FOR a week or more Gloria neither saw nor heard from the girl. At the end of that time she did, to her surprise, encounter the erstwhile bogus Sir Montrose without his hirsute adornments and in his proper person of Mr. Jacob Remsen, sauntering idly along the Park. Hailing him, she took him into her taxi. Mr. Remsen was not looking his customary sunny self.

“Did the law's minions catch you in spite of your whiskers?” she asked.

“No. Case was compromised. So I've come back.”

“And what are you going to do now?”

“I'm going to work.”

“Work! You?” said the actress with unfeigned and unflattering surprise. “Why? What's the answer?”

“Ambition,” replied Mr. Remsen in a lifeless voice.

“Sounds more like penal servitude,” commented Gloria. “And what is to be the scene of your violent endeavors?”

“Ask the Government,” he replied wearily. “Washington, maybe. Or perhaps San Francisco or Savannah. Or right here in New York, for all I know.”

quoted the other. “Are you about to become an American courier for the peripatetic Mr. Cook, his agency?”

“Got a chance to go into the Treasury Department,” answered Remsen gloomily.

“Don't give up heart,” she encouraged him. “Strong young men like you often survive the rigors of that life. Pity they don't send you to London, where your monocle and your accent would be appreciated. By the way, have you seen your quondam fiancÉe since your return?”

“No,” said Remsen.

Gloria, noting that he winced much as Darcy had winced, wondered, and turned the talk to other topics which gave her opportunity to revolve the problem of the two masqueraders in her mind. That there was a problem she was now well assured. She took it to luncheon with her, after dropping one of the subjects of it, and came to a conclusion characteristic of her philosophy and worthy of a mathematician; namely, that the figures in any problem work out their own solution if properly arranged. She decided to do the arranging after luncheon by telephone.

She sent word to Darcy to meet her at the studio without fail at five. Then she got Remsen at his club and told him that a matter of importance had come up about which she wanted to see him at her place about five-fifteen. Whether she herself could get through her engagements and be back home at that hour she did not know nor particularly care. Her duties as hostess did not weigh heavily upon her in this respect. Let Jack or Darcy or both reach the place before her; it didn't greatly matter. Perhaps it would even be better that way.

Furthermore, Gloria Greene was very deeply and happily preoccupied with certain affairs of her most intimate own, which will serve to explain a slight vagueness in her usually accurate schedules, with consequences quite unforeseen by her managerial self. For one of Miss Greene's errands that day had been to send a vitally important telegram which called for an answer in person on the following day. That the answer in person might arrive that same day she had not reckoned. She had consulted only railway time-tables, forgetting that far-and-swift-flying chariot of Cupid, the high-powered automobile.

ALL things threaten a guilty conscience.

Haunted by the unlaid ghost of Sir Montrose Veyze, Darcy, on receipt of Gloria's message, fearfully anticipated that some new complication had arisen. Having concluded a satisfactory interview with B. Riegel & Sons (whose representative was impressed anew with her splendor) she reached Gloria's studio a little before the appointed time. The place was empty. For a few moments she idled about, examining the new pictures, glancing casually at books, and presently drifted to the piano seat.

Insensibly guided by memories, her fingers wandered into the little, soothing cradle-song which she had first heard in that very spot from Jack Remsen's lips. Long ago, it seemed; so long ago! Once she played it through, and then in her tender and liquid voice she crooned it softly.

She did not hear the door open and close. But she felt a light draught of air, and the next instant a man's figure loomed through the gathering dusk, a man's strong hands fell on her shoulders, and a man's glad voice cried:

“Dearest!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Darcy in consternation. “Good Lord!” ejaculated the newcomer in an altered and horrified tone.

Darcy turned to confront Thomas Harmon. She had seen him but once, but she carried the clearest memory of his quiet eyes, his vital personality, his big, light-moving, active frame, and his persuasively friendly manner. Mr. Harmon was a person not easy to forget. Now he was covered with confusion.

“I—I really beg your pardon,” he stammered. “It was inexcusably stupid of me.” Darcy held out her hand, smiling. “I'm Darcy Cole, Mr. Harmon,” she said. “And I have a great deal to thank you for.”

“Me?” said the big man in surprise. “I'd be glad to think so, but—”

“But you don't know why,” she concluded, kindly intent on putting him at his ease. (Darcy, who a year before would have been on live coals of embarrassment before any strange man!) “You gave me a refuge at Boulder Brook when I very much needed one.”

“Oh! So you're Gloria's—Miss Greene's little friend. I hope they made you comfortable.”

