Captain Dan stirred uneasily. In his dream he had navigated the Bluebird, his old schooner, to a point somewhere between Hatteras and Race Point light. It was night all at once, although it had been day only a few minutes before, and Azuba, who, it seemed, was cook aboard the Bluebird, was washing breakfast dishes in the skipper's stateroom. She was making a good deal of noise about it, jingling pans and thumping the foot of the berth with a stick of stove wood. The captain was about to remonstrate with her when Serena suddenly appeared—her presence on the schooner was a complete surprise—to ask him if he had not heard the bell, and why didn't he come into the house, because dinner was ready. Then Azuba stopped pounding the foot of the berth and began to thump him instead.

“Don't you hear the bell?” repeated Serena. “Wake up! Daniel! Daniel!”

Daniel stirred and opened his eyes. The Bluebird had vanished, so had Azuba, but the thumps and jingles were real enough.

“Hey?” he mumbled, drowsily. “Stop poundin' me, won't you?”

“Pounding you! I've been pounding and shaking you for goodness knows how long. I began to think you were dead. Wake up! Don't you hear the bell?”

Daniel, still but two-thirds awake, rolled over, raised himself on his elbow and grunted, “Bell! What bell?”

“The door bell. Someone's at the door. Don't you hear them?”

Captain Dan slid out of bed. His bare feet struck the cold floor beneath the open window and he was wide awake at last. The room was pitch dark, so morning had not come, and yet someone WAS at the door, the front door. The bell was ringing steadily and the ringer was varying the performance by banging the door with his feet. The captain fumbled for the button, found and pressed it, and the electric light blazed.

“For mercy sakes!” he grumbled, glancing at his watch hanging beside the head of the bed, “it's quarter past one. Who in time is turnin' us out this time of night?”

Serena, nervous and frightened—she, too, had been aroused from a sound sleep—answered sharply.

“I don't know,” she snapped. “It's something important though, or they wouldn't do it. Hurry up and find out, can't you? I never saw such a man!”

Her husband hastened to the closet, found his slippers and bathrobe—the latter was a recent addition to his wardrobe, bought because his wife had learned that B. Phelps Black possessed no less than three bathrobes—and shuffled out into the hall. The bell had awakened other members of the household. A light shone under the door of John Doane's room, and from Gertrude's apartment his daughter's voice demanded to know what was the matter.

Daniel announced that he didn't know, but cal'lated to find out, and shuffled down the stairs. The lights in the hall and drawing-room were still burning, Gertrude and John having forgotten to extinguish them. Captain Dan unlocked the front door and flung it open. A uniformed messenger boy was standing on the steps.

“Telegram for John Doane,” announced the boy. “Any answer?”

Daniel seized the proffered envelope. “How in time do I know whether there's any answer or not?” he demanded pettishly. “I ain't read it yet, have I? Think I've got second sight? Why in the nation didn't you ring up on the telephone, instead of comin' here and routin' out the neighborhood?”

The boy grinned. “Against the rules,” he said. “Can't send telegrams by 'phone unless we have special orders.”

“Well, I give you orders then. Next time you telephone. Hold on a minute now. John! oh, John!”

Mr. Doane, partially dressed, his coat collar turned up to hide the absence of linen, was already at the head of the stairs, and descending.

“Coming, Captain Dott,” he said. “For me, is it?”

“Yes. A telegram for you. What—good land, Gertie! you up, too?”

Gertrude, in kimono and cap, was leaning over the rail. “What is it?” she asked quickly.

John announced, “A wire for me,” he said. “I'm afraid—” He tore open the envelope. “Yes, I thought so. Mr. Griffin is worse and they want me at once. Every minute counts, they say. I must go—now. When is the next train for Boston, Captain?”

Daniel was very much flustered. “I don't know,” he stammered. “There's a time-table around on deck somewheres, but—you ain't goin' now, John? To-night?”

“Yes, I must.”

Gertrude hastened to find the time-table. John turned to the messenger.

“Know anything about Boston trains?” he asked.

“Yup. Two-twenty express through from New York. That's the next.”

John stepped to the drawing-room and looked at the clock. “I can get it, I think,” he announced. “I must. If I can get a cab—”

“I'll 'phone for one. But—but, John, you hadn't ought to—”

“Any answer?” demanded the messenger boy, intent on business.

“Yes. Say that I am leaving on the two-twenty. On the two-twenty. Got that, have you?”

