young actress had the secret of what is

meant by that much abused word--charm. Her vivacious movements were all

charming. The eagerness with which her eyes seized the excitement of

the moment, the soft and yet animated tones of her voice, the most

casual gesture she made, or the most evident reply, all seemed invested

with a peculiar charm which was at the same time a delight in pleasure

and a happiness in the consciousness of pleasing.

Beecher did not or could not conceal the empire she had so suddenly

acquired over his imagination, while Nan Charters, quite aware of what

was happening, laughingly provoked him further, a little excited beyond

the emotions of an ordinary flirtation.

During the progress of this personal duel, which, however, every one

perceived with different emotions, Slade, placed at the middle of the

table, followed only the expressions of Bernard Majendie, his scrutiny

at times becoming so insistently profound that the banker several times

noticed it with a swift glance of annoyed interrogation, which, however,

did not alter in the least the fixity of the other's gaze.

Meanwhile, two or three conversations, expressed in snatched phrases,

took place between those whose interests in the stock market were put in

jeopardy by the mystery as to Majendie's fate.

"There'll be a rush of the shorts to cover tomorrow, if this is true,"

said Cheever in a low whisper to his wife. "Pump Mrs. Bloodgood all you

can."

"How quick do you suppose they'll give the news out?" said Bloodgood to

Garraboy. "It means a buying movement as soon as they do."

"Any paper may have the news tomorrow," said the broker, and the glass

that he took from the punch-table shook as he raised it.

"Do you think Slade knows?"

"I'm not sure--but I think he does," said Garraboy carefully. "Better

meet me at the Waldorf at eleven. I'll get another line on it by then."

"Why the deuce should he pull through?" said Bloodgood, with a quick,

dull fury.

Garraboy, with his malicious smile, perceiving that Bloodgood's hatred

was purely financial, chuckled to himself, took a couple of glasses in

rapid succession, and returned to the table under perfect control, not

without a scowl at the other end of the table, where Nan Charters and

young Beecher were laughingly disputing the possession of the

pepper-shaker.

A moment later, as Mrs. Cheever was exclaiming at their hostess'

prolonged delay to Garraboy, who was dipping into the lobster a la

Newburg, which he was preparing to serve, Mrs. Kildair slipped into the

room like a lengthening shadow. Her entrance had been made with

scarcely a perceptible sound, and yet each guest was aware of it, at the

same moment, with the same uncontrollable nervous start.

"Heavens, dear lady," exclaimed Garraboy, with a twitch of his arms.

"You come in on us like a Greek tragedy. What is the surprise?"

As he spoke, Beecher, looking up, saw her turn suddenly on him, drawing

her forehead together until the eyebrows ran in a straight line.

"I have something to say to you all," she said in a quiet, discordant

voice, while her eyes ran restlessly through the company with a

predatory sharpness.

There was no mistaking the gravity in her voice. Garraboy extinguished

the oil-lamp, covering the chafing-dish clumsily with a disagreeable

tinny sound; Mrs. Cheever and Mrs. Bloodgood swung about abruptly; Maud

Lille rose a little from her seat; Nan Charters, dramatically sensitive,

seized unconsciously the arm of young Beecher; while the men, with the

exception of Slade, who still watched Majendie like a terrier, imitated

their movements of expectancy with a clumsy shuffling of the feet.

"Mr. Bloodgood."

"Yes, Mrs. Kildair?"

"Kindly do as I ask."

"Certainly."

She had spoken his name with a peremptory positiveness that was almost

an accusation. He rose, placing his napkin carefully at the side of his

plate, raising his short eyebrows a little in surprise.

"Go to the vestibule," she continued, immediately shifting her glance

from him to the others. "Are you there? Shut the sliding doors that

lead into the studio. Lock them. Bring me the key."

He executed the order without bungling, while the company, in growing

amazement, fascinated, watched his squat figure returning with the key.

"You've locked it?" she said, making the question an excuse to bury her

glance in his.

"As you wished me to."

"Thanks."

She took from him the key, and, shifting slightly, likewise locked the

door into her bedroom through which she had come.

Then, transferring the keys to her left hand, seemingly unaware of

Bloodgood, who still composedly awaited her further instructions, her

eyes studied a moment the possibilities of the apartment and then

returned to her guests.

"Mr. Cheever," she said abruptly.

"Yes, Mrs. Kildair."

"Put out all the candles except the candelabrum on the table."

"Put out the lights?" he said, rising, with his peculiar nervous

movement of the fingers to the lips.

"At once."

Mr. Cheever, in rising, met the glance of his wife, and the look of

questioning and wonder that passed did not escape the others.

"But, my dear Mrs. Kildair," cried Nan Charters, with a little nervous

catch of her breath, "what is it? I'm getting terribly worked up."

"Miss Lille," said Mrs. Kildair's undeviating voice of command, while

Beecher placed his hand firmly over his companion's, which had begun to

open and shut in nervous tension.

The journalist, more composed than the rest, had watched the proceedings

from that shadowy calm which had made her presence almost unnoticed.

Now, as though forewarned by professional instinct that something

sensational was hanging on the moment, she rose quietly with almost a

stealthy motion.

"Put the candelabrum on this table--here," said Mrs. Kildair, after a

long moment's confrontation. She indicated the large round table on

which the punch-bowl was set. "No, wait. Mr. Bloodgood, first clear

off the table, cover and all; I want nothing on it."

As Bloodgood started to remove the punch-bowl, Majendie rose quickly and

took the heavy candelabrum from the hands of Maud Lille, saying:

"Permit me; that's rather heavy for you."

"But, Mrs. Kildair--" began Mrs. Cheever's voice, in shrill crescendo.

Mrs. Kildair, as though satisfied by her examination of the journalist,

nodded to Majendie, and, perceiving the mahogany table clear, said

without notice of Mrs. Cheever:

"Good! Now put the candelabrum down on it."

In a moment, as Cheever proceeded lumberingly on his errand, the

brilliant cross-fire of lights dropped away in the studio, only a few

smoldering wicks winking on the walls, while the high ceiling seemed to

recede as it came under the sole dominion of the three candles bracketed

in silver at the head of the bare mahogany table.

"Now listen!" said Mrs. Kildair, and her voice was cold and abrupt. "My

ring has just been stolen!"