“Didn't you get a note from me telling you how delightful your place is?”

“No. But, you see, I've been away. Just got in.”

They stood looking at each other for a moment, the girl demure but dimpling, the man still in some confusion of spirit. Then, encouraged perhaps by the dimples, perhaps by some aura of fellowship and understanding which exhaled from the girl, Hannon burst out boyishly:

“I've heard a lot about you, Miss Darcy, and I believe you're a—well, a good fellow.”

“I am,” Darcy assured him with absolute conviction.

“Well, after the break I made I've got to tell somebody or bust.”

“Tell me,” invited the girl. “Whom did you think I was when you rushed on me?”

“Gloria, of course!”

“Gloria!”

Although untrained in fancy gymnastics, Darcy's brain whirled around ten times in one direction, clicked, and whirled around ten times on the reverse. She put her hand to her head dizzily, striving to readjust her thoughts.

“Isn't it very sudden?” she faltered.

“About as sudden as Jacob's little affair with Rachel,” laughed Harmon. “It's been a seven-year siege on my part.”

“But, Gloria—”

“Oh, it's been a heap suddener for Gloria. In fact she only—I only got the word to-day. And here I am.” He examined the girl's troubled face. “You don't look exactly pleased,” he added, crestfallen.

“Indeed, you mustn't think that,” she cried earnestly. “But I—I—I thought it was Mr. Remsen.” In her bewilderment she blundered on. “I saw her k-k-k-” Too late she strove to catch herself on the brink of a shameful betrayal.

“You saw her kiss Jack,” he interpreted, smiling. “He's a sort of a third cousin or something, and a privileged character, anyway.”

“I didn't know,” answered the girl. Then, recovering herself: “Oh, Mr. Harmon, I am so glad. I believe you're just as fine as Gloria is—and that's the most any one could say.”

“My dear,” he said more gravely. “Nobody on earth is that. But—well, I want to shout and sing and—Play your music again, won't you? Maybe that'll help.”

Maybe, thought Darcy, it would help her, too; for she also wanted to shout and sing, and, most contradictorily, to hide and cry—and wait.

Forgetful, in the turmoil of her mind, of the pledge to Jack Remsen about the little song which was to be their one keepsake of those enchanted days in the mountains, she turned back to the piano and hummed the melody.

“It's built for a second part,” commented Harmon. “Do you mind if I try it?”

So she went over it again, and he struck in, in a clear, charming barytone, and with a singularly happy inspiration of a tenor part. Over and over it they went, she suggesting, and he perfecting his second; and they were still at it when the door opened again, upon deaf ears.

In the hallway Jack Remsen stopped dead. The first thing of which he was conscious was that the voice of the girl he loved and had continued to love against every dictate of conscience and honor was running like sweet fire through his veins again. Instantly the fire became bitter and scorching. For there was another voice, accompanying and fulfilling hers, the barytone which she had adduced as one of her British lover's chief charms.

(Remsen had to admit the quality of the voice, now raised in his song. The song which she had promised to keep as his and hers; the one thing which he might claim of her!)

A hot anger rose in his heart and as quickly faded. Why shouldn't she sing that song with her lover? At most it was an idle promise which he had had no right to exact. He conquered an impulse to turn and leave. No; the thing had to be faced. Might as well face it now. When the chords died down he advanced to the door and spoke.

Darcy whirled on her seat, and rose, very white. His one glance told Remsen that she was lovelier than ever. Then everything was swallowed up in the amazement of finding Hannon there. Harmon—alone in the dusk with Darcy where he had expected to find the fiancÉ—his song—and that charming, clear barytone of which Darcy had boasted in Sir Montrose!

An explanation came to his mind, light in the darkness. It was just another masquerade—Darcy apparently specialized in them—and Veyze had been but a blind for Harmon, the real lover in the background, all the time. He felt Harmon wringing his hand in welcome and heard himself saying with a creditable affect of heartiness:

“Then I suppose it's you that I'm to congratulate.”

“It is,” returned the other, chuckling joyously. “Though how on earth you knew it I can't conceive.”

“Isn't it evident enough?” said Jack.

He marched over to Darcy. She saw him changed, thinned, with lines in his smooth face; lines of thoughtfulness, of self-control, of achieved manhood, and her heart was in her eyes as they met his and drooped.

“And you,” he said. “I wish you every happiness. I couldn't wish you better than Tom Harmon.”

“What!” cried that complimented but astounded gentleman. “Me? Miss Darcy?”