“Sure, Mike! Prepay or collect?”

“I'll—I'll pay it, John.” Captain Dan reached under his bathrobe. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “I declare I forgot I didn't have on—All right, John, I'll pay it. You go get ready.”

Mr. Doane was on his way to his room. Daniel hurried after him, a difficult progress, for the slippers and bathrobe made hurrying decidedly clumsy. He located his trousers and the loose change in their pockets, explaining the situation to Serena as he did so. He and his wife descended the stairs together. The captain paid the messenger and hastened to telephone for the cab.

When the vehicle arrived, John was ready. His farewells to Daniel and Serena were hurried ones.

“I'm awfully sorry I can't stop longer,” he declared. “I really shouldn't have come at all, under the circumstances. I—”

He paused. Gertrude was standing by the door. She was very grave and her eyes looked as if she had not slept. John went over to her; he, too, was grave.

“Gertie,” he faltered, “Gertie—”

Serena interrupted. “Daniel!” she said, “Daniel!”

The captain looked at her. She frowned and motioned with her head. The light of understanding dawned in her husband's eyes.

“Hey? Oh, yes!” he cried hastily. “Come into the front room, Serena, just a minute. I want to speak to you.”

They entered the drawing-room together. Gertrude and John were alone. For a moment neither spoke. Then the young man, bending forward, whispered: “Gertie,” he asked anxiously, “aren't you—haven't you anything to say to me?”

“I thought, perhaps, you had something to say to me, John.”

“I have. Gertie, I—”

There was a sound from above. Cousin Percy Hungerford, fully dressed and debonnair as always, was descending the stairs.

“What's the row?” he drawled. “I heard the racket and decided the house must be on fire. What's up?”

Whatever else was “up” it was quite plain John was sorry that Mr. Hungerford was up because of it. His tone was decidedly chilly as he answered.

“A wire for me,” he said shortly. “I'm called to Boston at once.”

“Really! How extraordinary! It wasn't a fire then, merely a false alarm. Sorry to have you go, Doane, I'm sure.”

He spoke as if he were the host whose gracious pleasure it had been to entertain the guest during the latter's stay. John resented the tone.

“Thanks,” he said crisply. “Gertie, I—I hope—”

He hesitated. It was not easy to speak in the presence of a third person, particularly this person. Cousin Percy did not hesitate.

“Gertie,” he observed, “your—er—friend is leaving us at the wrong time, isn't he? There's so much going on this coming week. Really, Doane, you're fortunate, in a sense. Miss Dott and I are finding the social whirl a bit tiresome; you will escape that, at least.”

Captain Dan appeared at the entrance to the drawing-room.

“I say, Hungerford! Percy!” he hailed impatiently.

Mr. Hungerford did not seem to hear him. He was regarding Miss Dott with anxious concern.

“Really, Gertrude,” he said, “I shouldn't stand by that open door, if I were you. You have a slight cold and for—all our sakes—you must be careful. Step inside, I beg of you.”

His begging was so tender, so solicitous, so intimate. John Doane's fists clenched.

“Hi!” It was the cabman calling from the street. “Hi! we've only got twelve minutes to catch that train.”

John turned, involuntarily, toward the door. Gertrude, startled by the cabman's voice and aware of the need of haste, stepped to one side. Cousin Percy chose to put his own interpretation upon her movement.

“Thank you, Gertrude,” he said feelingly. “That's better; you will be out of the draft there. Thank you.”

John Doane, who was still hesitating, hesitated no longer. He seized his bag.

“Good-by, all,” he said, in a choked voice. “Good-by, Captain Dott.”

He strode through the doorway. Gertrude, for a moment, remained where she was. Then she followed him.

“John!” she cried, “John!”

John, half way down the steps, halted, turned, and looked up at her.

“Good-by, Gertie,” he said.

“But, John, are you—aren't you—”

She stretched out her hands. Mr. Hungerford, pushing by the captain and Serena, stepped in front of her.

“Here, you!” he shouted, addressing the cabman; “what are you thinking about? Why don't you take the gentleman's bag?”

The driver sprang to get the bag, incidentally he seized his prospective passenger by the arm.

“Come on!” he shouted. “Come on! We'll miss the train. Ten to one we've missed it, anyhow.”

“Oh, DO hurry, John!” cried Serena, anxiously. “You WILL miss it. You MUST go!”

