DOUGLAS, suitcase in hand, ran across Seventeenth Street in time to catch a Georgetown car. As he paid the conductor he heard his name called and, glancing down the half empty car, saw Captain Chisholm seated at the farther end and beckoning to him. He made his way down the center aisle and joined the Englishman.

“Can you dine with me, Douglas?” asked Chisholm, making room for him on the narrow seat.

“Ask me some other time, old man, I am dining with Colonel Thornton to-night.”

“Then suppose we make it Monday night at the Metropolitan Club?”

“Thanks, I will. At what hour?”

“Eight o’clock. I was sorry to miss you when you called this afternoon, Douglas.”

“How did you know I had been to see you, Chisholm?” in surprise. “The telephone girl told me you were out.”

“I stopped for a moment at the Rochambeau and found your card in my letter box. I am on my way to the embassy now. Washington seems to agree with you, Douglas,” eying his companion with interest. “I never saw you looking better.”

“Happiness is a great health restorer,” laughed Douglas.

“Happiness?” Chisholm tugged at his fair mustache. “Hum!” he looked carefully around. They had that end of the car to themselves. “Heard the news?”

“What news?”

“About the Japanese Ambassador?”

“No.”

“He has been recalled.”

“For what reason?”

“Not given out,” shortly. “He called at the White House and State Department, presented his papers and left this morning.” Chisholm looked Douglas squarely in the face. “Can’t give a poor blasted Englishman a point on the situation, I suppose?”

Douglas smiled with his lips, but his eyes were grave. “I would if I could—but I can’t. The Ambassador’s sudden departure is as great a surprise to me as to you.”

Chisholm leaned forward and touched the electric button as the car approached N Street. “I’ll look you up to-morrow, Douglas. Ta-ta, old chap,” and he hurried out of the car.

Douglas settled back on his seat and pondered over the information Chisholm had given him. What did the Ambassador’s abrupt departure portend? Was it but another of those puzzling coincidences which seemed to follow in the wake of Senator Carew’s murder, or was it the culmination of an intrigue which would end in war?

The spring day was drawing to a close as Douglas left the car in Georgetown and walked toward “Thornton’s Nest.” The old place had not altered since he had seen it last, twelve years before, even the beautiful old garden appeared as usual, the same box hedge, the envy of the neighboring landowners, separated the sidewalk from the well-kept private grounds. The large, old-fashioned mansion stood back some distance in its own grounds. The bricks had been brought from Philadelphia by sloop, and the fanlight over the front door had been imported from England in the days prior to the Revolutionary War. The huge columns supporting the arched roof shone white in the gathering darkness. Douglas turned in at the gate and ran lightly up the few stone steps leading to the portico and rang the bell. He had hardly removed his hand from the button when the hall door was opened and an old darky confronted him on the threshold.

“Cum right in, Marse Douglas, I’se mighty glad ter see yo’ ag’in, suh.”

“Nicodemus, is that you?” shaking the old man’s hand. “I haven’t seen you since you chased me off the grounds for stealing apples. How’s Sophy?”

“Only tol’able, thank ye, suh; she’s got a misery in her back. Want ter go to yo’ room, suh?”

“No; I’ll just leave my hat and overcoat here.”

“Yessir; let me take yo’ bag, suh; I’ll tote it upstairs. My!” as Douglas stepped forward so that the hall light fell full on him, “how yo’ do favor yo’ pa, the ole Cunnel.”

Douglas laughed. “Thanks. Have the ladies come yet?”

“Yessir. Dey’s upstairs makin’ demselves comfo’able. Cunnel Thornton will be down direckly. Yo’ jes’ walk inter de pawlar.”

Douglas strolled over to the large hall mirror and inspected his tie with care; he had been in a hurry when getting into his evening clothes at the Albany, and the tie had proved troublesome. He readjusted it with care, felt in his vest pocket for a small box, then turned and surveyed his surroundings. A coach and four might have driven through the broad hall which ran the length of the house. At the end of the hall two broad circular staircases led to a wide landing, from which branched the two flights of steps leading to the first bedroom floor. Doors leading to the drawing-room, library, billiard, and dining rooms opened on the right and left of the hall.

