“For the land sakes! Laban Ginn!” repeated Daniel.

Mr. Ginn grinned cheerfully. He was six feet tall, or thereabouts, and more than half as wide. His hair and beard were grayish red and his face reddish brown. He was dressed in the regulation “shore togs” of a deep sea sailor, blue double-breasted jacket, blue trousers and waistcoat, white “biled” shirt, low collar—celluloid, by the look—and a “made” bow tie which hung from the button by a worn loop of elastic. His hands were as red as his face and of a size proportionate to the rest of him. He seized the captain's hand in one of his, crushed it to a pulp, and returned the remains to the chief mourner.

“Well, say,” he cried, his grin widening, “that feels natural, don't it? Last time you and me shook hands was over three years ago. How are you? Blessed if it ain't good to see you again.”

Captain Dan was slowly regaining his equilibrium.

“Same to you, Labe,” he returned heartily. “But—but, by Godfreys, you're the last person I expected to see just now.”

“Yep, I shouldn't wonder.”

“Sit down, sit down. Humph! Does Azuba know you're comin'?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, sit down and I'll call her. She's here with us, of course.”

“Sartin she is. Where else would she be? I knew she was here; heard you hailin' her just as I made port at the back door. Set down?” He threw himself into a chair, which groaned under the pressure. “Sure, I'll set down! Feels kind of good to drop anchor when you've been cruisin's long as I have. No, Zuby don't know I'm comin'. Last time I wrote her was from Mauritius. I've been to clink and gone since. She WILL be surprised, won't she? Ho! ho! Did I leave the hatch open? Here, let me shut it.”

But Daniel himself shut the “hatch,” that is to say, the back door. He was on his way to the stairs, but Mr. Ginn detained him.

“Hold on a shake, Cap'n,” he said. “I ain't hardly seen you yet. Let's have a look at you.” Crossing his legs—his feet were like miniature trunks—he added, “How are you, anyway?”

Daniel replied that he was fair to middling.

“Sit still and make yourself comfortable, Labe,” he went on. “I'll tell Zuba you're here.”

“What's your hurry? Give me a chance to catch my breath. I lugged that dunnage bag,” indicating the valise, “from the depot up here, and I feel as if I'd strained every plank in my hull. Ought to go into dry dock and refit, I had. I landed in Philadelphy a week ago,” he continued. “Quit the old steamer for good, I have. Me and the skipper had some words and I told him where he could go. Ho! ho! I don't know whether he went or not; anyhow, I started for Trumet. Got there and found you'd come into money and had moved to Scarford and was livin' with the big-bugs. Some house you've got here, ain't it! Soon's I see it I headed for the back door. 'A first cabin companion like that's no place for me,' I says. Ho! ho! Besides, I cal'lated to find Zuby Jane out in the fo'castle here. Didn't expect to locate you, though, in this end of the ship. How's it seem to be rich? Ain't got fat on it, have you.”

Daniel, amused in spite of his recent ill temper, shook his head.

“Not yet,” he answered. “So you've been ashore a week and your wife doesn't know it? Why didn't you write to her from Philadelphia?”

“Oh, I don't know. Zuby and me's got an understandin' about that, and other things. There's nothin' like havin' a clear understandin' to make married folks get along together. We write letters, of course, but we don't write very often. I'm li'ble to be 'most anywheres on the face of the earth, and it makes me fidgety to think there's letters chasin' me round and I ain't gettin' 'em. I say to Zuby, 'Long's you don't hear from me you'll know I'm all right, and long's I don't hear from you I'll know the same. We'll write when we feel like it. I'll come home as often as I can, and when I come I'll fetch you my share of the wages.' That's our understandin' and it's a good one. We ain't had a fight since we was spliced; or, if we have, I always stop it right off—stop her part, I mean. Where IS the old gal, anyhow?”

“She's up in her room, I presume likely.”

“Oh, is she? Well, she'll be down in a jiffy. If she ain't I'll go up and give her a surprise.”

“I'll call her, if you give me a chance.”

“No, no, you needn't. No 'special hurry. She's waited for three years; cal'late ten minutes more won't hurt neither of us. Had your supper yet?”

Daniel smiled grimly. “Not yet,” he replied.

“Then she'll be down to get it, of course. I shan't stop her; I'm empty as a rum bottle four days out of port. You folks eat late, don't you?”

“Sometimes.”

“I should think so. What's Zuby doin' up in her room this time of night?”

“She said she was goin' to change her clothes.”