And Mr. Doane went. The cab rattled away up the street, the old horse galloping, the driver shouting, and the whip cracking. Daniel drew a long breath.

“Well!” he said slowly, “he's gone. Yes, sir, he's gone, ain't he.”

Serena turned on him.

“Yes, he's gone,” she observed sarcastically, “but he isn't going very fast. Why in the world didn't you order an electric cab instead of that Noah's Ark? Half the neighbors have been waked up and they'll see it. How many times must I tell you? You NEVER learn!”

“Well, now, Serena—”

“Don't talk to me! Don't! My nerves are all of a twitter. I—I—oh, do let me go to bed! Gertie—why, Gertie, where are you going?”

Gertrude was on her way to the stairs. She did not appear to hear her mother's question.

“Gertie!” cried Serena again.

There was no answer. The young lady hurried up the stairs and they heard her chamber door close. Cousin Percy shrugged his shoulders.

“Too bad our friend was called away so suddenly,” he observed. “Very much of a surprise, wasn't it? Too bad.”

No one replied, not even Serena, who was not wont to ignore the comments of her aristocratic relative. Her next remark was in the nature of an order and was addressed to her husband.

“Come! Come! Come!” she said fretfully. “Do come to bed!”

Daniel, pausing only to extinguish the lights, obeyed. Mr. Hungerford, with another shrug and a covert smile, preceded him up the stairs. As the captain was about to enter his bedroom, a voice, which sounded as if the speaker was half asleep, called from the third floor.

“Is there anything I can do, sir?” asked Hapgood. “I 'ave just been aroused, sir.”

Daniel turned. Here was a heaven-sent vent for his feelings.

“Do!” he repeated. “Anything you can do? Yes, there is. Shut your door and turn in.”

“But, sir—”

“And shut your head along with it!”

There were some inmates of the Dott mansion who, probably, slept peacefully the remainder of that night, or morning. Cousin Percy doubtless did, also Mr. Hapgood. Azuba, sleeping at the rear of the house, had not been awakened at all. But neither Captain Dan or Serena slept. Mrs. Dott's nerves kept her awake, and the combination prevented Daniel from napping. Nerves were a new acquisition of Serena's; at least she had never been conscious of them until recently. Now, however, they were becoming more and more in evidence. She was fretful and impatient of trifles, and the least contradiction or upset of her plans was likely to bring on fits of hysterical weeping. It was so in this case. Daniel, trotting for smelling salts and extra pillows and the hot water bottle, was not too calm himself. His plans, the plans founded upon John Doane's remaining in Scarford for a time, had been decidedly upset. He pleaded with his wife.

“But I don't see what ails you, Serena,” he declared. “John's gone, that's true enough, but you didn't know he was comin'. He was here, a little while, and that's some gain, ain't it? I don't see—”

“See! You wouldn't see if your eyes were spyglasses. Oh, dear! why does everything have to go wrong with me? I thought when John came that Gertie—”

“Yes. That Gertie what?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing! Oh, my poor head! It aches so and the back of it feels so queer. Where are the pillows? Can't you get me another pillow?”

“Sure I can! You've got three already, but I can fetch another. It's all this society business that's breakin' you down, Serena. That everlastin' Chapter—”

He was sorry as soon as he said it, but said it had been. He spent the next hour in explaining that he did not mean it.

Serena was not on hand at breakfast time. Neither was Gertrude. That young lady came into the library at ten o'clock, looking pale and worn and with dark circles under her eyes. She had a thick envelope in her hand.

“Daddy,” she said, “will you post this for me?”

Her father looked up from the pile of papers on the writing table before him. He, too, appeared somewhat worried.

“Sartin,” he announced promptly. “I've got a stack of stuff for the postman, myself. Bills and checks they are, mostly. Serena usually attends to the house bills, but she's kind of under the weather this morning. Say, Gertie,” gravely, “it costs a sight to run this place, did you know it?”

“I suppose it does.”

“You bet it does! Why, I never realized—But there, I suppose likely these bills are heavier than usual. I suppose they are. Good land! if they ain't! But, of course they are. I'll ask Serena about 'em by and by, when she's better. Give me your letter, Gertie, I'll mail it.”

“You won't forget?”

“Not a mite. I'll put it right here with the others and give 'em to the postman when he comes. Humph! it's to John, isn't it? You're pretty prompt in your writin', ain't you? But that's natural; I remember when I used to write your mother twice a day. It's a wonder she stood it and kept her health, ain't it. Ha! ha!”