Remembering that the drawing-room was to the left of the entrance, Douglas entered the open hall door and walked over to the mantelpiece to see the time by the tall marble clock.

“Aren’t you going to speak to me?” asked a voice behind him, and Douglas sprang around with an exclamation of delight. Eleanor was seated on a chair by one of the windows, and its high back, which was partly turned to the hall door, had concealed her from view.

“My darling!” Douglas kissed the winsome face rapturously. “Nicodemus told me you had arrived, but that you were upstairs, otherwise I should have come in at once; I begrudge the time I wasted in the hall.”

“I hurried and came down ahead of the others, hoping that you would get here early; I particularly wanted to see you, Douglas.”

“Did you?” in mock surprise. “I’ve been wanting to see you ever since I left you this morning. The time has dragged since then.”

She slipped her hand in his. “It’s just this, Douglas,” her softly modulated voice had a trace of nervousness: “I want to ask you to keep our engagement a secret”—his face fell—“just a few days,” hastily. “I want to get accustomed to it before telling the family”—she blushed divinely. “It’s such a precious secret.”

Douglas took her face between his hands and pressed a passionate kiss on her lips. “Your wish is my law,” he said gravely. “I was disappointed for the moment, because I am anxious to have the whole world know my happiness. I brought you this”—pulling a small square box from his vest pocket and laying it in her outstretched hand.

With a low cry of pleasure she pulled off the wrapping paper and opened the box. The light from the lamp on the table near her chair was reflected back from a superb ruby in a diamond setting. The box slipped from her nervous fingers and rolled on the floor.

“Oh, get it quick, Douglas, I didn’t mean to be so clumsy.”

Douglas reached under the table, where the box had rolled, and picked it up. “It’s all right, my dearest; don’t look so worried; the ring isn’t injured, for it is still in the box, see——” he held it before her eyes. “Give me your left hand, dear;” Eleanor shrank slightly away from him, but Douglas was intent in removing the ring from the box and did not notice her agitation. “It is very becoming to your hand,” slipping it on the third finger, “the deep crimson shows off the whiteness of your skin.”

“It’s just lovely.” Eleanor drew a long breath, then raised her head and kissed him tenderly. “Thanks, dear heart, for so beautiful a present. But I am afraid if I wear it to-night our engagement will be a secret no longer.”

“That’s true!” exclaimed Douglas, his voice betraying his disappointment. “Put it back in the box”—holding it out to her.

“I’ll do no such thing”—indignantly. “Take it off, Douglas, and give it to me”; he did so, and she slipped the ring inside the bodice of her low-cut evening gown. “Tell me, dearest, how did you happen to select a ruby?”

"It’s my birthstone”—Douglas colored—“I hope you won’t think me horribly sentimental.”

“I shall not tell you what I think—it might turn your head. Hush! here comes Uncle Dana.”

Thornton strode into the room with outstretched hand. “Welcome to ‘The Nest,’ Douglas; I am sorry I wasn’t downstairs when you came. I hope Eleanor has been doing the honors acceptably.”

“She has, indeed, and proved a host in herself,” laughed Douglas.

“Good; though it’s a mystery how she got down ahead of the others.”

“I was selfish enough to keep Annette to myself until I was fully dressed,” said Eleanor, “then I sent her to Cousin Kate.”

“So you brought Annette with you?” asked Thornton.

“Yes, indeed. I had no intention of inflicting your bachelor household with three women and no handmaiden. I knew Sophy would have her hands full cooking dinner, therefore I brought Annette along.” Her restless eyes detected a figure hovering just outside the hall door. “Come in, Cynthia,” and she went forward to meet her friend.

The two beautiful girls made a picture good to look upon as they stood together. Cynthia wore a simple frock, which matched her cheeks in whiteness; while the pathetic droop of her mouth and the dark shadows under her eyes did not detract from her charm, she looked wretchedly ill. She shook hands with Douglas, when he was presented to her, with polite indifference, then seated herself in a chair and leaned back wearily. Douglas and Thornton exchanged glances, and the latter shook his head sadly. He was about to speak when Mrs. Truxton bustled into the room.