“Oh, yes, yes; I see. Well, 'twon't take her long. If I went up I'd only hold her back, and I want my supper. Let's have a smoke, Dan, while we're waitin'.”

He patted one pocket after the other and finally located a chunky, battered pipe, which he proceeded to fill with shavings from a black plug. Daniel watched him. A new idea was dawning in his mind, an idea which seemed to afford him some pleasurable anticipation. Mr. Ginn looked up from his tobacco shaving.

“Now, tell me about all this money of yours,” he commanded. “I didn't hear nothin' else at Trumet; that and your wife's gettin' to be commodore of some woman's lodge or other was all they talked about. Hey? Why, where's your pipe? Ain't you goin' to smoke? I've got plenty terbacker.”

Daniel looked dubious. “I guess not, Labe,” he said. “Zuba—well, the fact is, Zuba doesn't like people to smoke in her kitchen.”

Laban's face expressed astonishment. “She don't!” he cried. “She don't? How long since?”

“Oh, almost ever since she came here. It is one of her new ways.”

“'Tis, hey? Well, I like the old ones better, myself. Never you mind her ways; trot out your pipe and light up. I—”

He was interrupted by his companion, who made a flying jump toward the stove. The teakettle was boiling over.

“Let it bile,” commented Mr. Ginn. “'Tain't your funeral, is it? You ain't supposed to boss the galley. That's the cook's business, not the skipper's.”

But Daniel carefully removed the kettle to a place of safety.

“It's my business to-night,” he said. “I'm gettin' my own supper.”

Mr. Ginn straightened in his chair. “You be?” he exclaimed. “You BE? What for? Ain't there no women folks in the house? Ain't Zuby—why, you said—”

“I know I said, but what I say don't seem to amount to much. You see, Labe, your wife has got some of what MY wife calls advanced ideas. She belongs to some kind of a lodge herself, and this is their meetin' night. Just before you came Zuba made proclamations that I could cook my own supper. She said she couldn't stop to do it; she'd be late to the meetin' if she did.”

Laban's mouth opened. The pipe fell from it, scattering sparks like a Roman candle, and bounced upon the spotless floor of the kitchen. Daniel would have picked it up, but his visitor intervened. He put one mammoth foot upon the sparks and, leaning forward, demanded instant attention.

“For thunder sakes, Dan Dott!” he cried. “Never mind that pipe; let it alone. For thunder sakes, tell me what you're talkin' about? Zuby—Zuby Jane Ginn racin' to lodges and tellin' you—YOU—to cook your own meals! Go on! You're loony.”

“Maybe I am, Labe, but it's so.”

“It's so? And you let it be so? I don't believe it. What do you mean? How long has it been so?”

Captain Dan proceeded to tell of his housekeeper's conversion to progress and advancement. He did not suppress any of the details; in fact, he magnified them just a bit.

“She's a free woman, so she says, Labe,” he said, in conclusion. “And a free woman has a right to be free.”

“Is that so! That's what she says, hey? And you let her say it? Why, you—you—” He hesitated, hovering between candid expression and the respect due an ex-skipper of a three-master. “Wh-what do you have such goin's on in your house for?” he demanded. “What makes you let the gang afore the mast run over you this way? Why don't you—who's that upstairs; your wife?”

“No, my wife is out. I shouldn't wonder if that was Zuba. She's on her way to the door, probably.”

“She is, hey? Call her down here. Sing out to her to come down. Hi!” as the captain stepped to the stairs, “don't say nothin' about me.”

Daniel, suppressing a grin, shouted up the stairs.

“Zuba!” he called. “Zuba, come down here a minute.”

Azuba answered, but in no complacent tone. “Don't bother me, Cap'n Dott,” she protested. “I'm late as 'tis.”

“Just a minute, Zuba, that's all. One minute, please.”

Mr. Ginn snorted at the “please.” They heard the housekeeper descending. At the bottom step she sniffed loudly.

“I do believe it's tobacco smoke!” she exclaimed. “Cap'n Dott, have you been smokin' in my kitchen?”

She entered the room, waving an indignant arm. She was dressed in her Sunday best, bonnet and all.

“What!” she began, and then, suddenly aware that her employer was not alone, turned to stare at his companion. “Why!” she exclaimed; “who—oh, my soul! LABAN!”

“Hello, Zuby!” roared her husband, rising to greet her. “How be you, old gal?”

Before she could speak or move he seized her in his arms, squeezed her to him, and pressed a kiss like the report of a fire-cracker upon her cheek. “How be you, Zuby?” he repeated.

