The morning after the party in Miriam's room Grace lingered in the living room at Wayne Hall long enough to dash off her letter of acceptance of Mabel Ashe's invitation for Thanksgiving. She was on the point of slipping it into the envelope when the loud ringing of the door bell caused her to start. A moment later she heard the maid say: "Miss Harlowe? I'll see if she's in her room."

"Here I am," called Grace, stepping into the hall. "Oh, I see. A special delivery letter for me from Mabel." Grace signed the postman's book, then, closing the hall door, hurried into the living room to read her letter. Opening it, she drew out not only the letter but a folded newspaper clipping as well. The clipping fluttered to the floor. Grace stooped mechanically to pick it up, her eyes on the open letter. A mystified expression crept into her face as she read that gradually changed to one of consternation. With a sharp cry of dismay, she let the letter fall from her hands, while she fumbled with the clipping in a nervous effort to unfold it.

One glance at the headline that confronted her and Grace's gray eyes grew black with anger. "How dared she do it! How could she be so contemptible!" Snatching the letter from the table Grace dashed up the stairs to her room. Tears of rage glistened in her eyes. She stood in the middle of the floor with set teeth, closing and unclosing her fingers in an effort to regain her self-control. "I won't cry over it. I won't. I won't," she kept repeating to herself. "She isn't worth my tears. But Father and Mother will be so hurt and displeased. I ought never to have tried to help her. I might have known she wouldn't play fairly."

Grace flung herself into a chair and again began a perusal of the disturbing clipping. "Pretty Senior Plays Sleuth," she read. "Larry, the Locksmith, Captured." A tide of crimson swept over her face as she read further. "Overton College Girl Tracks Dangerous Criminal to His Lair. If Miss Grace Harlowe, a senior at Overton College, had not been possessed of a remarkably good memory for faces, Lawrence Baines, known to the underworld as 'Larry, the Locksmith,' would undoubtedly be at large to-day. Miss Harlowe, whose home is in Oakdale——"

With a despairing groan, Grace dashed the clipping to the floor, and springing to her feet began walking nervously up and down the room. She had not dreamed that Kathleen could find it in her heart to behave so despicably. She had shamefully abused the confidence that Grace had reposed in her for what seemed in Grace's eyes to be an infinitesimally small gain. Her cheeks burned as she thought of the thousands of people who had seen her name blazoned at the head of a column of police court news. Her father always bought the very paper in which it stood on his way to the office in the morning. He had, of course, seen it. He now knew that she had broken her word.

A sob rose to her lips, then she threw back her head with an air of resolution and, hastily drawing her chair in front of the table, seized her fountain pen, and opening it with an energy that left several ink spots on her white silk blouse, began a letter to her father. For an hour she continued to write steadily, covering sheet after sheet of paper. At last she signed her name, and with a mournful sigh folded her letter, slipping it into the envelope without reading it. Putting on her wraps, she left the house and hurried to the post office, where she sent her letter by special delivery.

But another task still lay before her. Grace's fine face hardened. It was not a pleasant task, but it would have to be done. She hoped the newspaper girl would be in her room, and she hoped Patience had not yet returned from Westbrook. Grace rang the bell at Wayne Hall with more zeal than was strictly necessary, thereby exciting a scowl from the maid who answered the door. She peeped into the living room, but Kathleen was not among the girls there.

At the head of the stairs she halted. The door of Kathleen's room was closed. "Is she at home, or not?" Grace paused before the door and rapped sharply. There was a moment of silence, then a quick, light step sounded inside and the door was opened by Kathleen herself. Her usually pale face became flooded with color as she met the steady light of Grace's scornful eyes. Rallying all her forces, she returned the disconcerting gaze with one of defiant bravado. "Oh, good afternoon," she said, setting her lips in a straight line, a veritable danger signal.

Without stopping to choose her words, Grace cried out: "How could you do it? You knew I wished no mention to be made of my name. You promised not to use it."

Kathleen eyed her with a contemptuous smile. "My dear Miss Harlowe, you must be very obtuse to imagine even for an instant that I would spoil a good story by writing only what you gave me permission to write. What do you know of the requirements of my paper, or of the style in which a story should be written? The story was too good to let pass. I knew, though, that you would never consent to allowing me to use your name. So I said 'Very well,' and used it. 'Very well' can hardly be construed as a promise."

The smiling insolence of the other girl's manner was almost too much for Grace's self-control. Twice she essayed to speak, but the words would not come. When she did find her voice she was dimly surprised at its tense evenness.

"Miss West, I made clear to you in the beginning my reason for not wishing you to use my name in connection with what occurred in Oakdale or in any other story you might write. I gave you the news I had stumbled upon willingly. Why could you not have written a clever, interesting story without betraying my confidence?"

"Don't attempt to take me to task for not living up to some ridiculous standard of yours," returned Kathleen savagely. "If you did not wish to see yourself in print, you were extremely silly to tell your tale to a representative of the press. To gather news for my paper is my business. Do you understand? I shall use whatever information comes my way, unless some good reason arises for not using it."

"As in the case of your Christmas story last year, which you decided at the last moment not to send," supplemented Grace with quiet contempt.

Kathleen did not reply. Grace's remark had struck home. She had not forgotten her treacherous attempt to spoil Arline's and Grace's Christmas plans of the year before.

"Even in the face of last year I did not believe you capable of such treachery," continued Grace, her youthful voice very stern. "I am in a measure to blame for having trusted you. I should have known better."

The newspaper girl winced at this thrust, but said nothing.

"And to think," Grace went on bitterly, "that I broke my promise to my father for a girl so devoid of loyalty and honor that she could not understand the first principle of fair play!"

Grace's bitter denunciation aroused fully the other girl's deep-seated resentment against her. "Leave this room," she cried out, her voice rising, her eyes snapping with rage. "Don't ever come here again. This room belongs to me——"

"And also to me," said a quiet voice from the doorway. "What seems to be the trouble here?" Patience Eliot walked into the room, traveling bag in hand. She surveyed the two girls with considerable curiosity.

Without answering, Kathleen turned abruptly and walked to the window, her favorite method of showing her utter contempt of a situation. Patience bent an inquiring gaze on Grace, whose eyes met hers unflinchingly.

"Pardon me, Patience, if I don't answer your question," returned Grace. "Perhaps Miss West will answer you after I am gone. This much I may say. She has ordered me not to come again to this room. Therefore, although I am very fond of you, I feel that it won't be right for me to come here to see you. Will you come into our room as often as you can and forgive me for staying away from yours?"

Without waiting for an answer, Grace slipped from the room, leaving Patience to stare speculatively after her, then at the tense little figure in the window.

Before she had time to address Kathleen, the latter wheeled about, sneering and defiant. "If you are so anxious to know what the trouble is go and ask your dear friend, Miss Harlowe. She will tell you quickly enough behind my back. Oh, I despise a hypocrite!"

"I cannot allow you to call Grace Harlowe a hypocrite," said Patience evenly, though her blue eyes flashed. "Whatever has happened I am quite sure is not Grace's fault."

"Then it must be mine," was Kathleen's contemptuous retort. "Why don't you speak plainly and say what you mean?"

"Very well, I will speak plainly," declared Patience. "I am sure you must have insulted Grace deeply or she would not refuse to come to my room again. I am not going to ask you to tell me what has happened, and I know that I shall not hear it from Grace unless I insist on knowing the truth. The very fact that you are at fault will be sufficient to tie Grace's tongue. However, I shall ask Grace to tell me, as her refusal to come to this room again, is my affair, too."

"Your faith in Miss Harlowe is touching," sneered the newspaper girl.

"I only wish I had the same faith in you," returned Patience gravely. And Kathleen could think of no answer to Patience's significant words.