She said it suddenly, hurling the news at them, and waiting ferret-like

for some indication in the chorus that broke out.

The hand that Beecher still grasped shot out from him as though it had

been stung. For the first time, Slade, forgetting Majendie, wheeled

brusquely and concentrated his glance on Mrs. Kildair, who listened

unmoved to the storm of exclamations:

"Stolen!"

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Kildair, not that!"

"Stolen--by Jove!"

"Rita dear!"

"What! Stolen--here--tonight?"

"The ring has been taken in the last twenty minutes," continued Mrs.

Kildair, in the same determined, chiseled accents. "I am not going to

mince words. The ring has been taken, and one of you here is the thief.

This is exactly the situation."

For a moment nothing was heard but an indescribable gasp, while each,

turning by an uncontrollable impulse, searched the face of his

neighbors. Suddenly Slade's deep bass broke out:

"Stolen, Mrs. Kildair?"

"Stolen," she replied quietly, meeting his inquisitorial glance.

"Have you searched very carefully?" said Majendie. "Mistakes are easily

made. It may have slipped to the floor. Are you certain that it has

been taken?"

"Exactly. There is not the slightest doubt," said Mrs. Kildair,

conscious of the almost admiring suspicion in Slade's glance. "Three of

you were in my bedroom when I took off my rings, placed a hatpin through

them, and fastened them to the pin-cushion. Am I correct, Mr. Garraboy?"

she added abruptly.

"Perfectly so," said the broker, staring ahead with a sudden

consciousness of his dilemma. He added punctiliously; "I was there."

"With the exception of Mr. Slade, each of you has passed through my

bedroom a dozen times. The ring is gone, and one of you has taken it."

Mrs. Cheever gave a little scream and reached heavily for a glass of

water. Mrs. Bloodgood said something inarticulate, covering her heart

with her hand in the muffled outburst of masculine exclamation:

"The devil you say!"

"Incredible!"

"I saw it."

"By Jove! A nasty mess."

Only Maud Lille's calm voice could be heard saying:

"Quite true. I was in the room when you took them off. The ruby was on

top."

Mrs. Cheever sought to add her testimony, but was incapable of speech.

In her agitation she spilled half of the glass of water as she put it

down from her lips.

"Was the ring valuable?" said Slade carefully, with a quiet enjoyment.

Their eyes met a moment--a look incomprehensible to the others.

"It was worth over fifteen thousand dollars," Mrs. Kildair answered, in

the buzz of astonishment.

"And what are you going to do about it?"

"I have not minced words," she said, turning her eyes to Maud Lille and

back to Garraboy. "There is a thief, and that thief is here in this

room. Now, I am not going to stand on ceremony. I am going to have

that ring back in one way or another--now. Listen to me carefully. I

intend to have that ring back, and, until I do, not a soul shall leave

this room."

"A search?" said Slade quietly.

"No," she said instantly, tapping on the table with her nervous

knuckles. "I don't care to know the thief--all I want is the ring. And

this is the way I am going to get it." She stopped for another quick,

searching glance, and continued with cold control:

"I am going to make it possible for whoever took it to restore it to me

without possibility of detection. The doors are locked and will stay

locked. I am going to put out the lights, and I am going to count one

hundred--slowly. You will be in absolute darkness; no one will know or

see what is done, and I give my word that I will count the full hundred.

There will be no surprise, no turning up of lights. But if, at the end

of that time, the ring is not placed here on this table, I shall

telephone for detectives and have every one in this room searched. Am I

clear?"

The transfer of the candelabrum to the further table had left those of

the diners who had remained by the dinner-table in half obscurity.

Instantly there was a shifting and a dragging of chairs, a confused

jumble of questions and explanations.

Nan Charters for the second time seized the arm of Teddy Beecher. She

murmured something which he did not hear. He glanced at her face, and

for a moment an incredible suspicion crossed his mind. But the next, as

he glanced down the table at the totally unnerved attitude of Mrs.

Cheever and Mrs. Bloodgood, he understood better the agitation of his

companion.

"Do you suspect any one?" he whispered, by an impulse that seemed to

spring into his mind.

The young actress turned to him with almost an expression of terror in

her eyes, which at the same time implored him to be silent.

"She knows something," he thought, with a somber feeling. His own face

was flushed. He felt that to all he must appear guilty. "Every one

feels the same," he thought, looking again at his companion, who was

gazing with almost frightened intensity straight ahead of her.

He followed her glance, and saw that the object of her gaze was none

other than Mrs. Enos Bloodgood, who still held her hand pressed over her

breast, her lips parted as though suffocating with emotion. But, before

he had time even to consider the bearing of this discovery, Mrs.

Kildair's voice, firm and unrelenting, cut short the confusion.

"Every one come to this table, please. Take your places here," she

said, and to emphasize the command she rapped sharply for order.

In the bustle that took place, Beecher was separated from Miss Charters,

and when he found himself at the table she was opposite him, her eyes on

the table.

"Can you make a little room?" he heard Maud Lille's low voice say, and,

drawing away from Cheever, who was on his right, he allowed the

journalist to take her place beside him.

Majendie was on the left of Mrs. Kildair, Slade next to him, sweeping

the table slowly with his direct, lowering glance, his lips slightly

pursed. Bloodgood, his hands sunk in his pockets, stared bullishly

ahead, while between Cheever and his wife there passed a covert,

terrible glance of interrogation. Garraboy, with his hands locked over

his chin, arms folded, looked straight ahead staring fixedly at his

hostess.

Mrs. Kildair, having assured herself that all was arranged as she

desired, blew out two of the three candles, which suddenly caused the

eyes on the dim faces to stand out in startled relief.

"I shall count one hundred--no more, no less," she said quietly.

"Either the ring is returned or every one in this room is to be

searched. Remember."

She motioned to Slade, who, leaning over, blew out the remaining candle,

while a little hysterical cry was heard from Mrs. Cheever.

The wick shone a moment with a hot, glowing spire, and then everything

was black. Mrs. Kildair began to count.

"One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten--"

She gave each number with the inexorable regularity of a clock's

reiterated note.

"Eleven--twelve--thirteen--fourteen-- fifteen--sixteen--seventeen--"

In the room every sound was distinct--the rustle of a shifting dress,

the grinding of a shoe, the deep, slightly asthmatic breathing of a man.