“Oh, Labe!” gasped Azuba. “Labe!”

“I'm Labe, all right. No doubt about that.... Well, why don't you say somethin'? Ain't you glad to see me?”

Azuba looked as if she did not know whether she was glad or not; in fact, as if she knew or realized any little of anything.

“Labe!” she said again. “Laban Ginn! When—WHERE did you come from?”

“Oh, from all 'round. Trumet was my last port and I made that by way of Malagy and Philadelphy. But I'm here, anyhow, and that's somethin'. My! it's good to see you. You look as natural as life. Set down and let's look at you.”

The housekeeper sat down; she appeared glad of the opportunity. Her husband faced her, grinning broadly.

“Just as handsome as ever; hey, old lady,” he observed. “And look at the duds! Say, you're rigged up fine, from truck to keelson, ain't you, Zuby! Never seen you rigged finer. A body would think she knew I was comin', wouldn't they, Cap'n Dan?”

Daniel did not answer, although he seemed much interested in the situation.

Azuba drew a hand across her forehead.

“I DIDN'T know it,” she declared emphatically. “Indeed, I didn't! Why didn't you write me, Laban Ginn?”

“Write! Write nothin'! I wanted to surprise you. But there, there! Don't set around in that rig any longer. Makes me feel as if you'd come to call on the parson. Take off your coat and bonnet and let's be sociable. And while we're talkin' you turn to and get supper. I'm pretty nigh starved to death. So's the cap'n; he said so.”

Mrs. Ginn looked at Captain Dan. There was a twinkle in his eye. Azuba noticed that twinkle.

“Laban,” she stammered, “I—I—I CAN'T stay here and get supper to-night. I can't.”

Laban was tremendously surprised—at least he pretended to be.

“Can't!” he repeated. “Can't stay here, when I've just got home?”

“No, I can't. If I had known you was comin' 'twould have been different. But I didn't know it.”

“What difference does that make? Zuby, don't make me laugh; I'm too hungry for jokin'. Take off your bonnet, now; take it off.”

“I mustn't, really, Labe. It's lodge night and they expect me. I—”

“Take off your bonnet!”

“I can't! ... Well, I will, for just a minute.” The last sentence was added in a great hurry, for her husband showed signs of preparing to remove the headgear with his own hands. She placed the bonnet on the table and fidgeted in her chair, glancing first at her employer and then at the clock. Captain Dan was smiling broadly.

“That's fine!” exclaimed Mr. Ginn. “Now you look like home folks. Now she'll get us some supper, won't she, Cap'n?”

Again Daniel did not answer, but his smile, as Azuba interpreted it, was provokingly triumphant. Her lips closed tightly.

“I can't get any supper to-night, Laban,” she declared firmly. “I just can't. I'm awful sorry, bein' as you've just got home, but you'll have to forgive me. I'll explain when you and me are alone.”

“Explain? Explain what?”

“Why—why—” with another look, almost vindictive, at the grinning captain, “what my reason is. But I can't tell you now—I can't.”

“That's all right. I don't care about explainin's. You can explain any old time; just now, me and the cap'n want our supper.”

“I shan't get your supper. I told Cap'n Dott I couldn't before I went upstairs. I'm goin' out.”

“No, no, you ain't. Quit your foolin', old lady. I'm gettin' emptier every minute. So are you, ain't you, Cap'n?”

Daniel hesitated, looked at his housekeeper's face, and burst into a roar of laughter. That laugh decided the question. Azuba rose.

“Don't talk to me,” she snapped. “I'm sorry, but it serves you right, Laban, for comin' home without sendin' me word; and just at the wrong time, too. Give me that bonnet.”

She reached for the bonnet, but her husband reached it first. “'Tain't much of a bonnet, anyhow, Zuby,” he said. “Now I look at it closer I don't think it's becomin' to your style of complexion. Some day I'll buy you another.”

“Give me that bonnet, Laban Ginn!”

“I don't like to see that bonnet around, Zuby. Let's get it out of sight quick.”

His wife sprang at the bonnet, but he barred her off with an arm like a fence-rail, removed a lid from the stove, put the unbecoming article in on the red-hot coals, and replaced the lid. “There!” he said, “that helps the scenery, don't it? Now let's have supper.”

Captain Dan laughed again. For an instant Azuba stared, white-faced, at the cremation of the bonnet. Then she darted to the door. “I'll go now,” she cried, “if I have to go bareheaded! I'll show you! Let go of me!”