He chuckled and turned back to his bills and the checkbook. Gertrude left the room.

Captain Dan wrote and enclosed and affixed stamps. The pile of envelopes on the table grew steadily larger. Mr. Hungerford entered, seeking the cigar box.

“Good-morning,” he observed, cheerfully.

Daniel looked up, grunted, and went on with his work. Cousin Percy smiled. A querulous voice called from the second floor.

“Daniel!” called Serena. “Daniel, where are you? Why don't you come up? I am all alone.”

The captain sprang to his feet, “Comin'! Serena!” he shouted. “Comin'!”

He hurried out. Mr. Hungerford, left alone, helped himself to a cigar and strolled about the room. The pile of letters on the table caught his attention. Idly he turned the envelopes over, examining the addresses. All at once his interest became less casual; one of the written names had caught his attention.

Five minutes later the postman rang the doorbell. Captain Dan ran downstairs, entered the library, seized the letters from the table and hastened to hand them to the carrier.

“Daddy!” called Gertrude from above, “did you post my letter?”

“Sure!” was the prompt answer. “Just gave it to the mail man. It's on the road now.”

Serena's “nerves” were in much better condition the following day, and her spirits likewise. Gertrude, however, was still grave and absent-minded and non-communicative. Toward Mr. Hungerford in particular she was cool and distant, answering his chatty remarks and solicitous inquiries concerning her health with monosyllables, and, on several occasions, leaving the room when he entered it. This state of affairs was even more marked on the second day after Mr. Doane's abrupt departure, and still more so on the third. She seemed nervously expectant when the postman brought the mail, and depressed when each consignment contained no letter for her. On the fourth day this depression was so marked that her father asked the cause.

“What ails you, Gertie?” he inquired. “You look as if you just come from a funeral. What's wrong?”

Gertrude, who was standing by the window, looking out, answered without turning her head.

“Nothing,” she said shortly.

“Well, I'm glad of that. I thought you was troubled in your mind about somethin'. Ain't frettin' about John, are you?”

His daughter looked at him now, and the look was a searching one.

“About—Why should I fret about him, pray?” she asked slowly.

“I don't know. I thought maybe his goin' away so sudden was a sort of disappointment to you. 'Twas to the rest of us. Hey? Did you say somethin'?”

“No.”

“Oh, I thought you did. Well, you mustn't be disappointed, Gertie. You see, business is business. John did what he thought was right and—”

“Daddy, do be still. I do not intend to trouble myself about—him. Don't talk to me, please. I don't feel like talking.”

Daniel talked no more, at that time, but he wondered, and determined to ask Serena her opinion when the opportunity came.

It did not come immediately. A new development in Chapter politics was occupying Mrs. Dott's mind, a development so wonderful and so glorious in its promise that that lady could think or speak of little else. Mrs. Lake's term as president of Scarford Chapter was nearing its end. Annette Black, the vice-president, would have been, in the regular course of events, Mrs. Lake's successor to the high office. But Mrs. Lake and Annette, bosom friends for years, had had a falling out. At first merely a disagreement, it had been aggravated and developed into a bitter quarrel. The two ladies did not speak to each other. Annette announced her candidacy in meeting, and the very next day Mrs. Lake came to Serena with an amazing proposition.

The proposition was this: Mrs. Lake, it seemed, wished to become secretary of the National Legion. In order to do this—or to become even a prominent candidate—it was necessary for her to have the support of the officers of her own Chapter. If Mrs. Black was elected president she most decidedly would not have this support.

“That woman is a cat,” she declared, “a spiteful underhanded cat. After all I have done for her! Why, she never would have been vice-president if it had not been for me! And just because she heard that I said something—something about her that was perfectly true, even if I did not say it—she broke out in committee and said things to me that—that I never shall forget, never! She shan't be president. I have as many friends as she has and I'll see to that. Now, my dear Mrs. Dott, I am counting on you—and your daughter, of course—as among those friends. We must select some woman for the presidency who will command the respect and get the votes of all disinterested members. Miss Canby wants the office, but she is too closely identified with me to be perfectly safe. But our party—I and my friends, I mean—have been considering the matter and we have decided that a dark horse—that is what the politicians call it—a dark horse is bound to win. We must get the right kind of dark horse. And we think we have it—him—her, I mean. YOU shall be our candidate. YOU shall be president of Scarford Chapter.”