"Twenty-one--twenty-two--twenty-three--

twenty-four--twenty-five--twenty-six--"

The counting went on, without the slightest variation, with a methodic,

rasping reiteration that began to produce almost an hypnotic effect on

the imaginations held in suspense.

"Thirty--thirty-one--thirty-two--thirty-three--"

A slight rasping breath was heard, and then a man nervously clearing his

throat.

"Thirty-nine--forty--forty-one--forty-two--"

Still nothing had happened. No other sound had broken in on the

strained attention of every ear. Yet the voice that counted did not vary

in the slightest measure; only the sound became less human, more

metallic.

"Forty-seven--forty-eight--forty-nine-- fifty--fifty-one--fifty-two--"

A woman had sighed--Mrs. Bloodgood next to him--the sigh of a woman

yielding up consciousness to pain.

"Fifty-four--fifty-five--fifty-six--fifty-seven

--fifty-eight--fifty-nine--sixty--sixty-one--"

All at once, clear, ringing, unmistakable, on the sounding plane of the

table was heard a quick metallic note that echoed and reechoed in the

empty blackness.

"The ring!"

It was Maud Lille's deep voice that had cried out. Beecher suddenly

against his shoulder felt the weight of Mrs. Bloodgood's swaying body.

The voice that counted hesitated a moment, but only a moment.

"Sixty-two--sixty-three--"

Several voices began to protest:

"No, no!"

"Light the candles!"

"It's too much!"

"Don't go on!"

"Seventy-five--seventy-six--seventy-seven--

seventy-eight--seventy-nine--"

The sound dominated the protest. Some one began to laugh, an

hysterical, feverish laughter that chilled Beecher to the bones. He put

out his hand and steadied the body of the woman next to him.

"Eighty-five--eighty-six--"

"Hurry, oh, hurry--please hurry!" cried the voice of Nan Charters, and

some one else cried:

"Enough--this is terrible!"

"Ninety-five--ninety-six--ninety-seven-- ninety-eight--ninety-nine, and

one hundred."

At once a match sputtered in the hands of Slade. There was a cry from

every one, and the table shivered with the weight of those who craned

forward. Then a second cry of amazement and horror. The table was

absolutely bare. The ring a second time had been taken.

[Illustration: "In that gay party one person was a thief--but which one?

... A match sputtered. There was a cry of amazement and horror. The

table was absolutely bare"]

*CHAPTER IV*

For a full, strained moment not a sound escaped the company; even the

strongest natures, Slade, Majendie and Rita Kildair seemed powerless to

grasp what had taken place. Then the realization came, in a flash.

What the first thief had failed to carry through another had boldly

dared: a man or a woman, deliberately or hysterically, had seized the

opportunity that had lain there, in the darkness, between the

sixty-first second and the hundredth count.

The match in Slade's hands burned his fingers, and went out. In the

sudden blackness a dozen cries were heard:

"Light the candle!"

"Turn on the electric light!"

"Search the floor!"

"Stolen again!"

"Ghastly!"

"A light! A light!"

Another match sputtered, and one candle caught the flame and flung its

expanding circles of light around them.

"It must have rolled to the floor," said Majendie's voice, among the

first.

"Nonsense!" broke in Slade's powerful bass. "There are no carpets; we

would have heard it. There is a second thief here. Every one must be

searched. Mrs. Kildair, if you wish I'll call up my detective agency."

"No," said Mrs. Kildair instantly, and her voice had regained its calm.

"I will attend to that myself."

She went quickly to the door into the bedroom, unlocked it, passed

through, and locked it again. A moment later the impatient ring of a

telephone was heard.

In the ill-lit studio the greatest confusion prevailed. Every one

seemed, by a common impulse, to desire to escape to the farthest ends of

the room, stumbling and bumping against one another in the obscurity.

Some instinct impelled Beecher to Nan Charters' side. He took her arm

with a strong, reassuring grip, expecting to find her still shaken with

emotion; but, to his amazement, he found her entirely collected.

"Thank you, I am all right," she said, releasing herself, with a little

smile.

"Are you sure?" he said doubtfully.

At this moment, as he stood staring at her, perplexed, Slade's voice

rang out peremptorily:

"The electric lights--some one turn on the lights!"

He left her, and, going to the wall toward the antechamber, pressed the

three buttons embedded there. Instantly the great room was showered with

a brutal glare. Near the piano, Mrs. Cheever was sunk in an arm-chair,

in a seemingly hysterical state, while Mr. Cheever, glass in hand, was

bending over her; Mrs. Bloodgood was seated at the dining-table, her

head resting in her hands; Garraboy and Bloodgood were turning in the

middle of the floor. Only Maud Lille, stoic and alert, remained at her

original place. Slade and Majendie were carefully exploring the floor.

Beecher did not at once return to his companion. Her sudden change

perplexed him with thoughts that he did not wish to analyze too deeply.

He expected that she would rejoin Mrs. Bloodgood; but the young actress,

as though purposely avoiding her, went finally to where Maud Lille was

standing, and said, with a command that startled Beecher:

"Mr. Majendie, there is always a chance that the ring may have rolled

off the table and been caught in somebody's dress. Such things have

happened again and again. I suggest that every woman make a careful

search."

"Miss Charters is quite right," said Majendie, who, advancing to the

middle of the studio, repeated the suggestion. "The situation is

frightful; we must take every precaution to avoid the chances of an

accident."

The four women immediately began to examine the ruffles and draperies of

their skirts--without success.

All at once the door at the back of the room opened, and Mrs. Kildair

reappeared.

"I shall have the detectives here--a man and a woman--within half an

hour," she said. "There is nothing to do but wait."

She seated herself in a chair near the door, her hands stretched out

over the arms, her head lowered. Every one sat down, with the exception

of Maud Lille, who, however, shifted a little so as to have the support

of the piano. No one spoke; the situation had passed beyond comment.

On the dining-table the little alcohol-lamp under a chafing-dish burnt

itself out unnoticed. At the end of thirty-five minutes, during which

every one had been intent on the torturous progress of the clock, a

sudden buzz was heard.

Mrs. Kildair rose and, passing out by way of the bedroom, was heard

talking behind the closed doors that led into the hall, a sound followed

by the indistinguishable jumble of voices.

A nervous five minutes, and she reappeared, with the same

incomprehensible calm that had marked her during the period in the dark.