Mr. Ginn had thrown an arm about her waist. She pulled his hair and gave him some vigorous slaps on the cheek, but he smiled on. “You want to get supper, Zuby,” he coaxed. “I know you do. You just think it over now. It's too noisy out here to do much thinkin'. Where's a nice quiet place? Oh! this'll be first rate.”

He bore her, kicking like a jumping-jack, across the kitchen to the closet where the pans and cooking utensils were kept. “Think it over in there, Zuby,” he said calmly, shutting the door and planting himself in a chair against it. “That's a fine place to think. Now, Cap'n, you and me can have our smoke, while she's thinkin' what to give us to eat; hey?”

Judging by the thumps and kicks and screams inside the closet the housekeeper's thoughts were otherwise engaged.

“You let me out, Labe Ginn!” she screamed. “Cap'n Dott, you make him let me out!”

Daniel, weary from laughing, could only gasp.

“I can't, Zuba!” he answered, choking. “I can't! It ain't my affair. I couldn't interfere between husband and wife. You're a free woman, Zuba, you know. You ought to be advanced enough by this time to fight your own battles.”

“That's right, Zuba,” counseled Mr. Ginn. “Fight 'em out in there. You can be just as free in there as you want to. Have some of my terbacker, Cap'n?”

Captain Dan declined. The prisoner continued to thump and kick and threaten. Her jailer refilled and lighted his pipe.

“Thought over that bill of fare, Zuby?” he shouted, after a time.

More thumps and threats; tears as well. Daniel began to feel pity instead of triumph.

“Hadn't you better, Labe,” he began. Mr. Ginn waved him to silence.

“How about supper, Zuby?” he called. “Oh, all right, all right. I don't know as I'm as hungry as I was, anyway. Appetite's kind of passin' off, I cal'late. You stay in there and think till mornin', and we'll have it for breakfast.”

Silence—actual silence—for a moment. Then Azuba asked, in a half-smothered but much humbler voice, “Oh, Labe! WON'T you let me out?”

“Sure thing—if you've thought up that supper for me and Cap'n Dan'l.”

“But I did so want—oh, if I could only tell you! It was SO necessary for me to go to that meetin'. You've spiled everything, and just as 'twas goin' so nice. What Gertie'll say I don't know.”

Daniel developed a new interest.

“Gertie?” he repeated. “Hush, Labe! wait a minute. What's Gertie got to do with it?”

“Nothin', nothin'. Oh, Labe, PLEASE.”

“Well, I tell you, Zuby: it's close to nine now, and that's too late for you to be cruisin' out to meetin's. Sorry you have to miss the speeches and things, but—Say, I tell you what I'll do. If it's a sermon you want I'll preach you one, myself. Make it up while you're settin' the table. Ready to come out and be good? That's right. Now, I bet you she's thought up somethin' that'll make our mouths water, Cap'n.”

The crestfallen housekeeper emerged, blinking, from her thinking place. She removed her coat and, without even a glance at her employer, proceeded to adjust the dampers of the stove. Captain Dan rose from his chair.

“I'm afraid I can't stop to have supper with you, Labe,” he said. “I've got an—an errand to do outside, myself. I'll eat at a restaurant or somewhere. You'll stay here to-night, of course. I'll see you in the mornin'. Good-night! Good-night, Zuby!”

Azuba did not reply. Laban shouted protests. What was the sense of going just when supper was being made ready at last? Daniel, however, did not stay to listen. He climbed the back stairs to the hall, put on his overcoat and hat and went out. He had been too tender-hearted to remain in the kitchen and gloat, or appear to gloat, over a “free woman's” humiliation. Nevertheless, he astonished the waiter at the restaurant where he ate dinner by bursting into laughter at intervals, and with no obvious cause. The waiter suspected that the old gentleman from the country had been drinking, and the size of the tip he received helped to confirm his suspicion.

His dinner eaten, Captain Dan walked slowly home. Unlocking the front door with his latchkey he tiptoed through the hall and listened at the head of the back stairs. There was a steady murmur of voices in the kitchen. He heard a bass grumble from Mr. Ginn and Azuba's shrill reply. Then the pair burst into a laugh. Evidently some sort of understanding on a peaceful basis had been reached. Still chuckling, the captain went up to his bedroom, removed his outer garments and his shoes, put on his bathrobe and slippers, and settled himself, with the evening paper, to await his wife's return. He resolved to be awake when she did return; he had news for her. Filled with this resolution, he read for three-quarters of an hour steadily, then at intervals between naps, and at last dropped into a sound sleep, the paper in his lap.