Serena gasped.

“Me?” she cried, forgetful, for once, of her carefully nurtured correctness of speech. “Me? President?”

“Yes, you. You are liked and respected by every member. You are known to be rich—I mean cultured and progressive and broad-minded. We can elect you and we will. Isn't it splendid? I'm SO proud to be the one to bring you the news!”

There was one strong qualification possessed by Mrs. Dott which the bearer of good news omitted to mention. Serena was supposed to be Annette Black's most devoted friend. Announcement of her candidacy would have the effect of splitting the Black party in twain. Mrs. Lake and her followers were very much aware of this, although their spokeswoman said nothing about it.

“You'll accept, of course,” gushed Mrs. Lake. “Of course you will. I shall be so proud to vote and work for you.”

Serena hesitated. The honor of being president of her beloved Chapter was a dazzling prospect. And yet—and yet—

“You will, won't you?” begged the caller.

“No,” said Serena. “No, Mrs. Lake, I can't. I could not run against Annette Black. She is my best and dearest friend. If it were not for her I should not have come to Scarford at all. It would be treachery of the meanest kind. No, Mrs. Lake, I am not that kind of a friend. No.”

“But—”

“Please don't speak of it again. I am ashamed even to hear you. Let's talk of something else.”

But Mrs. Lake did not want to talk of anything else. She urged and argued and pleaded in vain. Then she began to lose her temper. The parting was not cordial.

And then came Mrs. Black, herself. She, somehow or other, had learned of the offer to be made Serena. When she found that the latter had refused that offer because of loyalty to her, she fairly bubbled over.

“You dear!” she cried, embracing her hostess. “You dear, splendid thing! It was what I expected; I knew you'd do it; but I'm SO happy and SO grateful. I never shall forget it—never. And whenever I can prove my loyalty and devotion to you, be sure I shall do it.”

Serena was touched and gratified, but there was just a shade of disappointment in her tone as she answered.

“I know you will,” she said. “Of course, I had rather be president of Scarford Chapter than anything else in the world, but—”

And then Annette had an idea. She clasped her hands.

“You shall be,” she cried. “You shall be. Not this term, but the next—the very next. This term I shall be president, and you—YOU shall be vice-president. With you as our candidate we can beat that Canby creature to death. Oh, lovely! It is an inspiration.”

And on that basis it was settled. The opposing tickets were Black and Dott against Canby and a lady by the name of Saunderson, another of Mrs. Lake's “dear friends.” The Chapter was racked from end to end. Politics became the daily food of its members.

For Serena it was almost the only food. She was too busy to eat, except at odd times and hurriedly, and she slept less than ever. Her nervousness increased and she lost weight. Daniel was worried concerning her health and would have mentioned his worriment to Gertrude had not that young lady's mental state and behavior worried him almost as much.

Gertrude, for the first week after John Doane's departure, was depressed and silent and solemn. Once, her father found her in her room, crying and when he anxiously asked the reason she bade him go away and leave her, so sharply and in a tone so unlike her, that he went without further protestation. He did, however, go to Serena for advice.

“Oh, I don't know,” said Serena impatiently. “She misses John, I suppose. She thought he was going to stay and he didn't, and she was disappointed. Don't bother me! Don't! I've checked this voting list over three times already and it has come out different each time. I'm so tired and headachy and nervous I think I shall die. Sometimes I don't care if I do. Go away.”

“But, Serena, there's—there's somethin' queer about Gertie and John. I don't believe she's heard from him since he left. I don't believe she has.”

“Then, why doesn't she write and find out what is the matter? Perhaps he's sick.”

“Maybe so, but perhaps she don't want to write. Perhaps she's waitin' for him to do it.”

“He can't write if he's sick, can he? Why don't she telegraph him?”

“That would be just the same, the way she may look at it.”

“Then wire him yourself, why don't you? Oh, please go away—PLEASE. I'll speak to her, Daniel, when I get time; I was going to. But just now I—oh, my POOR head!”

Daniel made up his mind to telegraph Doane that very afternoon, but he did not. A happening in the household prevented him. Mr. Hapgood was summarily discharged.

Azuba was responsible for the affair. Serena was out—“committeeing” as usual—Gertrude was with her. Mr. Hungerford, also, was absent. Captain Dan, in the library, dolefully musing in an arm chair, heard a violent altercation in the kitchen. As it did not cease, but became more violent, he hastened to the scene.