“I am sorry to keep everybody waiting,” she exclaimed, as Douglas pulled forward a chair for her. “But, if you will have dinner at such a ridiculously early hour, Dana, you must expect your guests to be late.”

“You are not late, Kate, for dinner has not yet been announced. I had it earlier than usual as I thought we would retire soon afterwards and get a good night’s rest.”

Cynthia shuddered involuntarily, and Eleanor, whose hand rested on her shoulder, patted it affectionately. “It’s all very well for you older people to keep early hours, Uncle Dana, but Cynthia and I are going to do just as we please. Personally, I expect to stay up until the wee sma’ hours.”

“Dinner am served,” announced Nicodemus, opening the folding doors leading to the dining room, and, with an old-fashioned courtly bow, Colonel Thornton offered his arm to Mrs. Truxton and escorted her to the table, the two girls and Douglas following in their wake.

The dinner passed quickly. Thornton was an agreeable talker, and Douglas, who had traveled in many lands, seconded his efforts by recounting many amusing experiences which had befallen him. Cynthia’s pale cheeks assumed a more natural hue as the two skilful talkers drew her out of herself, and Thornton sat back, well pleased, when he finally succeeded in making her laugh.

“Washington isn’t what it used to be,” he declared. “As trite a statement as it is true. Its very bigness has spoiled it socially. There are cliques within cliques, and too many foreign elements dominate it nowadays.”

“Do you refer to the Diplomatic Corps?” asked Douglas, breaking off a low-toned conversation with Eleanor.

“Not entirely. When I speak of the ‘foreign element,’ I also mean the ‘climbers.’”

“We Georgetown people call them the ‘pushers,’” announced Mrs. Truxton, helping herself to the ice cream which Nicodemus was passing.

“And yet,” continued Thornton, “I dare say there were just as amusing characters in Washington fifty years ago as now.”

“How about the woman of whom I have heard,” asked Eleanor, “who carried off the silver meat skewer at the French Legation, as it was then, as a souvenir, and afterwards proudly used it as a hatpin?”

“Human nature is very much the same from one generation to another,” acknowledged Mrs. Truxton. “But the types are different. I recollect my grandmother’s telling me that she attended services one Sunday at St. John’s Episcopal Church on Lafayette Square when the rector preached a fiery sermon against the sin of dueling. Mrs. Alexander Hamilton and her daughter sat in the pew just in front of my grandmother, and she said Miss Hamilton bore the tirade for some minutes, then rose, turned to her mother, and remarked in an audible tone: ‘Come, Ma; we’ll go. This is no place for us.’”

“Come, you needn’t put it all on Washington,” exclaimed Douglas. “Georgetown has famous blunderers and eccentric characters as well.”

“And ghosts,” added Mrs. Truxton. “Do not deprive Georgetown of its chief attraction. Ghosts and Past Glory walk hand and hand through these old streets.”

“Ghosts,” echoed Douglas, turning to his host. “Unless my memory is playing me false, this house used to be thought haunted. It seems to me I’ve heard tales of secret passages and mysterious noises.”

Thornton laughed outright. “That old legend was caused by flying squirrels getting in the wall through cracks in the eaves and chimneys. Sometimes on still nights I can hear them dropping nuts, which make a great noise as they fall from floor to floor. It’s enough to scare a nervous person into fits.”

“You are very disappointing, Uncle Dana,” objected Eleanor. “When Douglas—Mr. Hunter,”—catching herself up, but no one apparently noticed the slip, and she went on hurriedly—“spoke of spooks I had hopes of an ancestral ghost.”

“I always understood that this house was haunted, Dana,” put in Mrs. Truxton.

“Well, I believe we are supposed to possess a ghost—a very respectable, retiring one,” added Thornton, as Cynthia’s eyes, which were fixed upon him, grew to twice their usual size. “My great-aunt, Sophronia Thornton, was a maiden lady, a good deal of a Tartar, I imagine, from the dance she led my Great-grandfather Thornton, who was an easy-going, peaceable man. She ran the house for him until his marriage, and then ran his wife, and, according to tradition, she has run her descendants out of her room ever since.”

“Good gracious!” ejaculated Cynthia. “Do tell us all about her.”