Gertrude and Serena came home at a surprisingly early hour. Not that the committee meeting was over; it was not. In fact, the elaborate dinner spread before her supporters by the grateful Mrs. Black had scarcely reached its last course when Gertrude suddenly rose from the table and hastened to her mother's side. She had been watching the latter with increasing anxiety all the evening.

“What is it, Mother?” she asked. “What is it?”

Serena, sitting with her elbow on the table, her hand to her forehead, and her untasted ice before her, looked up in a bewildered way.

“What—why, what do you mean, Gertie?” she stammered. “What—I don't think I understood you.”

“What is the matter, Mother?” repeated Gertrude. “Don't you feel well?”

Still Mrs. Dott did not seem to understand. She tried to smile, but the vague uncertainty of the smile caused even Annette, who had been deep in discussion of a plan for securing the vote of a still doubtful member, to cease speaking and regard her guest with surprise.

“What is it, Mother?” urged Gertrude. “You look so strange. Are you ill?”

Serena gazed at her for a moment, rose, stood looking about in the same hesitating, uncertain manner, and then, throwing her arms about her daughter's neck, burst into hysterical sobs.

The alarmed guests clustered about them, asking questions, exclaiming, and offering suggestions.

“What IS it?” demanded Annette. “My DEAR! What IS it?”

Serena, still clinging to Gertrude, continued to sob.

“I—I don't know,” she moaned. “I—I feel so strange. I'm—I'm tired, I guess. I'm—I'm worn out. I—oh, Gertie, take me home. Take me home—please.”

“Yes, yes, Mother, dear. We will go home at once. Come.”

She led her into the next room. Annette, hastening with a glass of wine and the smelling salts, caught the young lady's arm.

“She isn't going to be ill, seriously sick, is she?” she demanded. “You don't think she is. It would be dreadful if she was.”

Gertrude shook her head.

“I don't know,” she answered. “I certainly hope not. Will you call a carriage, Mrs. Black?”

“Yes, yes, I'll call one right away. Oh, I hope she isn't going to be sick. It would be dreadful—just now. The election is only two weeks off, and without her I—we should be almost certain to lose. I know we should. Oh, Serena, DEAR! you WON'T be sick, will you? for my sake!”

It did not seem to occur to the agitated Annette that her friend might not care to be ill, for her own sake. But it was evident that Gertrude was thinking just that. The young lady's tone was sharp and decidedly cold.

“She is tired out,” she said. “She has worn herself out working for her—for her friends, Mrs. Black. Will you call the carriage?”

“Yes, yes. They are calling it now. I'm so sorry the chauffeur—or—or Phelps—is out. If he—if they were not you could use our car. But, oh, Serena—”

Serena looked up. She was calmer now, she had heard, and loyally she answered.

“Don't worry, Annette,” she said. “I am not going to be sick. I won't. You can depend on me. Oh, Gertie, I'm SO tired! My poor head!”

The carriage came and she and Gertrude were driven home. Annette did not offer to accompany them. It was such an important meeting and there were so many things to talk about, she explained. She would call the very next day. Serena thanked her; Gertrude said nothing.

Serena seemed better on the way home. When they reached the house she announced bravely that she was all right again; all she needed was a night's rest, that was all. Gertrude insisted on accompanying her to her room. They found Daniel asleep in the chair, and to him his daughter explained the situation. The captain was too greatly disturbed to think of his “news,” the news of Mr. Ginn's arrival and Azuba's subjection.

“You get right into bed, Serena,” he ordered. “Gertie, you call the doctor.”

But his wife would not hear of the doctor. “Nonsense!” she declared. “I don't need any doctor. I want to go to bed. I'm tired—tired. I won't see the doctor or anybody else. Go, Gertie, please go. Your father will be with me. Please go! I am all right now.”

Gertrude went, but she whispered to the captain that she would wait in the library and, if they needed her, he was to be sure and call.

In the library she took a book—one of Aunt Lavinia's legacies—from the shelf and tried to read, but that was impossible. She could not read, she could only think, and thinking was most unpleasant. Her conscience was troubling her. Had she been wrong? Had she gone too far? She had meant well, her plan had seemed the only solution of the family problem, but perhaps she had made a mistake. She loved her mother devotedly. Oh, if anything serious should happen—if, because of her, her mother should be ill—if—if she should. She could not think of it. She would never forgive herself, never. It had been all wrong from the beginning, and she had been wicked and foolish. It had cost her so much already; her own life's happiness. And yet—and yet, she had meant to do right. But now, after that misunderstanding and consequent sacrifice, if her mother should—

She broke down and was very, very miserable.