Azuba was standing in the middle of the kitchen, her back against the table, facing the butler. Mr. Hapgood's face was red, his fists were clenched, and he was shaking one of them under the housekeeper's nose.

“Give it to me!” he ordered. “'And it over now, or I'll bash you good and 'ard.”

Azuba merely smiled. “You'll bash nobody,” she declared. “You're a thief, that's what you are—a low-down thief. I've always cal'lated you was one, ever since I laid eyes on you; now I know it. Don't you dare shake your fist at me. If my husband was here he'd—”

Hapgood interrupted, savagely consigning the Ginns, both male and female, to a much hotter place than the kitchen. Captain Dan strode into the room.

“Here!” he said sharply. “What's all this? You,” addressing Hapgood, “what, do you mean by shakin' your fist at a woman?”

Mr. Hapgood's bluster collapsed, like a punctured toy balloon. He cringed instead.

“W'y, sir,” he pleaded, “it wasn't anything. I lost my temper a bit, sir, that's all. She”—with a malignant snarl at Azuba—“she's got a letter of mine. She stole it and won't give it up. I was angry, sir, same as any man would 'ave been, and I forgot myself. Make 'er 'and over my letter, sir.”

The captain turned to the defiant Mrs. Ginn.

“Have you got a letter of his, Zuba?” he demanded.

Azuba laughed. “I have,” she declared, “and I'm glad of it. I've been waiting to get somethin' like it for a long spell. Stealin'! HE accuse anybody of stealin'! Here, Daniel Dott, you read that letter. Read it and see who's been doin' the stealin' around here.”

She extended the letter at arm's length. The butler made a snatch at it, but Captain Dan was too quick. He unfolded the crumpled sheet of paper. It bore the printed name and address of one of Scarford's newer and more recently established grocers and provision dealers, and read as follows:

EDWARD H. HAPGOOD,

SIR:—Our order clerk informs us that you expect a higher percentage of commission on goods ordered by your household. We do not feel that we should pay this. While we, being a new house, were willing, in order to obtain your business, to allow a fair rate of commission to you for putting it in our way, and while, during the past three months, we have paid such commission, we do not feel—

Daniel tossed the note on the floor. He marched to the door leading to the back yard and threw it open. Then he turned to the butler.

“See that door?” he inquired, pointing toward it. “Use it.”

Hapgood did not seem to comprehend.

“Wh-what, sir?” he faltered.

“Use that door. Get out! Out of this house, and don't you dare show your nose inside it again. Here!” stepping to the rack behind the open door. “These are your—duds—aren't they? Take 'em and get out. Quick!”

He threw an overcoat and hat at the astonished man-servant, who caught them mechanically.

“Get!” repeated the captain.

Hapgood apparently understood at last. His usual expression of polite humility vanished and he glowered malevolently.

“So I'm fired, am I?” he demanded. “Fired, without no notice or nothin'. 'Ow about my two weeks' wages? 'Ow about square treatment? 'Ow about my things upstairs? I've got rights, I 'ave, and you'll find it out. Blame your eyes, I—”

He darted through the doorway just in time. Captain Dan was on the threshold.

“You can send for your things upstairs,” said the captain. “They'll be ready—either up there or on the sidewalk. Now, my—hum—thief,” with deliberate and dangerous calmness, “I'm comin' out into that yard. If I was you I'd be somewhere else when I get there. That's my advice.”

The advice was taken. Mr. Hapgood was in the street by the time his employer reached the gate. Bolting that gate, Daniel walked back to the kitchen.

“Thank you, Zuba,” he said quietly. “You've only confirmed what I suspected before, but thank you, just the same.”

Azuba was regarding him with a surprise in which respect was strongly mingled.

“You're welcome,” she said drily. “It's good riddance to bad rubbish, that's what I call it. But,” her surprise getting the better of her judgment, “I must say I ain't seen you behave—I mean—”

She stopped, the judgment returning. But Captain Dan read her thoughts and answered them.

“He's a man,” he said shortly, “or an apology for one. I know how to deal with a MAN—his kind, anyway.”

Azuba nodded. “I should say you did,” she observed. “Well, if you'd like to hear the whole yarn, how I come to suspect him and all, I can tell you. You see—”

But Daniel would not listen. “I don't want to hear it,” he said. “Tell Serena, if you want to, when she comes home. I've got too much else on my mind to bother with swabs like him. If he should try to come back again you can call me, otherwise not. I ain't interested.”