"The women will go into the bedroom," she said, without variation of her

voice. "The men will be searched in the dining-room."

"One moment," said Slade, taking a step in advance.

Mrs. Kildair turned with a start, the first agitation noticeable.

"It is absolutely necessary for me to keep an appointment at ten

o'clock," he said, glancing at the clock, which stood at the last

quarter. "As I was not here when the ring was first stolen, I ask the

privilege of being examined the first."

At this there was a murmur, and Mrs. Kildair hesitated.

Slade, giving a disdainful shoulder to the protest, strode deliberately

to Mrs. Kildair and spoke with her in a low voice. At the end of a

moment Mrs. Kildair nodded as though convinced, and, going to the

folding doors, unlocked them. Outside a man in a dark business suit, as

grimly correct as an undertaker, was waiting with folded arms.

Slade bowed and passed into the hall, shutting the doors behind him,

while Mrs. Kildair came back slowly, evidently running over in her mind

the order of selection.

"Mrs. Bloodgood," she said finally, "will you go first?"

Mrs. Bloodgood, surprised at the formal appellation, rose hastily, and

started blindly for the vestibule through which Slade had passed.

"In my bedroom, please," said Mrs. Kildair.

The young woman checked herself, faltering a little, and entered the

bedroom, where, for a moment, could be seen the drab figure of another

woman, ornamented by a little toque with a red feather.

"Mrs. Kildair," said Majendie, rising, "it is equally important for me

to leave as soon as possible. While I know that I ask a favor, possibly

all of you know that my affairs are at a vital stage, and I should

appreciate it very much if there were no objection to my being examined

the next."

He turned, with a courteous bow, as he concluded.

"I am perfectly willing," said Beecher at once.

"I am not," said Bloodgood, while Cheever made a gesture of dissent.

"Nor I," said Garraboy. "I have my own appointment, that means a great

deal to me. I regret that I cannot accede to Mr. Majendie's request."

"These gentlemen are quite within their rights," said Majendie,

accepting the refusal with the same courtesy. He thanked Beecher with a

smile, and added: "If you are willing, Mrs. Kildair, shall we draw lots

for it?"

"Quite so," said Mrs. Kildair, and she arranged four slips in her

fingers and tendered them.

Majendie drew the longest, and was, therefore, forced to wait until

Garraboy, Bloodgood, and Cheever had passed ahead. He glanced at the

clock with a sudden, uneasy look, and returned to his chair: but, for

the first time, a frown appeared on his face, while his fingers tore

into bits the slip of paper, which he did not notice he had retained.

Beecher was unpleasantly aware that Garraboy was watching him, and this

scrutiny, which might have been inspired by a personal jealousy, struck

him as a deliberate suspicion. He returned the look with a belligerent

intensity, conscious in his own mind that he had already formed a

prejudice as to the identity of the second thief.

"A woman might have taken the ring on impulse," he thought uneasily,

"but only a man could have had the cold daring to take it the second

time."

He eliminated Majendie by an instinctive rejection; Slade appeared an

equally impossible solution.

"It's Cheever, Bloodgood, or Garraboy," he thought. "And Cheever hasn't

the nerve--I don't believe it. It's Bloodgood or Garraboy--and Garraboy

is the most likely."

Suddenly a hot, panicky feeling came to him. What if the real

thief--Garraboy, for instance--had slipped the ring into his own pocket?

He unlocked his hands and hurriedly searched his clothes. Then annoyed

at seeing this childish action come under the notice of the broker, he

shifted in his seat and glanced toward Nan Charters. To his surprise,

he found again the same indications of nervousness in the concentration

of her eye on the door leading into the bedroom.

At this moment Mrs. Bloodgood emerged, and Mrs. Cheever went in. At

once the nervous tension of his companion seemed to relax, and she sank

back in her seat, with an indifferent glance around the room.

"Decidedly, there is something queer between the two," he thought,

mystified.

In the studio the same stony silence was maintained. Through the open

doors that led to the antechamber Slade reappeared, hesitated a moment

as if to reenter the studio, then bowed and went out. Behind him the

detective was seen waiting. Garraboy rose and immediately passed into

the back.

Mrs. Bloodgood had taken her seat apart, staring ahead as though by a

difficult process of mental control, for at times her glance, despite

the consciousness of her husband's espionage, flashed over to where

Majendie was impatiently following the movements of the clock.

When Garraboy's search had ended, he followed the precedent of Slade,

bowed without speaking, and departed; while Bloodgood, guarding the same

silence, passed into the dining-room. Maud Lille succeeded Mrs.

Cheever, who returned in the same state of agitation that she had shown

from the beginning. She started to approach her husband, when Mrs.

Kildair's controlled voice was heard:

"Not there, please, Mrs. Cheever. Kindly sit at this side of the room

with Mrs. Bloodgood."

Mrs. Cheever flushed instantly, and sank, or rather collapsed, in the

chair which had been indicated.

All at once there came another ring, followed by two or three impatient

taps on the outer door. There was a sudden stir in the room, where all

nerves were clearly on the edge, and Mrs. Cheever gave a little scream.

"I'll answer," said Cheever, rising.

"Wait," said Mrs. Kildair. She started toward the door, and then,

changing her mind, as if unwilling to relax her surveillance of events

in the studio, stopped. "Mr. Beecher, please," she said thoughtfully.

"See who it is." And she moved slightly toward the half-drawn

portieres, to hear and at the same time to be concealed.

Garraboy was outside, a coat on his arm.

"Excuse me," he said, without emotion. "I took the wrong coat. Stupid

of me. Just found it out."

"It looks like mine," said Beecher, examining it.

"Probably is," said Garraboy, who extracted another coat of similar

appearance from the rack, plunged into his pockets and nodded. "Sure

enough. Sorry. Good night."

So thoroughly disagreeable an impression had the broker produced upon

Beecher that, in a moment of suspicion, moved by an incredible thought,

he ran his hands hastily through the pockets.

"I shouldn't have been surprised," he grumbled to himself, and returned

to the studio, where the conversation had been overheard.

The search continued, ended, and, as all expected, no trace of the ring

was found.

Mrs. Kildair excused herself, evidently maintaining her calm with

difficulty. The guests, murmuring inarticulate phrases, took their

wraps, and young Beecher found himself shortly in a coupe beside Nan

Charters.

