In the autumn, Marion Darche returned to town, feeling that since she was to begin life over again, and since her friends had accepted the fact, there was no reason for not taking the first steps at once. She intended to live very quietly, occupying herself as best she could, for she knew that some occupation was necessary to her, now that the whole busy existence of the last five years was over. She did not know what to do. She consulted Dolly, and would have liked to consult Brett, but he rarely called, and then, by design or coincidence, he always seemed to appear just when some one else was with her.

More than once she had thought of writing to him freely, asking him to explain the cause of his conduct and to put an end to the estrangement which was growing up between them. She even went so far as to begin a letter, but it was never finished and found its way to the fire before it was half written. She could not, however, keep her thoughts from dwelling on him, since there was no longer any reason for trying to forget his existence. She was not lacking in pride, and if she had believed that Harry Brett no longer loved her, she would have still been strong enough to bury the memory of him out of sight and beyond danger of resurrection. But he did not behave in such a way as to convince her of that. A woman's instinct is rarely wrong in telling her whether she is loved or not, unless she is confronted with a man of superior wickedness or goodness. The strength which breeds great virtues and great vices lends that perfect control of outward manner which is called diabolical or heroic according to circumstances. Harry Brett was not such a man. He could keep away from the house in Lexington Avenue, because for some reason or other he believed it necessary to avoid Mrs. Darche's society; but he could not simulate what he did not feel, nor conceal his real feelings when he was with her. The cold, nervous hand, the quick glance, the momentary hesitation, the choice of a seat a little too far from her side—all told Marion that he loved her still, and that he believed himself obliged to stay away, and was afraid to be alone with her.

At last she made up her mind to do something which should show him definitely that she now regarded her mourning as a mere formality, and intended before long to return to her former way of living, as though nothing had happened. She determined to ask Brett and Vanbrugh and Dolly to luncheon. It certainly was not a very wild dissipation which she proposed, but it was the first time she had invited more than one of them at the same time. And cousin Annie Willoughby petitioned for a fourth guest by a very gentle and neutral hint. She had a certain elderly friend, one James Brown, who was the only person living who seemed able to talk to her for any length of time.

Mr. Brown had been a disappointment to his friends in his youth. He was regarded as a failure. Great things had been expected of him when he left college and during several years afterwards. But his so-called gifts had turned out to be only tastes, and he had never accomplished anything. He had not the enthusiastic, all-devouring, all-appreciative, omnivorous nature which makes some amateurs delightful companions and invaluable flatterers. Though he really knew something about several subjects no one ever had the slightest respect for his opinion or judgment. He was an agreeable man, a good-natured gossip, a harmless critic. He always seemed to have read every word of books which most people found tiresome and skimmed in half an hour, and he never was acquainted with the book of the hour until the hour was past. No one ever understood why he liked Mrs. Willoughby, nor why she liked him, but if people thought of the matter at all they thought the friendship very appropriate. Mr. Brown knew everybody in society and was useful in filling a place, because he was a bachelor, and joined in the hum if not in the conversation. In appearance he was a bald man with refined features, a fair beard turning gray, gentle blue eyes, an average figure, small feet and hands, well-made clothes, a chronic watch-chain and a ring with an intaglio. His strong point was his memory, his weak point was his absence of tact.

Marion, who intended that the general conversation of the table should be followed by a general pairing off after the coffee, reflected that Mr. Brown would amuse Mrs. Willoughby while Vanbrugh talked to Dolly and she herself had an opportunity of speaking with Brett. So she asked Mr. Brown to join the party, and he accepted. Dolly came first, but Mr. Brown, who was punctuality itself, appeared a moment later. Vanbrugh arrived next, and last of all Harry Brett, a little late and apologising rather nervously.

"Did you get my note?" he inquired of Vanbrugh, after the first greetings and as soon as he could exchange a word with him, unnoticed in the general conversation.

"No. Anything important? I went out early—before eleven o'clock, and have not been at home since."

"There was an interesting story of a wreck in the paper this morning," said Mr. Brown, addressing the three ladies.

"Stop him," said Brett to Vanbrugh in an energetic whisper. "Now Brown, my dear fellow," he continued aloud, sitting down beside Mrs. Darche, "do not begin the day by giving us the Sunday Herald entire, because we have all read it and we know all about the wreck—"

Mr. Brown, who was used to interruption and to being checked when he was about to bore people, looked up with mild eyes and protested a little.