And yet, if he could have seen and heard his ex-butler just at that moment, he might have been interested. Hapgood, on the next corner, out of sight from the Dott home, had met and waylaid Mr. Percy Hungerford. To the latter gentleman he was telling the story of his discharge. Cousin Percy seemed disturbed and angry.

“It's your own fault,” he declared. “You ought to have been more careful.”

“Careful! 'Ow should I know the fools was going to write a letter? I told 'em not to. And 'ow did I know the old woman—blast 'er—was watchin' me all the time? And now I've lost my job, and a good soft job, too. You've got to get it back for me, Mr. 'Ungerford; you've got to 'elp me, sir.”

“I'll help you all I can, of course, but I doubt if it will do any good. I can't stand talking with you here. Drop me a line at the club, telling me where you are, and I'll let you know what turns up. Oh, say, have any more letters come for—you know who?”

“No, that was the only one, sir. But a telegram came this morning.”

Mr. Hungerford started. “A telegram?” he repeated. “For her?”

“Yes, sir. And from 'im, it was, too.”

“Did she get it?”

Mr. Hapgood winked. “It was 'phoned up from the telegraph office, sir,” he said, “and I answered the 'phone. 'Ere's the copy I made, sir.”

He extracted a slip of paper from his pocket. Cousin Percy snatched the slip and read the penciled words. Hapgood smiled.

“Looks good, don't it, sir,” he observed. “'Frisco's a long way off.”

Hungerford did not answer. He tore the paper into small pieces and tossed them away.

“Well,” he said, after a moment, “good by and good luck. Let me know where you are and meanwhile I'll see what can be done for you. Good by.”

He was moving off, but his companion stepped after him.

“Just a minute, sir,” he said. “Could you 'elp me out a bit, in the money way? I'm flat broke; the old 'ayseed chucked me without a penny; 'e did, so 'elp me.”

Cousin Percy looked distinctly annoyed.

“I'm pretty nearly broke myself,” he declared, impatiently.

“Is that so, sir, I'm sorry, but I think you'll 'ave to 'elp me a bit. I think—I think you'd better, Mr. 'Ungerford, sir.”

Hungerford looked at him. The look was returned. Then the young gentleman extracted a somewhat attenuated roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off two and handed them to his companion.

“There you are,” he replied. “That's all and more than I can spare, just now. Good by.”

“Good by, sir—for now. And thank you kindly.”

Captain Dan, for all his prompt handling of the thieving butler and his professed ability to deal with men—Mr. Hapgood's kind of man—awaited the return of his wife and daughter with considerable uneasiness. Hapgood, in his capacity as trained, capable, aristocratic servant, had been a favorite of Serena's. The captain dreaded telling his wife what, in the heat of his anger, he had done. But his dread was needless. Serena's mind was too much occupied with politics and political ambition to dwell upon less important matters.

“I suppose it is all right,” she said. “If he was a thief he should be discharged, of course. No doubt you did right, Daniel, but we shall miss him dreadfully. I don't know where we can get another butler like him.”

Daniel gasped. “Good land of love!” he cried; “we don't WANT another like him, do we! I should hope we didn't.”

“I don't mean another thief. Oh, dear me! Why do you pick me up in that way? One would think you took a delight in worrying me all you could. Get me a cup of tea. I want it right away. My nerves are all unstrung. Gertie—”

But Gertie had gone to her room; she spent the greater part of her time there now. Her mother sighed.

“She's gone,” she declared. “Just when I need her most, of course. I can't see what has got into her for the last few days. She was so interested in the Chapter. Even more than I, I began to think. And yet, at the committee meeting this afternoon—the most important meeting we've had; when we were counting the votes which we can be sure of and those that are doubtful, she scarcely said a word. Just sat there and moped. I don't know what is the matter with her.”

Daniel nodded. “I think I do,” he said. “It's John. Somethin's the matter between her and John. If he had only stayed here! If he would only come back!”

“Then for mercy sakes get him back! Telegraph him. You said you were going to.”

Captain Dan rose. “I will,” he declared. “I'll do it right now, this minute. Not till I see you to your tea, Serena,” he added, hastily. “I'll tell Zuba about that first, of course.”