Someone was at the front door, fumbling with a latchkey. Gertrude hurriedly sprang from her chair, wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and was on her way to the hall when the door opened. The hall was dark; she had turned off the light when she came downstairs; and for a moment she could not see who it was that had entered. She, however, was in the full glow from the electrolier in the library and Mr. Hungerford saw her.

“Ah, Gertrude,” he said cheerfully. “Is that you? Don't go. Don't go.”

He was at the doorway before she could reach it. He had been dining out with some masculine friends—“old college chums,” he had explained when announcing the situation—and was in evening dress.

“Don't go,” he repeated. “What's the hurry? Wait a minute and I'll join you.”

He removed his overcoat and silk hat and tossed them carelessly upon the hall table. The hat fell to the floor, but he did not heed it. Then he entered the library.

“What!” he exclaimed. “Alone? Burning the midnight oil and all that sort of thing. Where is old—er—where's your father?”

Gertrude replied that her father had retired. She was about to do so, she added. It was untrue, but she was not in the mood for a conversation with anyone, least of all with Cousin Percy.

Cousin Percy, however, appeared decidedly conversational. His face was a trifle flushed and he smiled more than seemed necessary.

“Well,” he observed, “this is an unexpected pleasure. Didn't expect to find anyone up at this hour.”

Gertrude curtly remarked that it was not late.

“I didn't mean up, I meant in. Did I say 'up'? Most extraordinary. I thought you and Mrs. Dott were playing the political game this evening. Expected to find you out and old—the respected captain, I mean—in the arms of—what's his name?—Morpheus. That's all right, though; that's all right. So much the better. We can talk—you and I.”

“I don't feel like talking. You must excuse me.”

“What? Don't feel like talking? Cruel! Why not? It isn't late; you said so yourself.”

“I know but—really, you must excuse me.”

She was moving toward the door, but again he stepped in her way.

“Now, Gertie,” he said. Then he broke into a laugh. “Called you Gertie, didn't I?” he said. “Beg pardon. Quite unintentional. It slipped out before I thought. But you don't mind, do you? It's a pretty name. Just a little bit less formal than Gertrude, eh? Don't you think so—Gertie?”

Gertrude hesitated. She was humiliated and angry, but she did not wish a scene. Her parents might hear and her mother must on no account be disturbed.

“Perhaps it is,” she answered.

“Then you don't mind?”

“No. Now, Percy, you must excuse me. Goodnight!”

“Wait! Wait! Gertie, I have something to say to you. Been wanting to say it for a long time, but haven't had the opportunity. You have kept out of my way. Ha! ha! you know you have. Perhaps you guessed I wanted to say it. Was that it? Ha! ha! was it now? Confess; was it?”

Gertrude did not answer. She moved toward the door. Mr. Hungerford laughingly blocked the passage.

“No, no!” he cried. “No, no! Mustn't run away. I am going to say it, and you must hear me. Come, don't be cross.”

“Mr. Hungerford, will you stand aside? I can not talk with you to-night, or listen. I am going to my room.”

The tone in which this was uttered should have been a warning, but Cousin Percy was in no condition to recognize warnings, or to heed them if he had. His smile grew more tender and his tone more intimate.

“Not yet,” he smiled; “not just yet. I can't permit it. Gertie, I—”

“If you don't stand aside I shall call my father.”

“What? Call the old gentleman? No, you don't mean it. Of course you don't. You wouldn't be so unreasonable. Come, come! we're friends at least. We understand each other, don't we?”

“I understand YOU, thoroughly.”

“Of course you do,” with a triumphant leer. “And you know what I am going to say. Ah ha! I was sure you did. And you've confessed. Gertie, my dearest girl, I—What! Going? Not until you pay toll. I'm keeper of the gate and you must pay before you pass, you know. If you won't listen you must pay. Ha! ha!”

He held out his hands. Gertrude shrank back. She was not afraid of him, but she did fear a scene. She had threatened to call her father, but she could not do that. If she did her mother would be frightened. She moved away, to the other side of the library table.

Cousin Percy interpreted her retreat as a sign of surrender. He followed her, laughing.