“Well, if it isn't you,” said Jack lifelessly, looking from one to the other: “will you kindly tell—”

“It is me, but it isn't her,” broke in Harmon, with the superb disregard of grammar suitable to the occasion. “Man alive, it's Gloria!”

As if in confirmation, Gloria's voice came to them, down the hallway.

“Darcy! Where are you, child?”

Two chairs which foolishly attempted to impede Mr. Thomas Harmon's abrupt and athletic progress across the floor were sent to the janitor next day.

“Tom!” cried Gloria's voice in a breathless and different tone. Then the door slammed.

Jack Remsen turned to Darcy. “So that's it, is it?” he said slowly.

“That,” answered Darcy, “is it. Isn't it splendid!”

“Couldn't be splendider—for those most concerned. What about the rest of it?”

“The rest of it?” Her brows were raised in dainty puzzlement, but her eyes refused to meet his.

“Where is Veyze?”

“On his way back to the East, I understand,” said Darcy carefully.

“When is he coming over?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you going over there—to England?”

“No.”

“You're not looking me in the face.”

“I—I don't want to look you in the face. You're not pretty when you make a—a catechism of yourself.”

“Darcy,” said Remsen, “there's been something queer about this Veyze business from the start. As long as I could help I did, didn't I?”

“Yes,” said the girl quite low.

“And I asked no questions?”

“No,” she said, even lower.

“But now I've got to know. I've got a right to know.”

“Why?” It was the merest whisper. “Because I've come back loving you more than when you left me. I wouldn't have believed it possible. But it's so. Every hope and wish of my heart is bound up in you. Darcy, is it broken off between you and Montrose Veyze?”

She raised her eyes to his. The color flushed and trembled adorably in her face. She spoke, clear and sweet as music.

“There never was anything between me and Sir Montrose Veyze.”

“You mean,” said the astounded Remsen, “that you were only acquaintances?”

“If Sir Montrose walked into the room this minute I shouldn't know him.”

“But, how—”

“I made it up. All. Every bit of it.” She put her hands together in a posture of half-mocking plea. “Please, sir, do I have to tell you the whole shameful story?”

He caught the hands between his. “There's only one thing you have to tell me, Darcy. Shall I tell you what it is?”

There was no need. The hands stole to his shoulders, and then around his neck. “Oh, I do! I do!” she breathed. “There never was any Veyze, or any engagement, or anything or anybody—but—just—you.”

“But, Darcy, love,” he demanded, holding her close, “why wouldn't you give me a chance, when we were at Boulder Brook?”

“I—I—I thought it was G-g-g-gloria with you, all the time.”

“You didn't! How could you miss seeing that I was mad about you from the first? Why didn't you tell me what you thought?”

With her cheek against his and her lips at his ear, she confessed, between soft, quick catchings of the breath:

“Because I was afraid—of letting you see how much I cared. I—I've been such a little fool, Jack, dear. And—and about the Veyze thing—I'm a cheat—and an awful little liar—and—and—and—and a forger, I guess. But it never hurt anybody but myself—and I've been loving you all the time—until my heart—almost broke.”

“I'm pretty good at those crimes myself,” returned her lover comfortingly. “And worse. I've robbed a mail-box. When did you ever descend to such desperate depths as that?”

“I tried to kill my trainer,” retorted Darcy proudly; “and he's the best friend I ever had except Gloria. He's the one that made me presentable.”

“I'll ask him to be best man,” said her lover promptly. “As for our crimes, I'll tell you, darling of my heart; let's turn over a new leaf and live straight and happy ever after.”

“Let's,” agreed Darcy with a sigh of happiness.

Half an hour later Tom Harmon and Gloria outside heard music, the cradling measures of the little song, and crept to the door hand in hand. They caught the mention of Boulder Brook and shamelessly listened. The pair within were already future-building on Tom Harmon's property.

“And we'll get on that same train right after the wedding,” said Remsen.

“And get off at Weirs,” added the prospective bride.

“And have the festive native there to meet us with 'th' ole boat.'”

“And take that awful, bumpy road slower than we did before.”

“And go straight to the Farmhouse—”

“I'm sorry, children,” the rightful owner of the coolly appropriated property broke in upon their dreams; “but you can't have the Farmhouse.”

“Oh!” said Darcy, hastily moving north-by-west on the piano seat.

“That's taken,” explained Harmon, beaming upon Gloria, “for another couple.”

“Heaven bless'em!” said Jack heartily. “Thank you! You,” concluded their past and future host, “may have the Bungalow.”