He sent the telegram within the hour. It was an inquiry concerning Mr. Doane's whereabouts, his employer's health, how he was getting on, and when he—John—was to return to Scarford. The answer arrived, via telephone, about eight that evening. It was a surprising answer.

“Doane gone to San Francisco on business of the firm,” it said. “Left at midnight yesterday.”

It was signed by the senior partner. Serena had gone out, of course; she was scarcely ever in now, but Gertrude, having finished dinner, was in her room as usual. Her father hurried up the stairs.

“Gertie,” he cried, entering without knocking, “Gertie, what do you suppose I've just found out? It's the most astonishing news. John is—he has—Why, you'd never guess!”

Gertrude, who was sitting in the rocking chair by the window, showed her first sign of interest. At the mention of the name she turned quickly.

“What?” she cried, in a startled voice. “What? Is it—is it bad news? He isn't—isn't—”

“No, no! No, no! He's all right. Don't look like that, you scare me. John's all right; that is, I suppose he is. But he—Here! read it yourself.”

Gertrude took the paper upon which he had written the message. She read the latter through; read it and reread it. Then she turned to her father.

“But I can't understand,” she faltered. “I can't—I can't understand. He didn't send this himself. He has gone to San Francisco; but—but this is signed by someone else. What does it mean?”

Daniel was frightened. It was time to explain, and yet, considering his daughter's look and manner, he was afraid to explain.

“You see,” he stammered, “well, you see, Gertie, that's an answer, that is. John didn't send it, he'd gone. But, I presume likely they thought my telegram ought to be answered, so—”

Gertrude interrupted. “Your telegram?” she repeated. “YOUR telegram? What telegram?”

“Why, the telegram I sent to John. I knew you hadn't heard from him, and I thought probably—”

“Wait—wait a minute. Did YOU send a telegram to—to him?”

“Yes; sure I did. I—”

“What did you say?”

“I said—why, I said that you—we, I mean—was wonderin' about him and—and missin' him and when was he comin' back here. That's about what I said. I wrote it in a hurry and I don't remember exactly. That's about it, anyhow. Why, what's the matter?”

Gertrude had risen.

“You said that!” she cried. “You—without a word to me—said—you begged him to come back! Begged him! on your knees! to—to—”

“No, no! I never got on my knees. What would I do a fool thing like that for, when I was sendin' a telegram? I just asked—”

“You just asked! You said that I—I—And this was your answer! THIS!”

She dashed the message to the floor, covered her face with her hands and threw herself upon the bed. Daniel, aghast and alarmed, would have raised her but she pushed him away.

“Oh!” she cried. “The shame of it! Don't touch me! Please don't touch me!”

“But, Gertie—what on earth?”

“Don't touch me. Please don't touch me. Just go away, Daddy. Go and leave me. I mustn't talk to you now. If I do, I shall say—Please go. I want to be alone.”

Daniel went. That he had made another blunder was plain enough, but just now he was too hurt and indignant to care a great deal.

“All right,” he said shortly; “I'm goin'. You needn't worry about that. That's about all the orders I get nowadays—to go away. I ought to be used to it, by this time. I'm a fool, that's what I am, an old worn-out, useless fool.”

He slammed the door and descended the stairs. He had been in his accustomed refuge, the library, for perhaps twenty minutes, when the bell rang. He waited for Hapgood to answer the ring and then, suddenly remembering that the butler had departed, answered it himself.

Mr. Monty Holway smiled greeting from the steps.

“Good evening, Captain Dott,” he said. “Is Miss Dott in?”

Daniel hesitated. “Yes,” he said, “she's in, but—”

“May I see her? Will you be good enough to give her my card?”

The captain took the card.

“Ye-es,” he said, “I'll give it to her, but—but—Well, you see, she ain't feelin' very well this evenin' and I don't know as she'll want to see anybody.”

Gertrude herself called from the head of the stairs.

“Who is it, Daddy?” she asked. “Someone for me?”

“It's—er—Mr. Holway.”

“Oh, is it!” The tone was one of delighted surprise. “Ask him to come in, Daddy. I'll be right down.”

She came almost immediately. She greeted the caller with outstretched hand.

“I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Holway,” she said. “I was lonely. It was nice of you to come.”

She was pale, and the dark circles under her eyes were more apparent than ever, but the eyes themselves were shining brightly. She was gay and, for her, extremely vivacious. Mr. Holway looked gratified and happy. Captain Dan looked astonished and bewildered.