“Come!” he insisted. “I knew you didn't mean it. Come, my dear! Just one. I—”

He tripped over the captain's favorite footstool and fell to his knees. With a sudden movement Gertrude jerked the cord of the electrolier on the table. The lights went out. She dodged around the table, through the doorway, into the hall, and up the stairs. Mr. Hungerford, pawing in the darkness at the offending footstool, swore. Then he laughed.

“Good!” he exclaimed. “Very good, but not good enough. You can't escape that way. I shall find you. Where are you hiding? Eh! Ah, there you are!”

He had scrambled to his feet and hurried to the doorway. There were the sounds of footsteps and the rustle of skirts at the other end of the hall.

“There you are!” he cried. “I've caught you. Now you must pay—twice.”

He put his arm about a feminine waist and imprinted a kiss upon a feminine cheek. Then his own cheek received a slap which made his head ring, and the hall echoed with a shrill scream.

“Labe!” shrieked Azuba. “Oh, Labe! Help! Come quick!”

Mr. Ginn came up the back stairs three steps at a time.

“What is it? What's the matter, Zuby?” he demanded.

“A man! A man! He—he—”

“Where is he? What's he doin'?”

“He—there he is. Hear him? There!”

Mr. Hungerford, paralyzed with astonishment and dizzy from the slap, had moved, injudiciously. Laban heard him.

“Hey?” he bellowed. “Ah! I've got him. Stand still, dum you! I've got him, Zuby. Who is he? What did he do?”

“I—I don't know who he is,” panted the frightened housekeeper. “He—he kissed me.”

“KISSED you! YOU? Why—”

“It's a mistake!” cried Cousin Percy, frantically struggling in the grasp of his captor. “I—Stop! Stop! Help! Help!”

The hall became a pandemonium of thumps, struggles, cries for help, and pleas for mercy. Azuba added her shrieks to the tumult. From above Captain Dan shouted and Serena screamed. Then the chandelier blazed. Gertrude had pressed the button at the top of the stairs.

“Let him be!” ordered the young lady, rushing to the rescue. “Don't! don't! Azuba, stop him!”

“Labe! stop! stop!” pleaded the housekeeper. “You—My soul! it's Mr. Hungerford.”

It was what there was left of Mr. Hungerford. Mr. Ginn extended the disheveled, whimpering remnant at arm's length and regarded it.

“Humph!” he grunted. “You know him, do you?”

“Know him! Of course I do. But—but I must say—”

Captain Dan came tearing down the stairs, his bathrobe fluttering and a slipper missing. In one hand he held a pair of scissors, the only offensive weapon which he had found available at the moment.

“What in blazes?” he demanded. “Burglars, is it?”

Gertrude answered. “No, Daddy,” she said gravely. “It's no one but Cousin Percy. And—and Mr. Ginn. Why, Mr. Ginn, is—is it you?”

Laban nodded. “It's me, all right,” he observed grimly. “Who the devil is this? That's what I want to know.”

Daniel turned to the captive.

“Why—why, Percy!” he gasped. “What—what's happened to you? Let go of him, Labe Ginn! Percy Hungerford, what—what's all this?”

Mr. Hungerford, suddenly freed from the grasp upon his torn shirt collar, staggered against the wall.

“It's—it's a mistake,” he panted. “I—I—this—this blackguard assaulted me. I—I—”

“Assaulted you! I should say he had. Labe Ginn, what did you assault him for?”

Mr. Ginn glared at his victim.

“Blackguard, am I?” he growled. “Humph! Well, if he starts to callin' me names, I'll—”

“Belay! Answer me! What have you been doin' to him? Look at him! What do you mean by assaultin' him that way?”

“What do I mean? When a man comes home from sea and finds another man kissin' his wife, what would he be likely to mean?”

Daniel could not answer. He looked about him in absolute bewilderment. Gertrude choked and turned away.

“Kissin'!” repeated Captain Dan. “Kissin' your wife? Kissin' ZUBA! I—I—am I crazy, or are you, or—or is he?”

Apparently he judged the last surmise to be the most likely. Cousin Percy, frantic with rage and humiliation, tried to protest.

“It's a lie!” he cried. “It's a lie!”

The captain turned to his housekeeper.

“Zuba,” he demanded, “what sort of lunatic business is this? Do you know?”

Azuba straightened.

“I don't know much,” she announced sharply. “All I know is that I come upstairs in the dark and he grabbed me and—and said somethin' about my payin' him—and then he—he—done the other thing. That's all I know, and it's enough. Don't talk to ME! I never was so surprised and mortified in MY life.”

“But—but what's it mean? Can't anybody tell me, for the Lord sakes?”