For several moments neither spoke, each absorbed in his own

speculations. Beecher studied the figure at his side with covert

glances, amazed at the transformation from the childlike charm which had

first fascinated him. An hour before he had begun to wonder how far

that feeling might develop in him; now, as he watched her, he was

conscious of a dispassionate, almost resentful analysis. The fragrance

of her perfume, a little too overpowering, filled the interior of the

coupe. She herself, bending slightly forward, one elbow against the

window-pane, pressed her ungloved knuckles against her chin, while her

glance, set and controlled, was lost in the cloudy shadows and striped

reflections of the street without.

"What is terrible in such a situation," she said musingly, but without

turning, "is that any one may be suspected."

The words were spoken with almost an absolute change of personality.

The very tone brought to him an increased antagonism.

"Quite true," he said. "You may have taken it the first time, and I the

second."

She turned and tried to distinguish his expression; but, if he had hoped

to startle, he was disappointed. She said, quite possessed:

"Why do you put it that way?"

"Because I am convinced that the second time was the deliberate action

of a man, and that the first was the impulse of a woman."

"Why a woman the first time?"

"That is simply my feeling. A woman would not calculate the chances of

detection, would have kept the ring on her person, and would have

restored it. What do you think?"

"Possibly," she said, her glance returning to the street.

"But you don't agree with me," he said, leaning a little forward.

"I don't know."

"Miss Charters, will you allow me to ask you a question?"

"What? Yes."

"Don't you know that a woman took it the first time?"

She turned very slowly and looked at him steadily a moment.

"I do not know," she said at last.

"But you suspect," he persisted.

"Do you know, Mr. Beecher, that this is a very strange question?" she

said. "Exactly what are you implying? Do you, by any chance, suspect

me?"

She said the last words gently, with a return of the first manner which

had so held him. And again, without being able to resist, he felt the

charm on his senses. He knew absolutely nothing about her. At times

the most direct suspicions had entered his mind; never-the-less all at

once he heard himself answering:

"I know nothing in the world about you, Miss Charters, but my instinct

tells me that is absolutely impossible."

"Only?"

"Only I can not forget your agitation at certain moments."

"Naturally; that is my temperament."

"You are perfectly calm now, and you were perfectly calm at certain

times tonight."

She turned suddenly in her seat and faced him, saying sharply:

"What do you mean?"

"May I speak frankly?"

"I ask you to do so," she said peremptorily.

"I think--in fact, I am convinced--that you suspect who took the ring in

the first place."

The cab was grinding against the curb. She put out her hand hurriedly,

as if the impulse were to jump from the carriage. But immediately she

checked the movement, and turned, saying very simply and directly:

"Do you wish to be my friend?"

"You know I do," he said, surprised.

"Then, if you do, and trust me, never ask that question again--or make

the slightest reference to it."

She held out her hand. He took it, but without an answer, opened the

door, saw her to her vestibule, and returned silent and moody, turning

over again and again in his mind the sudden contradiction in her

character.

"I wonder if she repels or attracts me most," he said, tramping over the

quiet pavements, which flung back the riotous thumping of his cane.

But, as he went aimlessly along, he felt again creeping over him the

suddenness of her charm and a certain unsatisfied restlessness to see

her again, which came to him with the faint scent of the perfume that

had clung to his coat.

All at once he stopped.

"I've got to get to the bottom of all this affair," he said abruptly.

"I believe she's as straight as they make 'em; I'd wager my soul on

it--but I've got to know!"

And, boarding a surface car, he returned to Rita Kildair's.

*CHAPTER V*

He had arrived at the studio building and entered the lower vestibule

before he was aware of the lateness of the hour. He pulled out his

watch, and found that it was almost midnight.

"Good heavens!" he said, taking a step back. "I quite forgot the time."

He started to go, then turned to the switchboard. "Could I telephone up

to Mrs. Kildair's apartment?"

"Go right up, Mr. Beecher," said the hallboy, rising.

"Are you certain?" he said doubtfully.

"Sure. Orders is to send up any one who calls."

A little surprised, he entered the elevator. At that moment a ring

sounded, and on the indicator the figure 4 dropped.

"That's her floor now," said the boy, starting up the elevator.

At the fourth he came face to face with Garraboy, who saw him with a

start of surprise and a sudden look of malice. The two nodded, without

cordiality.

"Hello," said Garraboy, looking at him with a curious fixity which he

remembered after. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you?" said Beecher abruptly.

"Some valuable information to volunteer?" persisted the other, with a

deliberate accent of irony.

"Perhaps."

"Indeed? Then you have come to assist in restoring the ring," said

Garraboy in a low voice; and on his young, wrinkled face was a faint

glimmer of a smile.

"Perhaps," said Beecher, flushing angrily. "Does that annoy you?"

"Not in the least," said Garraboy drily. "On the contrary, I am

interested--exceedingly so." He lifted his hat slightly and stepped

into the elevator.

"Now, what in the devil has he got in his mind?" thought Beecher

angrily. "And what was his idea in coming back? Nice look he gave me.

Thought he had such an all-fired important engagement that he had to

hurry away!"

He tried the door absent-mindedly, and found it locked. A long moment

after he had pressed a second time upon the bell, the door was opened by

Rita Kildair herself, who drew back in evident astonishment.

"You?" she said, frowning.

"I was going to telephone," he said, a little embarrassed; "but they

told me downstairs to come up."

"Quite right."

"Look here, Rita," he said, with a sudden feeling of intuition. "I know

you probably think I'm a prime representative of the pinhead family, but

I'm awfully broken up by what happened. Can't I help out some way?"

[Illustration: "'Look here, Rita. Can't I help you out some way?'"]

"Is that why you've come?" she said slowly.

"Of course," he said, meeting her scrutiny with a puzzled glance.

She considered a moment and then said abruptly:

"Go in and sit down. I'm busy at the telephone. I'll be back in a

moment."

The studio was still blazing with the electric chandeliers, the

dining-table still crowded with the untouched dinner, with that sense of

desolation and fatigue which the aftermath of a banquet presents.

Lighted up as it was, the studio had none of the mystery that

charmed--rather, something of the cruel garishness of the white sun.

He moved about aimlessly, arms crossed, his imagination repeopling the

room with the strongly accentuated personalities who had gathered there

an hour before, saying to himself over and over:

"Now, why the deuce did Garraboy come back?"

