ONE into the dim recesses of the past was the nuptial day of October 15. Gone also, into what dim recesses their erstwhile flat-mate knew not, were Mrs. Holcomb Lee, nÉe Maud Raines, and Mrs. Paul Wood, nÉe Helen Barrett. Presently Darcy would be gone also, for this was October 17, and, although the fact had been successfully concealed from the society editors of the metropolis, ever avid of news with a title in it, on October 16 she had been married to Sir Montrose Veyze, of Veyze Holdings, Hampshire, England, at the Church of the Imagination. Sir Montrose had sent a wireless (forged by Miss Gloria Greene) advising his fiancee that he would arrive on the 16th, and they would be married at once. All of which would have profoundly astonished and perhaps scandalized the authentic Sir Montrose Veyze, at that particular time huddled over an insufficient stove and fervently cursing a Siberian northeaster with three feet of snow in its clouds.

No little strategy had been required to keep up the deception until after the real brides were wedded, and, as the conspirators supposed, safely out of the way. Gloria supplied the required strategy, but it exhausted her store. What was going to be the outcome she knew no more than Darcy did. One fact only was clear: Darcy must disappear for a while. Accordingly the self-appointed manageress of the affair had borrowed Tom Harmon's hospitality for her protÉgÉe. Unfortunately, or fortunately according to the point of view, Mr. Harmon had refrained from mentioning to Gloria the other prospective visits.

Behold, then, on the fateful 17th of October, Miss Darcy Cole, a one-day bride of fancy, swinging down the long platform of the Grand Central Terminal with fifteen minutes to spare for the nine o'clock train. In her hand was a ticket to Weirs, and a small green slip entitling her to seat No. 12 in the parlor car “Chorea.” In her eyes was a twinkling and perilous light, and in her heart a song of sheer, happy bravado. For Darcy was feeling in reckless spirits. It was her first vacation for more than a year. She was tingling with health and vitality. She rejoiced in that satisfaction, more precious to woman than rubies or diamonds or a conscience clear of reproach, the pervading sense of being perfectly dressed. As for the wraith of Sir Montrose Veyze, Bart., of Veyze Holdings, Hampshire, England, and all the consequences depending therefrom, she was much in the mood to twiddle her thumbs at the whole affair and defy fate to do its worst.

She entered the car and saw him.

If ever a willful, skillful, careful, circumstantial lie came to life and embodiment for the purpose of confronting its perpetrator, hers stood before her with a monocle in its eye. In every detail it was as she had conceived Sir Montrose Veyze: tall, slender, clad in impeccable tweeds, with an intelligent, thin face inappropriately half-framed in side whiskers, and an expression of dissociation with the outside world; not so much conscious aloofness as a sort of habitual mental absenteeism. The apparition was, at the moment, trying to dispose an extremely British ulster in a rather insufficient rack.

Darcy stared at it, mute with amazement. It moved a little to let her pass and what the girl saw beyond it froze her blood. In Drawing-Room A sat Paul Wood and his bride!

Flight, instant and precipitate, was Darcy's one idea; flight forth from that unchancy car. She whirled around, started for the lower exit, took three steps and halted with a choked cry.

In Drawing-Room B sat Maud Raines, that was, with her bridegroom.

Fate, defied, had promptly accepted the challenge. Darcy was trapped.

Kentucky cherishes a legend concerning the potency of its moonshine whiskey which is said to be such that one drink of it will inspire a rabbit to spit in the eye of a bulldog. Desperation will produce much the same psychological effect in the soul of woman. There, in monocle and whiskers, was Darcy's bulldog. And before her and behind her threatened Desperation, double-barreled. Darcy took a short, gaspy breath—it was all she could get—and advanced upon her unwitting victim.

The apparition had just succeeded in its aerial enterprise with the ulster when it became aware of a mute appeal at its elbow. It turned. It saw a girlish face, suffused with a wonderful warmth of color, clear, steady eyes, with an irresistible plea in them; lips that looked both firm and soft and were tremulous at the comers with what might be fear, but seemed much like mirth, and two perfectly gloved little hands stretched out in welcome. No possible doubt about it; those hands were held out to the apparition.

The apparition's face underwent a sort of junior earthquake. Its monocle fell out. It replaced the doubtful aid to vision. It contemplated the creature of bewildering charm and still more bewildering behavior confronting it. Hesitatingly its hands went forth to meet those little, appealing, waiting hands.

“Monty!” said the girl in a clear, ringing, happy voice, and inexpertly kissed the apparition on the nose.

“Holy Snakes!” gasped the apparition.

It took a step backward. Its knees caught. It collapsed in its chair.