“There is not so very much to recount.” Thornton smiled at her eagerness. “The story goes, as I heard it first from my grandfather, that when he attempted to occupy her room, the southwest chamber, he was driven out.”

“How?”

“He was very fond of reading in bed. As I said before, my great-aunt was very rigid and did not approve of late hours, which was one rock she and her brother split on. My grandfather, not having the lighting facilities of the present day, used to read in bed by placing a lighted candlestick on his chest, holding his book behind the candle so that its light fell full on the printed page. At eleven o’clock every night he would feel a slight puff of air and the candle would go out. He tried everything to stop it. He stuffed every crack and cranny through which a draft might be supposed to come, but it was of no use; his light was always extinguished at eleven o’clock.”

“Do you believe it?” asked Cynthia.

Thornton shrugged his shoulders. “I can only give you my own experience. I occupied the room once, when home on a college vacation. The house was filled with visitors, and I was put in the southwest chamber. Everything went on very smoothly until one night I decided to cram for an examination, and took my books to my room. I had an ordinary oil lamp on the table by my bed, and so commenced reading. After I had been reading about an hour the lamp went out suddenly. I struck a match and relit it; again it was extinguished. We kept that up most of the night; then I gathered my belongings and spent the rest of the time before breakfast on the sofa in the library, where I was not disturbed by the whims of the ghost of my spinster great-aunt.”

“‘There are more things in Heaven and earth,’” quoted Eleanor, as she rose in obedience to a signal from Mrs. Truxton. “Where shall we go, Uncle Dana?” as they strolled out into the hall.

“Into the library. Nicodemus will serve coffee there, and, if you ladies have no objection, Douglas and I will smoke there also.”

“Why, certainly,” exclaimed Mrs. Truxton, picking out a comfortable chair and signaling Douglas to take the one next hers, and without more ado she plunged into questions relating to his family history. He cast longing glances at Eleanor, but she refused to take the hint conveyed, and, to his secret annoyance, walked out of the room shortly after.

Cynthia was having an animated conversation with Colonel Thornton and sipping her coffee when, happening to look in the direction of the hall door, she saw Eleanor standing there, beckoning to her. Making a hurried excuse to the Colonel, she joined Eleanor in the hall, who, without a word, slipped her arm about her waist and led her into the drawing-room.

“What is——?” The words died in her throat as she caught sight of a tall, soldierly figure standing under the chandelier. Eleanor discreetly vanished, closing the hall door softly behind her as she went.

“You!” Cynthia shrank back against the wall as Lane stepped forward.

“Cynthia, darling!” He held out his arms pleadingly, but with a moan she turned her face from him. His eyes flashed with indignation. “Cynthia, you have no right to condemn me unheard. I am innocent.” He approached her and gently took her hand in his.

Her eyes were closed, and a few tears forced themselves under the lids, the scalding teardrops that come when the fountain is dry and only bitter grief forces such expression of sorrow.

“Dear one, look at me. I am not guilty. I have forced myself upon you because I want you to understand”—he spoke slowly, as if reasoning with a child—“that I am absolutely innocent....”

“Not in thought!” burst in Cynthia.

“Perhaps not,”—steadily,—“but in deed. I spoke in anger. Your uncle had insulted me grossly when I met him just before going to Mrs. Owen’s dance, and in my indignation I uttered a wish which would have been better left unsaid. But listen to reason, dear; to think evil is not a crime.”

Cynthia threw back her head and gazed at him wildly. “Oh, I would so gladly, gladly believe you innocent!” She placed her small, trembling hands on his breast. “It hurts horribly—because I love you so.”

Lane caught her in a close embrace. “My darling—my dear, dear one——” His voice choked.

Cynthia lay passive in his arms. Suddenly she raised her white face and kissed him passionately, then thrust him from her. “Oh, God! why did you take that sharp letter file with you?”

“I didn’t!” The words were positive, but his looks belied them.

“She says you did—she declares that when she met you looking for the carriage you held it in your hand——” The words seemed forced from Cynthia. She placed a hand on the chair nearest her as she swayed slightly.

“She! Who?” The question was almost a roar.

“Annette.”