He approached the table and abstractedly took an almond and began

munching it. Then, perceiving the chafing-dish, reached over, with a

smile, and lifted the cover. But, at the moment his hand was

outstretched, his eyes, obeying some mysterious instinct, rose to a long

Venetian mirror opposite. In the clear reflection that showed the

balcony of the second floor, he distinctly beheld the head of a woman

protruding a little beyond the curtain.

"What the deuce!" he said, covering the chafing-dish with a bang. "It

can't be Rita--who then?"

All at once he comprehended. If the ring had not been found in the

search, it was because it had been concealed in the room, and the woman

in the balcony was a detective set to watch the trap--if the real thief

had the daring to return.

At this moment Rita Kildair entered from the bedroom.

"Good heavens, Rita!" he said directly. "You don't mean to say you

suspect me?"

"What do you mean?" she said, stopping short, her glance instinctively

seeking the balcony.

"I mean you've stuck a detective up there to see what I do the moment I

come into the studio. Good heavens! what do you think I came for?"

"My dear Teddy," she said, frowning at the stupidity of her spy, "is

there any one who can't be suspected? Do you blame me?"

"No, I suppose not," he blurted out. "Only, it gives a fellow a deuced

creepy feeling to have a couple of eyes looking through him from behind

the curtain. I say, why don't you search the place? The ring must be

here!"

"That is possible, of course," she said thoughtfully, her lip between

her little teeth, an impulsive movement when she was plunged in thought.

"Or are you waiting for the thief to come back here and try to recover

it? Of course, that's the plan."

"There's one thing," she said, with a quick, imperative gesture, looking

at him closely, "I want you to remember. There is nothing public to be

known. Whatever is done must be done quietly."

"Oh, of course," he said hastily. "I say, Rita, let me try to work this

out with you--give me your confidence! I wish you would."

She considered a moment, as though puzzled by his offer.

"I don't think it will ever be found," she said, shaking her head and

looking at him.

"But you suspect some one," he persisted.

She hesitated a moment, and then shook her head.

"No."

The second's delay convinced him.

"Man or woman?"

"It is only a speculation," she answered slowly, "but I believe it was a

woman."

"Both times?"

"Both times."

He took a turn, moodily disturbed, and came back.

"Tell me this, Rita," he said. "Who else came back here tonight?"

"Garraboy," she answered slowly, "and--Mrs. Cheever."

"Mrs. Cheever!" he exclaimed, astonished. "Why, she was on the verge of

prostration."

Mrs. Kildair smiled a thin, elusive smile, and was about to reply when

there came a ring at the door.

Instantly her manner changed. Placing her finger on her lips, at the

same time sending him a glance that commanded the utmost silence, she

took his hand and led him softly from the studio, through her bedroom

into the further obscurity of the dining-room, which was lit only by the

weak reflection which filtered through from the hall.

"Sit here, and not a sound," she said, placing her lips so close to his

ear that he felt the warm contact of her cheek. She gave him a slight

pressure of her fingers, and went back into the studio by way of her

bedroom, closing both doors.

Beecher, left in the darkness, strained every nerve to catch the sound

that would reveal the identity of the new arrival. It seemed to him

that he heard the sound of another woman's voice, and then presently, as

a shadow came to him through the twilight of the hall, he heard Mrs.

Kildair saying:

"--to telephone. Be back in a moment."

The next instant she was at his side, pressing his hand to prevent the

whisper that was on his lips. They sat thus side by side for what seemed

a full five minutes before she rose and silently passed into the hall

again. Beecher remained in complete bewilderment, unable to detect the

slightest sound of the conversation that was taking place. That the

same test was being applied to the new-comer which he himself had

detected, he understood; but which one of the many guests it might be,

he could not discover.

At the end of an interminable interval, he heard a few faint sounds, the

closing of the outer door, and presently the rustle of Mrs. Kildair's

approach.

"Come now," she said, waiting for him in the hall.

"Who came back then?" he asked eagerly.

She shook her head.

"I can not tell you--at least, not now. There are reasons why it would

not be quite fair," she said. Then, seeing his irritation, she tapped

him on the arm and added: "Listen, Teddy. It is too late to talk over

things. Run away now. Come in tomorrow at five."

"I want to help, you know," he said, taking her hand, guiltily conscious

of the smile with which she examined him--a smile that seemed to convict

him of treason. For the moment, however, the memory of the younger

woman was dimmed. He was conscious only of the indefinite lure of

mystery which Rita Kildair always exerted over his curiosity the moment

they were alone.

"Look here, Rita," he said impulsively, "I should think, in a case like

this, you'd want all the help you can get!"

Her smile disappeared. She looked at him a moment with almost a

masculine penetration, and then, her smile returning, said quietly:

"It's curious, but each person who came back here tonight came back just

to--help."

Not only her words, but her manner, struck him with a sense of

discomfort.

"Come in tomorrow," she said, pushing him gently toward the door. She

made a quick little motion with her fingers, looked at him with a

penetrating seriousness, and disappeared, leaving him thoroughly

confused and irritable.

"Why, she acts as though she suspected me!" he said, remembering her

continual examination. "Who the deuce came back then? What's Garraboy

in all this? Does he suspect me, too, and has he been saying anything

to Rita? What is terrible in such a situation is that any one may be

suspected." Suddenly he perceived that he had repeated the very words

that Nan Charters had used in the coupe.

"By George, what a rotten mess! I feel like a pickpocket already," he

said, with a sudden cold horror in his back. "Why shouldn't Rita

suspect me as well as any one else? This is no pleasure party; this is

serious--dead serious. I've got to work it out!"

*CHAPTER VI*

Teddy Beecher was a fair representative of the second generation. He

still retained the rugged democracy of the father who had fought his way

to a moderate fortune in the troubled regions of the coal-fields. To

him a man was a man, whatever the quality of his coat. Left an orphan

at fourteen, he had passed victoriously through boarding-school and

college without seriously troubling the peace of mind of those who were

competing for scholarship honors. He was liked because he liked every

one, not with a politic assumption, but from a veritable enjoyment of

life and men.