"I say, Brett, you know, you are rather abrupt sometimes, in your way of shutting people up. But as you say, they have probably all read the story. I only thought—"

"Only thought!" cried Vanbrugh, taking his cue from his friend. "Only! As though thinking were not the most important function of the human animal, next to luncheon—"

"I have not read the story Mr. Brown alludes to," observed Mrs. Willoughby rather primly.

"Oh—it is all about natural history, and cannibals and latitudes and people in a boat," said Brett talking very fast. "All that kind of thing. As for the news I can give you lots of it. Great fire, strike, a new bacillus in postage-stamp gum—awfully dangerous, Mrs. Willoughby. Always use a sponge for moistening your stamps or you will get something—some sort of new disease—what is it, Vanbrugh? You always know everything."

"Gum-boils," suggested Vanbrugh, without hesitation.

Brett gave him a grateful look, as Mr. Brown's laughter assured him that the danger was over for the present. But Brett did not desist until Stubbs opened the dining-room door and they all went in to luncheon. Mrs. Darche watched him curiously, wondering what was the matter. She had never before heard him talk so nervously. Vanbrugh had not the slightest idea of what had happened, but blindly followed Brett's lead, and helped him to annihilate Mr. Brown, whenever the latter showed the least inclination to tell a story.

Mr. Brown, however, was an obstinate person. He was not quick on his feet mentally, so to say, and an insignificant idea had as strong a hold upon his thoughts as an important one. Somehow he managed to tell the tale of the wreck to Mrs. Willoughby and Dolly in the little shifting of companionship which always takes place on leaving table. To do him justice, he told it very shortly, and Mrs. Darche did not chance to be listening at the time. Stubbs was offering everybody coffee, and Marion had a box of cigarettes and was standing before the fireplace with Vanbrugh and Brett, exchanging a few words with the latter. Suddenly Mr. Brown's voice rose above the rest.

"Of course," he was saying, "nobody ever knew positively that the man had really been drowned. But he had never turned up—"

"And probably never will," answered Dolly, glancing nervously at Marion. But she had caught the words and had turned a little pale.

Vanbrugh looked over to Brown.

"For heaven's sake, Jim," he said, in a low voice. "Talk about something else, if you must, you know!"

Mr. Brown's face fell as he realised his mistake.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Just like me! I forgot that poor Darche drowned himself."

Marion recovered herself quickly and came forward, offering her box of cigarettes to everybody, while Brett carried the little silver spirit lamp.

"You must all smoke and make yourselves happy," she said with a smile. "Cousin Annie does not mind it in the least."

"Well, of course," began Mrs. Willoughby, primly polite, "nowadays—"

"There is nobody like you, Mrs. Darche," said Vanbrugh, accepting the offer. "Thanks."

"They are your especial kind," answered Marion.

"I know they are—that is what I mean. How you spoil me!"

Marion went on.

"Mr. Brown?"

"Yes, thank you. I do smoke sometimes," answered Mr. Brown, hesitating in the matter between his allegiance to Mrs. Willoughby, who disapproved of smoking in the drawing-room, and his duty to his hostess, who encouraged it.

"I hope you always do," said Marion. "When a man does not smoke—Mr. Brett, take one."

She had stopped herself, remembering that her husband had not been a smoker, but Mr. Brown finished the sentence for her with his usual tact.

"Yes," he said, lighting his cigarette, "men who do not smoke always seem to me to be suspicious characters."

"Dolly, try one," said Marion, trying not to hear him.

"Oh, Marion!" Dolly laughed.

"Try it," said Vanbrugh, sitting down beside her.

The party had paired off, and Marion found herself near the window with Brett, beside a table covered with photographs and etchings.

"I wonder why Miss Maylands should seem shocked," began Brett, entering into conversation rather awkwardly. "I have no doubt that she, and you, and perhaps Mrs. Willoughby, have all tried a cigarette in secret, and perhaps you have liked it?"

"If I liked cigarettes I would smoke them," said Mrs. Darche, with decision.

"Do you always do what you like?"

"In little things."

"And how about the big things?" inquired Brett.

"I like to have other people take care of them for me."

"What people?" As he asked the question he absently took a photograph from the table and looked at it.

"People who know me," said Marion.

"Meaning me?"

"If you like."

"If I like!" exclaimed Brett. Then, having broken the ice, as it were, his voice suddenly changed. "There is nothing I like so much, there is nothing I would rather do than take care of you and what belongs to you."

