On the way home from the pier Isabelle demanded explanations about the Frenchman, but Wally refused to talk.

“Your mother has something to say on the subject. Wait until we get home.”

She and Miss Watts were summoned before the bar of judgment as soon as they reached the house. Max met them in the library and after a perfunctory greeting opened fire.

“Miss Watts, what does this mean?”

“I am sorry, Mrs.Bryce, but I must ask you to be more explicit.”

“Explicit? I send my daughter away in your charge and you bring her back engaged to some unknown poilu. Then you ask me to be explicit!”

“But I know nothing of this affair, Mrs.Bryce. It is as much a surprise to me as it is to you.”

Mrs.Bryce turned an exasperated look to the girl.

“It’s true,” said Isabelle, “she doesn’t know anything about it.”

“But how could you get engaged to him without her knowing it? She could see him around, couldn’t she?”

“But he wasn’t around. We met no Frenchman in Bermuda,” protested Miss Watts, utterly at sea.

“Will you kindly explain this mystery?” inquired Mrs.Bryce, hotly.

“Yes, if you’ll keep your temper and let me. In the first place, I’m not engaged to him.”

“He says you are practically engaged and that you love him,” contributed Wally.

“But I’ve never seen him.”

“What?”—in chorus from both parents.

“It’s true.”

“You’d better have a look at him,” said Wally, going, to the window.

Isabelle followed him hastily. A man in French uniform gazed up at the windows.

“Is that Jean Jacques?” inquired Isabelle with interest. “He isn’t bad looking, is he?”

“He patrols the block day and night. But get ahead with the plot. What hold has he got on you?”

“None,” said she, promptly. “I merely adopted him as my son.”

“Are you crazy?” inquired her mother.

Even Miss Watts looked alarmed.

“No, I’m a patriot. Down at Bermuda I met a girl I knew at school, Agnes Pollock. She told me about being patriotic, and how she wrote cheerful letters to soldiers in the trenches. So I borrowed two from her, Jean and Edouard. I wrote them nice motherly letters, about keeping their feet dry——”

Wally burst into laughter, but Mrs.Bryce hushed him with a violent gesture.

“They called me ‘Ma chÈre marraine,’ and wrote long letters back. It was splendid practice for my French,” she added.

“But this man wouldn’t be wanting to marry his ‘chÈre marraine’,” challenged Mrs.Bryce.

“No. He wrote rather warm letters from the first, but Agnes and I decided that he had a warm, appreciative nature.”

“Little fools! Then what?”

“I wrote a very cooling letter, but it didn’t work. He was worse than ever; he said he knew I was beautiful and young; that he loved me madly—wanted to ask Wally for my hand in marriage, and a lot of stuff like that.”

“And you accepted him?—this man you’ve never seen?”

“Of course I didn’t accept him. I told him that I was old; that I didn’t love him; that Wally was dead, so he couldn’t address him; and that that was my last letter.”

Again Wally laughed.

“But Isabelle, why didn’t you tell me something of all this?” begged Miss Watts.

“Why should I boast of doing my bit?”

“Rubbish!” exploded her mother. “You’ve got yourself into a nice scrape. How do we know what she said in these letters?” she asked Wally.

“But I’ve told you what I said.”

“You didn’t keep copies of them, did you?” asked Wally.

“No, of course not.”

“Have you got his letters?” from her mother.

“Yes, in my trunk.”

“There’s nothing to be done until we see them,” said Mrs.Bryce, impatiently.

“They are private letters, and I must say...” began Isabelle, hotly.

“You be quiet,” ordered her mother, angrily. “I can’t see that you were much use, Miss Watts.”

“Mrs.Bryce, I had no idea that this was going on. I knew she wrote letters, but I supposed they were to you or to school friends. I did not feel it necessary to censor her mail.”

“You ought to know her well enough by now to know that when she seems to be behaving she is doing her worst.”

Mrs.Bryce summoned a maid and ordered Isabelle’s trunk to be reported the moment it arrived. While they waited Mrs.Bryce interrogated Miss Watts as to whom Isabelle had met in Bermuda. Isabelle was at the window, gazing from behind the curtain at her admirer, but she noticed that Captain O’Leary’s name was merely mentioned in a list of the English officers they had met.

“Look here, Isabelle, how about Edouard?” whispered Wally, at her elbow. “Does he think he is engaged to you, too?”

She felt the laugh behind his words, so she answered gravely:

“No, Wally, Edouard was a dutiful son.”

He chuckled. Max turned at the sound.

“Don’t encourage her, Wally.”

“I can’t. It’s too late.”

“Don’t worry. I disinherited them both,” Isabelle assured him.

“Did she have any violent love affairs?” inquired Mrs.Bryce.

“There were two very devoted young men, Percy Pollock and Jack Porter. But I thought Isabelle handled them very well,” replied Miss Watts.

“Are you engaged to them?” whispered Wally again.

“Wally, I’m not engaged to anybody,” answered his child.

The maid announced the trunks and Isabelle went in search of her treasures. When she returned she carried in each hand a bundle of letters tied with ribbons.

“Son Jean’s,” she said, offering one bundle to Max. “We need not go over Son Edouard’s.”

Mrs.Bryce began to read. As she finished a page, she handed it to Wally, and he in turn passed it to Miss Watts. The two women read solemnly, but Wally laughed occasionally. Isabelle sat by, now and then taking a peek at the author of this new trouble.

“Well!” remarked Mrs.Bryce when the last tender words had been read.

“Going some, Isabelle!” added Wally.

“We’ll have him in,” said Max.

“Oh, no; now, I wouldn’t do that.”

“I would. Matthews will go across the street and tell him to come.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Max, what are you going to do?”

“Get her letters back, of course.”

“Isabelle, you and Miss Watts go somewhere else and wait,” Wally urged, as his wife gave the butler instructions.

“No. I shall stay here.”

“You’ll do no such thing. You’ve done your part, now you leave the rest of it to us,” ordered her mother.

“It is my hand he is asking for; those are my letters, and this is my affair. I shall stay right here and see it through,” Isabelle asserted with firm determination.

Max saw that, except by force, there was no way to eject her, and it was too late for that, as Matthews was approaching with the Frenchman.

The hero entered with a ceremonious bow. He was good-looking in a dare-devil way, with a somewhat dissipated face. His eyes went from one to another until they came to Isabelle.

“Ah! mon adoree, c’est toi!” he cried, and before any one could stop him, he seized her hands and covered them with kisses.

“None of that!” shouted Wally, jerking Isabelle away.

Max took command. She spoke, curtly, in French.

“Monsieur Petard, we have read your letters to our daughter, and heard her story of her correspondence with you. She is, as you see, a mere child. I appeal to you as a soldier and a gentleman, to return her letters to us, and to close this painful incident.”

He turned to the girl.

“I ask you one question. Do you love me?”

“Why, no,” she said, simply, “I told you I didn’t.”

“I did not believe. Your friend, the Mademoiselle Pollock, she say you are infatuate wiz me; she send ze picture; she tell me you are crazy about me.”

“Agnes Pollock? Why, the dirty little liar!” cried Isabelle.

“My daughter is a schoolgirl, she knows nothing about love. Will you or will you not, give us those letters?”

He considered a second.

“I have come all ze way to zese countree, because of ze lettaires of your schoolgirl!”

“That does not interest us”—firmly.

“No-o? It ees an expenseef voyage.”

Max looked at Wally.

“Now, we’re getting to the point,” she said. “How much do you want for those letters?”

“Oh, Madame, you——”

“Hurry up! What is your price?”

“Ver’ good. I say five sousand dollaires.”

“Nonsense! I’ll give you $1,000.”

“But I cannot accept zese.”

“That or nothing.”

“I have already an offaire of five sousand dollaires.”

“From whom?”

“Ze editor of what you call Chit-Chat.”

“So, you threaten us, do you?”

“I would not say zat. I geef you a chance Madame, to regain ze indiscretions of ze schoolgirl daughter. But five sousand dollaires is five sousand dollaires.”

“What is your address?”

He gave it.

“Our lawyer will call on you at ten in the morning at this hotel, with our offer. Good morning.”

He bowed.

“Five sousand dollaires is my price, Madame.”

Wally started to speak, but she stopped him.

“You will hear from us to-morrow,” she said.

He bowed again, most formally.

“Ma petite marraine, vous Êtes trÈs charmante,” he sighed as he left.

“Why didn’t you give him what he asked? We don’t want the thing hashed up in Chit-Chat,” objected Wally.

“You are going right now to the editor of Chit-Chat and make a bargain with him. Get your lawyer, Clifford, on the ’phone and have him meet us there.”

“You needn’t come, Max. It may be nasty.”

“I’ll come,” said she.

Mrs.Bryce went hastily out of the room, without a look at Isabelle. Miss Watts followed her.

“Well, Isabelle?”

“Wally; I’m sorry!” she said, earnestly.

He looked at her speculatively.

“It may cost a pretty penny to get rid of him. Are you sure Edouard knows that he is disinherited?”

“I hope so,” she said, solemnly. “Wally, it does discourage you with being patriotic, or having children or anything!”

“Wally, are you coming?” called Mrs.Bryce, sharply.

He hurried away, trying his best to cover a smile with a befitting dignity.

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