After graduation, he had gone West on a ranch with several of his

classmates, for the pure love of adventure and the delights of the great

open spaces. Having thus begun his education, he continued it by

knocking about the world, with periodic excursions in search of big

game. He had known a great many types of men without knowing them in

the least, and he appealed to all women without being deeply

impressionable to their influence. His philosophy of life was very well

summed up in a remark he had made on his return to New York--that he

would probably go to work if he couldn't find anything better to do.

When he awoke the day after Rita Kildair's party, it was with the clear

and dispassionate vision of the morning. The dramatic occurrences of

the night before flashed instantly into his consciousness, arousing all

the energy of his young curiosity. He recalled the promise to solve the

mystery he had made in a moment of enthusiasm, and with a renewed zest

began to consider how he should prove himself.

Several things immediately rose up to perplex him in the strange and

dramatic climaxes at which he had assisted--the twisted undercurrents of

which he was still completely ignorant. Why had Garraboy, and then Rita

Kildair, adopted an attitude of suspicion toward him when he had

returned? For Garraboy's hostility he found a ready answer in the

mutual antagonism that had risen from the first exchange of glances; but

the reception he had received at the hands of Mrs. Kildair thoroughly

mystified him.

"Of course, if the ring wasn't found in the search," he said, getting

out of bed and ringing for his man, "it's got to be in the studio; of

course--no way around that. Whoever took it the second time didn't get

much opportunity to hide it, either--unless it was hidden after the

candle was lit; there was a chance then--every one was stumbling around.

By Jove! I believe that's how it was done. But then, why the deuce

should more than one person return?"

He stopped and suddenly remembered his own return.

"That's so; a man might come back to offer help. But why a woman? And

who the deuce came back after I did--Miss Lille or Mrs. Bloodgood?"

At this moment the door opened on Charles, whom he had inherited with

one half of the luxurious apartment from Freddie Duyckerman, who had

gone to England for the hunting season.

"Your bath is ready, sir," he said, standing with that perfectly vacuous

expression which had been carefully trained to express neither joy,

grief, hilarity, nor the natural surprise which he might have

experienced at beholding his master, brush in hand, standing

absent-mindedly before a great copper platter that was near the window.

"Telephone up to the stables; I'll take Judy to-day," said Beecher,

passing into the bathroom.

A touch of the cold shower set his nerves to tingling and sent his mind

to recalling pleasantly the pretty faces of the evening before, after

the manner of young gentlemen of leisure with a proper share of vanity.

Two figures rose immediately--Rita Kildair and Nan Charters. He

remembered them both without excitement, but with different emotions.

"By George, Rita's a thoroughbred," he said. "She has them all

beat--mysterious as a sphinx. Prettiest sight in the world, seeing her

manipulate a crowd. Jove, but she has nerve!" Then he reflected a

little guiltily that he had rather deserted her for other shrines, and

he resolved enthusiastically to make amends by throwing himself, heart

and soul, into the recovery of the ring.

"By George, it's something to have the confidence of a woman like that!"

he exclaimed, sublimely fatuous. "That old mammoth of a Slade would

give ten years of his life, I'll bet, to stand where I do with her."

Then he remembered Nan Charters, with a little movement of impatience at

the thought of his sentimentality.

"What the deuce got into me last night?" he said, displeased with

himself. "I acted like a school-boy. I suppose she thinks she's got me

on her scalp-belt--easy as a stage-door Johnny. What the deuce got me

wabbling so? These actresses are full of tricky stuff."

He resolved that he would show her his complete indifference by not

calling for at least a week, maybe two, and concluded, with profound

penetration:

"Good game. She'll remember how I started in, and wonder what changed

me. That's it--keep 'em guessing."

He went into the dining-room, where the coffee was boiling in the

percolator, and sat down, after assuring himself by a trip to the

opposite bedroom that Bo Lynch was still sleeping the profound sleep of

the unjust..

But hardly had he begun on the iced grape-fruit when a lank figure in

peppermint pajamas appeared at the doorway, brushing from his

sleep-laden eyes the long wisps of hair which, carefully treasured to

conceal the bare upper regions, now hung about his sharp, supercilious

nose.

"Why the devil don't you breakfast with a chap?" he said, emerging.

"Hello, Bo," said Beecher pleasantly. "Up till four or five, training

for your polo match this afternoon?"

"Well, Fontaine was there; we call it pairing off."

"Auction?"

"Yes, damn it. I cut that little wild ass of a Plunket six times

running. He'd gamble away his grandmother on a couple of aces. I say,

Teddy," he continued, with a little more animation, emptying a bottle of

mineral water which Charles, knowing what might be termed the regularity

of his habits, had set out for him, "do you ever try a flier in the

market?"

"I have been such a fool."

"Look here; I've got a sure thing. Eddie Fontaine gave it to us last

night--in dead secrecy, of course. Worried it from the old man, and you

know old man Fontaine is the real thing. The whole Atlantic Trust

business was patched up at a conference yesterday afternoon. Majendie's

to get all the backing he needs."

"Well, what of that?"

"Why, you ignoramus, that means the banks have let up on the trust

companies and are coming to the support of the market. Everything's

'way down below where it ought to be. Stocks'll go up twenty points in

two weeks. I've taken another thousand of Northern Pacific myself.

Better get in on it."

"Thanks; I'll circulate my money on a horse-race--something I know

about. By the way, Majendie was there last night."

"He was, was he?" said Lynch, with more animation. "How did he seem?"

"Cool as a cucumber," said Beecher, who, however, was surprised to find

how little he remembered of any one else's conduct. "I was in at one of

Mrs. Kildair's affairs. By the way, Nan Charters was there."

"Oh, was she?" said Lynch sleepily, hesitating between the call of his

bedroom and the cooling aspect of the waiting grape-fruit.

"Know anything about her?" asked Beecher, perceiving he would gain

nothing by indirection.

"Never met her," said Lynch. "Charlie Lorraine was crazy about her a

couple of years ago. We thought he was going to marry her. I believe

they were engaged, or had an understanding."

"No scandal?"

"Oh, she's perfectly straight. Charlie's a good proposition, but that

didn't seem to hurry her any. She has a lot of 'em buzzing after her."

"I say, Bo," said Beecher suddenly, "did you ever run up against a

fellow called Garraboy?"

"What's he do?"

"He's a broker."

Lynch reflected, yawning behind his hand. His occupation in life was

supposed to be stocks and bonds, according to the city register.

"Nope, never heard of the fellow."