"You have shown it," answered Mrs. Darche gently. She took the photograph from Brett's hand and looked at it, in her turn, without seeing it.

"I have tried to, once or twice," said Brett, "when you needed help."

"Indeed you have. And you know that I am grateful too."

"I do not care to know that," he replied. "If I ever did anything for you—it was only what any other man would have done in my place—it was not for the sake of earning your gratitude."

"For what then?"

Brett hesitated a moment before he answered, and then turned from her towards the window as he spoke.

"It was not for the sake of anything."

"Mere caprice, then?" asked Marion, watching him closely.

"No, not that."

"I suppose your motives are a secret?" Marion laughed a little, perhaps at her own curiosity.

"Yes." Brett pronounced the single word with great earnestness.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Marion.

"Yes. And I shall be very sorry if you ever find out what that secret is."

"How mysterious!"

"Yes, is it not?"

Brett had suddenly assumed a tone of indifference. As he spoke Vanbrugh and Dolly rose and came forwards towards the table.

"If you have quite finished not looking at those photographs, give them to me, Brett," said Vanbrugh. "Miss Maylands wishes to see them."

"Oh, take them by all means," answered Brett, thrusting a dozen or more into his hands. "As I was saying, Mrs. Darche, I am the worst judge of architecture in the world—especially from photographs."

"Architecture, eh?" observed Vanbrugh, as he re-crossed the room with Dolly. "Rather hard on photographs of etchings from portraits."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Dolly, laughing softly and looking back at Brett and Mrs. Darche. "They talk of love's temple, you know, and building up one's happiness—and lots of things of that sort—the architecture of the affections."

"You seem to care," said Vanbrugh, sitting down and laying the photographs upon his knees.

"Do I? Do you not?"

"I—oh, well, in a sort of a fatherly way, I suppose." He held up one of the photographs upside down and looked at it.

"Yes. Now I care in a sort of a sisterly way, you know. It is very much the same thing, I fancy."

"Is that all?" asked Vanbrugh with a short laugh. "I thought you had made up your mind."

"About what?"

"About Harry Brett."

Dolly looked at him in surprise and drew herself up a little stiffly. "What about him?"

"I do not mean to be rude, nor inquisitive, nor anything of the sort—so I think I had better turn the conversation."

"But you do not. You are waiting for me to say something. Do you think I am afraid? Do you think I am like all the girls you meet and dance with, and repeat your pretty speeches to?"

"Repeat is graceful," said Vanbrugh, "considerate—so kind of you."

"I do not feel kind," answered Dolly emphatically, "and I am not at all afraid of telling the truth."

"Considering your interest in Sunday schools that is what I should expect."

"I am just as fond of dancing and enjoying myself as any one else," said Dolly, relenting, "though I do take an interest in Sunday schools."

"Fashionable charities and dissipations, as Brett calls them—I see."

"Do not see in that tone of voice, please—if what you see has anything to do with me."

"Which it has," said Vanbrugh. "Mrs. Darche is one of your charities, I suppose—and Harry Brett is one of your dissipations."

"You are too complicated," answered Dolly, really not understanding. "Say it in American, will you not?"

"You love Brett, and you are nice to Mrs. Darche, though you hate her," said Vanbrugh in a tone which left Dolly in doubt as to whether he was in earnest or only chaffing. She paused a moment and stared at him before she answered, and then to his great astonishment spoke with more coldness than he was accustomed to.

"Precisely," she said. "I love Mrs. Darche and I hate Brett because he does not ask her to marry him as he should, now that Darche has been dead so long. I am sorry, Marion," she said, turning to Mrs. Darche, and going up to her rather suddenly, "dear—I really must be going."

"Already?" exclaimed Marion in surprise, "it is not three o'clock?"

"Almost," said Dolly, "and I have lots to do—ever so many people waiting for me at a Committee, and then a visit I must make, and a frock to try on—and then if we are to dine at seven so as to be dressed in time for the tableaux there is no afternoon at all."

"How busy you are! Yet you always look so fresh! How in the world do you do it?"

"A large appetite and a clear conscience—" suggested Brett, who seemed to be more than usually absent-minded.

Dolly glanced at him rather angrily as she shook hands with her friend. "Good-bye, dear Marion. It has been ever so nice! Good-bye."

She left the room. Vanbrugh was annoyed and discomforted by her sudden departure, but he made the best of the situation, and after closing the door behind her, sat down beside Mrs. Willoughby, who was listening to one of Brown's stories.

"I suppose she is angry with me," said Brett to Marion. "What did I say? I was thinking of something else."

"Then why did you choose that moment for speaking of her?" asked Mrs. Darche reproachfully. "You really must take care, you will make enemies."

"Of course. What does it matter?"

"It matters to me, if you make enemies of my friends."

"That is different," said Brett. "But seriously—do not people forgive a lack of tact sometimes—being a little absent-minded? Look at Jim Brown."

"That is quite another thing," Marion answered. "Yes—I heard what he was telling as we came into the room after the luncheon. Of course it was tactless. Of course no man in his senses should talk in a loud tone, before me, of a man falling overboard at sea and being drowned, still less—"

"What?" asked Brett.

A short pause followed the question, and when Marion answered it, it was evident that she was making an effort.

"Still less of the possibility that such a man might be heard of again some day."

"That at least is improbable," said Brett, very gravely.

"I shivered when I heard what he said."

"I do not wonder."

In the meantime, at the other end of the room, Mr. Brown was enjoying at last the supreme satisfaction of talking without reserve about the story he had seen in the papers that morning.

"One never knows what to believe," said Mrs. Willoughby.

"Believe nothing," said Vanbrugh with much conviction. "In particular, my dear Mrs. Willoughby, do not believe in Brown's tales. He is a perfectly idle man, and he does nothing but sleep and talk, because he has a liver and cannot eat. A man who has nothing to do requires a great deal of sleep and a great deal of conversation."

"I say, Russell, old man," protested Mr. Brown with a good-humoured laugh, "this is rather unkind. Where would you get your conversation if I did not supply you with the items? That is what one's best friends come to, Mrs. Willoughby, in this bustling world. And why should not people eat, sleep, and talk,—and do nothing else if they have time? But as for this story, I never pretended that it was anything but newspaper gossip—not even that—a sensation item, manufactured down town, perhaps. 'Woman burned alive in Jersey City,'—five lines—'Deny the report,'—five lines more—that is the sort of thing. But this is a strange coincidence, or a strange story. It might almost be poor Darche's case, with a sensational ending."

"Oh, well," answered Vanbrugh, who by this time quite understood the meaning of Brett's strange conduct before luncheon, "of course it is only a sensational paragraph, and belongs to your department, Brown. But as you say, the coincidences are extraordinary. A man says he fell overboard from a Channel boat, and was picked up by an Italian bark, which took him to Valparaiso after all sorts of adventures. The weak point in these stories generally is that the man never seems to take the trouble to communicate with his relations from the first port he reaches, and takes an awful lot of trouble to get shipwrecked somewhere on the way. But in this case that is the strong point. What did you say the fellow's name was?"

"Why, my dear man, that is three-quarters of the coincidence. He calls himself John Drake. Transpose the 'r' and the 'a,' and that looks uncommonly like John Darche."

"No doubt," said Vanbrugh; "but then there is nothing peculiar about 'John.' If he had been christened 'Eliphalet Xenophon' it would have been considerably stranger. Besides if he really were Darche he would not call himself either Darche or John."

"How can you suggest anything so dreadful!" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby.

"Why 'dreadful'?" asked Mr. Brown.

"Only think of it," said Mrs. Willoughby. "An escaped suicide—I mean, a convict who escaped and killed himself."

"And you think that the disgrace of having committed suicide will cling to him in after life, so to say—in Sing-Sing?" inquired Mr. Brown.

"Do not make me out more stupid than I really am." Cousin Annie assumed a deprecatory expression. "Do you not think that a man like Darche—convicted of a crime—escaped—if he suddenly re—re— What is the word?"

"Imperfectly resurrected," suggested Vanbrugh.

"Oh yes! Anything! If he came back to life, and yet was supposed to be dead, and was trying to begin all over again and to make a fresh start, and that kind of thing—under another name—"

"In order to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing his widow marry some one else?" asked Vanbrugh, with less discretion than usual.

"I did not mean that," said Mrs. Willoughby quickly. "Poor Marion! Poor Marion! What time is it, Mr. Brown?"

"Three."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed cousin Annie.

"Dear me!" echoed Vanbrugh.

"Yes, it is later than I thought," said Mr. Brown.

By a common impulse, all three rose at once and crossed the room to take leave of their hostess.

"What, are you all going?" asked the latter.

"Do you know what time it is, Marion?" And not waiting for an answer, Mrs. Willoughby held out her hand.

"It is awfully late," observed Vanbrugh, by way of explanation.

"Thank you so much," said Mr. Brown, shaking hands warmly.

"Yes, it is later than I thought." Brett looked at his watch, though by this time he had made up his mind to outstay the others.

"Well—if you must go—"

Marion did not show any anxiety to detain her guests as they filed out of the room.

"You did not mean me to go away with the crowd, did you?" asked Brett, as the door closed behind Mr. Brown.

"Not if you wished to stay," answered Marion, taking her favourite chair near the fire. "Take another cigarette. Sit down."

"And make myself at home? Thanks."

"If you can," said Mrs. Darche with a pleasant laugh.

"Did you hear what they were saying to each other over there while we were talking?" inquired Brett, who by this time seemed to have recovered from the unnatural embarrassment he had shown at first. He had rather suddenly made up his mind that Marion ought to know something about the story in the papers.

"No. Did you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I do not like that." Mrs. Darche did not seem pleased. "It was not nice of you—to be able to talk as you were talking, and to listen to the conversation of other people at the same time."

"Do you know what they were saying?" asked Brett.

"No, certainly not."

"It is not a pleasant subject. They were talking about that paragraph in the papers again. Of course there is nothing in the story, and yet it is very strange. May I speak of it?"

"Is it of any use?" asked Mrs. Darche, beginning to suspect what was coming.

"I hardly know," Brett answered, "and yet if it should turn out there is even the smallest grain of truth—"

"There cannot be. I know there cannot be," she repeated, after a moment's pause, as though she had gone over the whole question in the interval. "Oh, what is the use of suggesting such things?"

"Yes," answered Brett. "You know there cannot be any truth in it—even if he were alive he would not come back. I know it, and yet if he should, it would be so horrible that I cannot help thinking of it. You know what it would mean if that man were to return."

"I know what it would mean to me. Do not speak of it, please."

"I must, I cannot help it. I feel as if something were driving me to speak. You did not hear the whole story. They said the man was picked up in mid-channel by an Italian ship more than seven months ago."

"Seven months ago!"

"Even the time would fit the truth. But then—stop. Was he a swimmer? Yes—of course—I remember him at Newport." Brett answered his own question. "The ship—a bark they called it—was outward bound, and could not put in again. She was on her way to Valparaiso. You know where that is, all the way round by the Straits of Magellan. Something happened to her, she got wrecked or something—they say that a lot of the crew were killed and eaten up by the cannibals in Terra del Fuego. John Drake—"

"John Drake!" Marion exclaimed.

"Yes, another coincidence. John Drake—horribly like is it not?—managed to escape with the second mate, the carpenter, and the cabin boy, got across to the Patagonian country—there are lots of details. They wandered about for ever so long, and at last turned up somewhere. They were all Italians, and Drake, who had no papers, was shipped off again by the Consul on board of another Italian ship. That accounts for six months, with the bad weather they had. Then there is a long blank. And now this John Drake turns up here—"

"Yes—but—after all, if he changed his name, he would change it altogether." She stopped and looked at him, for the argument seemed conclusive.

"That is not the only point that is not clear," Brett answered. "But the names are so dreadfully alike."

"But there is a very great difference!" Marion exclaimed. "There are a great many Drakes—but Darche is a very uncommon name."

"That is the reason why he changed it so little."

"Oh, why do you suggest such a possibility—of what use is it? Why?" She rose suddenly and began to move about the room.

"Because I am a fool, I suppose," Brett answered, not moving from his seat. "But I cannot help it. The idea has taken hold of me and I cannot get rid of it. I feel as though that man had risen from the dead to wreck your life."

"It would be a wreck indeed!" said Marion in a low voice that had a sort of horror in it. "You could not save me this time—not even you."

"And yet—"

"What?"

"No—I ought not to say it."

"Mysteries again?" Marion stopped beside him and looked down into his face.

"The same, if you choose to call it a mystery."

"I wish you would speak out, my dear friend," said Marion gravely. "I feel all the time that there is something in your mind which you wish to say to me, but which you will not, or cannot, or dare not say. Am I right?"

"To some extent."

"I do not think you understand what friendship really means."

"Friendship?" Brett exclaimed. "For you? No, perhaps I do not. I wish I did. I would give a great deal if I could."

"I do not in the least understand," said Marion, sitting down again. "You, my best friend, tell me in the most serious, not to say mysterious way, that you do not know what friendship means, when you are proving every day that you do. I hate secrets! Very few friendships will bear them. I wish there were none between us."

"Ah, so do I!"

"Then let there be none," said Marion in a tone that was almost authoritative. "Why should there be? In the dear old times when I was so unhappy and you were so good to me, we had no secrets, at least none that I knew of. Why should we have any now?"

"The very reason why there must be one at all is the secret itself. Will you not believe me if I tell you that it would hurt you very much to know it?"

"It is hard to believe, and I"—she laughed— "I can confess to a reasonable amount of curiosity on the subject."

"Do not be curious," said Brett, very gravely, "please do not be curious. You might find it out and I should never forgive myself."

"But if I forgave you—"

"That would make no difference. That would not make the smallest difference."

"What! Not to you?" Mrs. Darche glanced at him in surprise.

"Not to me," answered Brett with decision. "The harm would be done."

"Utterly incomprehensible!" exclaimed Marion as though speaking to herself. "I cannot help asking you again," she said turning to Brett again. "Tell me, has it anything to do with my husband?"

"Yes it has."

"Then tell me! Tell me, for heaven's sake!" By this time she was growing anxious.

"Not for the world," said Brett firmly.

"You do not know how unkind you are. You do not know—you do not know how much your friendship is to me, and how you are letting this wretched mystery come between us."

"I know better, better than you can guess."

"And you are keeping it to yourself because you are afraid of hurting me—hurting me!" she repeated bitterly. "As though I were not past hurting, these many months, as though I had not been through most all that a woman can bear and live, and yet I have borne it and have lived. No, I am wrong. I can still be hurt. Two things could hurt me. If by some horrible miracle John came back to life, and if—" She paused and hesitated.

"What?" asked Brett, who hardly seemed to be listening to her.

"If you allowed anything to break up this friendship of ours. But the one is impossible. John is dead, and I have lived down the shame of his memory, and the other—no, it would be your fault."

"It would hurt you much more to know what I am keeping from you than to lose my friendship, or rather your friendship for me," said Brett, shaking his head. "Mine you cannot lose, whatever you do. I am giving you the best proof of it now."

"And do you mean to say that after all that came out in those dark days, that after the trial and conviction, and my husband's escape and his horrible end, that there is still worse behind?—that he left something which you know and I do not know, but which, if I knew it, could still have the power to wreck my life and break what is the best part of me—yes, I am not ashamed to say so—the best part of me—our friendship. I am not tired of the sound of that word yet, nor shall be. Do you mean that? Do you really mean what you say?"

"Yes," answered Brett, who had nodded at each of her questions. "I mean that there is something which I know, and of which the knowledge might ruin the happiness you have found since you have been alone. And yet you ask me to tell you what it is, when no possible good could come from your knowledge of it."

"Yes, I do," said Marion, emphatically. "And as for my happiness, you are killing it with every word you say. You have knocked from under my feet the security of my position and you have taken the good out of what was best by saying that a word from you would spoil it. What is there left now but to tell me the truth?"

"Your belief in me, if you ever had any—and I know that you had, as I hope that you still have."

"My belief in you?" Marion paused, looked at him and then turned away. "Yes, but the more I believe in you, the more I must believe every word you say—"

While she was speaking, Stubbs opened the door, and entered the room, bringing a card.

"The person wishes to see you, madam," he said, holding out the silver salver.

Mrs. Darche's face betrayed some annoyance at the interruption as she took up the card and read the name. "W. H. Wood, Associated Press. What does this mean?" she asked turning to Brett. "Do you know the man?"

"Evidently a reporter," said Brett.

"Tiresome people," exclaimed Mrs. Darche. "I wonder what in the world he wants. Perhaps he has made a mistake. At all events there is no reason why I should see him. Say that I am engaged," she added, turning to Stubbs.

"Wait a minute, Stubbs," said Brett, calling after the man. "Do not send him away," he added, turning to Marion. "Let me see him."

"Why?" she asked.

"I have an idea that he has come about that story that has got into the papers," said Brett in a low voice.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Darche with great emphasis.

"No," objected Brett, "there is just a possibility, and if it should be that, some one had better see him. Something very disagreeable might be written, and it is better to stop it at once."

"Very well," said Mrs. Darche, yielding. "If you really think it is better, see him here. Ask Mr. Wood to come in," she said to Stubbs, as she passed him and went out.