Gertrude stepped forward. “I think I understand,” she said. “Our cousin made a mistake, that's all. I will explain at another time, Daddy. If—if you will all go away, he and I will have an interview. I think I can settle it better than anyone else. Go, please. I'm sure Mother needs you.”

The mention of his wife caused her father to forget everything else, even his overwhelming curiosity.

“My soul!” he cried. “She heard this; and—and I left her all alone.”

He bolted up the stairs. Gertrude's next remark was addressed to the housekeeper.

“Azuba,” she said, “would you and your husband mind leaving us? Perhaps you'd better not go to bed. I—I may need Mr. Ginn later on; perhaps I may. But if you and he were to go down to the kitchen and wait just a few moments I should be so much obliged. Will you?”

Azuba hesitated.

“Leave you?” she repeated. “With—with him?”

“Yes. I have something to say to him. Something important.”

She and Azuba exchanged looks. The latter nodded.

“All right,” she said decisively; “course we'll go. Come, Labe.”

But Laban seemed loath to move.

“I ain't got through with him yet,” he observed. “I'd only begun.”

“You come with me. Have you forgot all I told you so soon? Come!”

“Hey? No; no, I ain't forgot. Is this part of it?”

“Part of it's part of it; the rest ain't. You come, 'fore you do any more spilin'. Come, now.”

Mr. Ginn went. At the head of the back stairs he paused.

“You'll sing out if you need me?” he asked. “You will, won't you? You'll only have to sing once.”

He tramped heavily down. Gertrude walked over to the victim of the “mistake” and its consequences.

“I think,” she said coldly, “that you had better go.”

“Go?” Mr. Hungerford looked at her. “Go?” he repeated.

“Yes. I give you this opportunity. There will not be another. Go to your room, change your clothes, pack your trunk, and go—now, to-night.”

“What do you mean? That I am to go—and not come back?”

“Yes.”

“But, Gertrude—Gertie—”

“Don't call me that. Don't DARE to speak to me in that tone. Go—now.”

“But, Ger—Miss Dott, I—I—don't you see it was all a mistake? I—”

“Stop! I am trying very hard to keep my temper. We have had scenes enough to-night. My mother is ill and she must not be disturbed again. If you do not go to your room and pack and leave at once, I shall call Mr. Ginn and have you put out, just as you are. I am giving you that opportunity. You had better avail yourself of it. I mean what I say.”

She looked as if she did. Cousin Percy evidently thought so. His humbleness disappeared.

“So?” he snarled angrily. “So that's it, eh? What do you think I am?”

Gertrude's eyes flashed. She bit her lip. When she spoke it was with deliberate distinctness. Every word was as sharp and cold as an icicle.

“Do you wish to know what I think you are?” she asked. “What I thought at the very beginning you were, and what I have been taking pains to make sure of ever since I came to this house? Very well, I'll tell you.”

She told him, slowly, calmly, and with biting exactness. His face was flushed when she began; when she finished it was white.

“That is what you are,” she said. “I do not merely think so. I have studied you carefully; I have stooped to associate with you in order to study you; I have studied you through your friends; I KNOW what you are.”

His anger and mortification were choking him.

“You—you—” he snarled. “So that is it, is it? You have been using me as a good thing. As a—as a—”

“As you have used my father and mother and their simple-minded goodness and generosity. Yes, I have.”

“You have been making a fool of me! And Holway—confound him—”

“Mr. Holway was useful. He helped. And he, too, understands, now.”

“By—by gad—I—I won't go. I'll—”

Gertrude walked to the rear of the hall.

“Mr. Ginn!” she called, “will you come, please?”

Laban came. He looked happy and expectant.

“Here I be,” he observed eagerly.

“Mr. Ginn,” said Gertrude, “this—gentleman—is going to his room for a few minutes. He is preparing to leave us. If he doesn't come down and leave this house in a reasonable time will you kindly assist him? He will, no doubt, send for his trunks to-morrow. But he must go to-night. He must. Do you understand, Mr. Ginn?”

Laban grinned. “I cal'late I do,” he said. “Zuba's been tellin' me some. He'll go.”

“Thank you. Good-night!”

She ascended the stairs. The first mate looked at his watch.

“Fifteen minutes is enough to pack any trunk,” he observed. “I'll give you that much. Now, them, tumble up. Lively!”

At the door of her parents' room Gertrude rapped softly. Captain Dan opened it and showed a pallid, agitated face.

“She's mighty sick, Gertie,” he declared. “I wish you'd telephone for the doctor.”