"Who'd know at the club?"

"Ask Jack Lindabury or Tom Bovee. Well, ta-ta; I'm going to sleep out a

bit for the match. Tell Charles to default me to the manicure and the

scalpist," said Lynch, who termed thus the prim, middle-aged person who

had guaranteed to preserve his numbered hairs. "By the way, how about a

little bet on the match? I'll give you six to five."

"Done for fifty," said Beecher obligingly.

"See you at luncheon," said Lynch, who was soon heard plunging heavily

into bed.

Beecher belonged, without yet being one of them, to that set who live

what in England is called a gentleman's life--racing, hunting, playing

polo, seeking the sensations of big game or big fish, rather courting

danger, drinking hard as a matter of pride, on the theory of the

survival of the fittest, consuming the night in battles of cunning and

physical endurance at the card-table. Beecher had returned to this

society partly because most of his friends "belonged," partly because,

being an idler himself, he liked their busy days dedicated to sensation,

and their curious standards of what was and what was not permitted to be

done. He had not as yet plunged into the whirl, being more curiously

interested in the various sides of New York life that opened before him.

He preserved, in the midst of the nervous American excess of his

companion, a certain old-world moderation. He entered their card games

in a desultory way for an hour or two at a time, but without that

engulfing, brutal passion for mastery which kept Bo Lynch at the

card-tables until dawn. When he joined a group at the bar, he drank

with them as long as he wished and no longer--a difficult matter where a

withdrawal usually was greeted with taunts; but there was about Beecher,

young as he was, an atmosphere of authority which came from having

proved himself among men the world over.

He was rising from the table when the telephone rang, and, mindful of

his afternoon engagement with Rita Kildair, he refused an invitation to

join a party to the polo match. A call from Bruce Gunther urged him to

be one of a gay party of six, bent on a lark for the evening.

He enjoyed a furious gallop in the park, dressed, and swung alertly up

the Avenue to his club for luncheon.

There, all the talk was of the stock market which had gone up several

points on the morning's tradings. Bo Lynch and Eddie Fontaine

buttonholed him and besought him to avail himself of the opportunity: it

was the chance of a lifetime, the crisis was over, stocks simply had to

go up. The friends of Majendie, who was one of the directors of the

club, were relieved and jubilant. He had weathered the crisis; there

was nothing more to fear. The story which was told from lip to lip as

being direct from headquarters was, that at the meeting on the afternoon

before, Fontaine had declared, with his fist on the table, that he would

never be a party to any movement that would jeopardize the future of his

lifelong friend, Bernard Majendie. Some who still clung to the short

interest even added, with an air of knowing more than they could tell,

that the attack would now be concentrated on the Associated Trust with

the intention of making an example of John Slade, a Western intruder who

was protected by no ties of association and friendship.

Beecher, true to his habits of caution, laughingly refused all offers to

double his fortune. Bruce Gunther drew him aside, outlining his program

for the evening.

The thought of Nan Charters came into Beecher's mind, and he wondered

curiously if she would be there.

"I say, Bruce, what's all this hip-hurrah?" he asked as Gunther led him

to the dining-room and they took seats at the long mahogany table. "Has

Majendie really pulled through? Is the story true about Fontaine?

Would you go into the market?"

"They tell it on Fontaine now, do they?" said Gunther, with a short

laugh. "It started with my old man, but I guess he was too tough a

weight to carry. Ted, I don't know any more than you, but I know

this--keep out."

"My opinion," said Beecher, nodding to a new arrival.

Bruce Gunther was his closest friend--a chum from boarding-school days.

He was a stocky, rather ugly type, direct to the point of rudeness, with

more than a trace of his father's power. Gunther Senior had, from a

long and merciless examination of men, come to regard youth as a natural

malady, an ebullition of heated blood to be lived down before a man was

fit for great opportunities and the vision of great affairs. When young

Gunther was graduated, he called him to his desk, wrote him out a check,

and told him to take five years, sow his oats, and be through with

it--at the end of which time his career would begin at the bottom of the

great banking offices of Gunther & Company, New York, London, and Paris.

Young Gunther was now completing the last year of his contract with a

compressed savageness that would have wrecked any but the strongest

constitution. At heart he awaited the end of his holiday with a feeling

of relief and enthusiasm. He was quite unspoiled, and a terror to

sycophants and boot-lickers. It was these sturdy, passionate qualities

of energy and directness in him that had attracted Beecher.

"Bruce, I'm on a very curious chase," he said, pushing back from the

table, "and I want your help. It's too long and too confidential to tell

you now. But two things I wish you would do for me: find out all you can

quietly about two men--Enos Bloodgood and a fellow called Garraboy, a

broker."

"Garraboy--the brother-in-law?" said Gunther instantly. They left the

table and went for cigars and coffee to the first room, to a window that

gave on the Avenue. "I know him. He was blackballed here a couple of

years ago. There were some ugly stories about him; I'll look 'em up.

Bloodgood's another matter. I have heard rumors he was hard hit by the

market. It's easy enough; I know several men I can call up. Can't you

tell me the whole thing now?"

When Beecher had finished, Gunther remained a long moment immersed in

reflection.

"By the Lord Harry, that is a problem," he said, suddenly waking up.

"The dickens of a tangle! What the deuce was Slade doing there?" He

relapsed into silence again, and as suddenly said decisively: "You're

wrong on one point, Ted. It's not Garraboy or Bloodgood we ought to

suspect first; it's Cheever--the Cheevers."

"How the deuce are we going about it?" said Beecher.

"I suppose Mrs. Kildair wants the whole thing kept quiet," said Gunther,

rapping absent-mindedly on the arm of his chair.

"Naturally; besides, I promised."

"Of course. Well, we'll begin in a practical fashion. You don't mind

spending a little money, do you?"

"I expect to."

Gunther rose and went to the telephone booths, where he remained for

some time.

"Half-past six in my rooms, Ted," he said, returning. "I'll put you up

against the most interesting character in the United States--a real

detective. Dress and come over."

"But the girls," objected Beecher, remembering their engagement.

"The girls can go hang," said Gunther, shrugging his shoulders. "They

can always wait half an hour. This is something real."

At five o'clock Beecher called on Mrs. Kildair, and found her out, to

his considerable vexation. The bell-boy gave him a little note, which

he opened and read: