VERY much to Denby’s disappointment he found that he was not to take Ethel Cartwright in to dinner. Nora Rutledge fell to his lot, and although she was witty and sparkling, she shared none of those happy Parisian memories as did the girl his host had taken in.

Plainly Nora was piqued. “I thought from what Monty told me you were really interesting,” she said.

“One must never believe anything Monty says,” he observed. “It’s only his air of innocence that makes people think him honest. His flirtations on board ship were nothing short of scandalous and yet look at him now.”

And poor Monty, although to him had fallen the honor of taking in his hostess, was paying no sort of attention to her sallies.

Nora glanced at him and then looked up at Denby. “I’m really awfully fond of Monty, and I’m worried—if you’ll believe it—because he seems upset. Monty,” she called, “what’s the matter with you, and what are you thinking about?”

“Frogs,” he said promptly.

“We’ll have some to-morrow,” Michael observed amiably. “They induce in me a most remarkable thirst, so I keep off them on that account.”

“He’s thinking,” Denby reminded her, “of the old song, ‘A frog he would a-wooing go!’ I’ve heard of you often enough, Miss Rutledge, from Monty.”

“Well, I wish you’d started being confidential with the hors d’oeuvres,” she said, “instead of waiting until dessert. If you had, by this time you’d probably have been really amusing.”

She rose at Mrs. Harrington’s signal and followed her from the room.

“What I can’t see,” observed she, “is why we didn’t stay and have our cigarettes with the men.”

“I always leave them together,” Alice Harrington said with a laugh, “because that’s the way to get the newest naughty stories. Michael always tells ’em to me later.”

“Alice!” cried Nora with mock reproof.

“Oh, I like ’em,” Alice declared, “when they’re really funny, and so does everybody else. Besides, nowadays it’s improper to be proper. Cigarette, Ethel?”

Miss Cartwright shook her head. “You know I don’t smoke,” she returned.

Nora lighted a cigarette unskilfully. “That’s so old-fashioned,” she said, in her most sophisticated manner, “and I’d rather die than be that.” She coughed as she drew in a fragrant breath of Egyptian tobacco. “I do wish, though, that I really enjoyed smoking.”

“What do you think of our new friend, Mr. Denby?” Alice asked of her.

“I like him in spite of the fact that he hardly noticed me. He couldn’t take his eyes off Ethel.”

“I saw that myself,” Mrs. Harrington returned. “You know, Ethel, I meant him to take you in to dinner, but Nora insisted that she sit next to him. She’s such a man-hunter!”

“You bet I am,” the wise Nora admitted—“that’s the only way you can get ’em.”

Mrs. Harrington turned to Ethel Cartwright. “Didn’t you and Mr. Denby have a tiny row? You hardly spoke to him through dinner.”

“Didn’t I?” the girl answered. “I’ve a bit of a headache.”

“I’ll bet they had a lovers’ quarrel before dinner,” Nora hazarded.

Alice Harrington arched her eyebrows in surprise. “A lovers’ quarrel!”

“Certainly,” Nora insisted. “I’m sure Ethel is in love with him.”

“How perfectly ridiculous,” Ethel said, with a trace of embarrassment in her manner. “Don’t be so silly, Nora. I met him for a week in Paris, that’s all, and I found him interesting. He had big talk as well as small, but as for love—please don’t be idiotic!”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” laughed her hostess.

“I don’t blame you, Ethel,” Nora admitted frankly. “If he’d give me a chance I’d fall for him in a minute, but attractive young men never bother about me. The best I can draw is—Monty! I’m beginning to dislike the whole sex.”

“Theoretically you are quite right, my dear,” said the maturer Alice; “men are awful things—God bless ’em—but practically, well, some day you’ll explode like a bottle of champagne and bubble all over some man.”

“Speaking of champagne,” Nora said after a disbelieving gesture at the prophecy, “I wish I had another of Michael’s purple drinks. He’s a genius.”

“Do tell him that,” the fond wife urged. “The very surest way to Michael’s heart is through his buffet. I knew he’d taken to mixing cocktails in a graduated chemist’s glass, but this excursion into the chemistry of drinks is rather alarming. He would have been a most conscientious bartender.”

“Does he really drink much?” Nora demanded.

“Not when I’m at home,” Alice declared. “Nothing after one. If he goes to bed then he’s all right; if he doesn’t, he sits up till five going the pace that fills. I wouldn’t mind if it made him amusing, but it makes him merely sleepy. But he doesn’t drink nearly as much as most of the men he knows. What makes you think he does, is that he makes such a ceremony out of drinking. I don’t think he enjoys drinking alone. Nora,” she added, “do sit down; you make me dizzy.”

“I can’t,” Nora told her. “I always stand up for twenty minutes after each meal. It keeps you thin.”

“Does it?” Mrs. Harrington asked eagerly, rising from her comfortable chair. “Does it really? Still, I lost nine pounds abroad!”

“Goodness!” Nora cried enviously. “How?”

“Buttermilk!” Alice cried triumphantly.

“And I walked four miles this morning in a rubber suit and three sweaters, and gained half a pound,” Nora declared disconsolately.

“I do wish hips would come in again,” Alice Harrington sighed. “Ah, here come the men,” she said more brightly, as the three entered.

Michael was still bearing, with what modesty he could, the encomiums on a purple punch he had brewed after exhaustive laboratory experiments.

“It’s delicious,” Denby declared.

Michael sighed. “I used to think so until my wife stopped my drinking.”

Even Monty seemed cheered by it. “Fine stuff,” he asserted. “I can feel it warming up all the little nooks and crannies.”

“Purple but pleasing,” Denby said, with the air of an epigrammatist.

“Did they tell you any purple stories?” Michael’s wife demanded.

“We don’t know any new stories,” Denby told her; “we’ve been in England.”

“Do sit down, all of you,” Alice commanded. “We’ve all been standing up to get thin.”

“If they’re going to discuss getting thin and dietetics,” Michael said, “let’s get out.”

“Woman’s favorite topic,” Monty remarked profoundly.

“But you mustn’t sit down, Alice,” Nora warned, as her hostess seemed about to sink into her chair. “It isn’t twenty minutes!”

“Well, I think it is twenty minutes,” she returned smiling, “and if it isn’t I don’t care a continental.”

“Women are so self-denying,” Michael Harrington observed with gentle satire.

“And sometimes it pays,” his wife said. “Do you know, Nora, there was a girl on the boat who lost twelve pounds.”

“Twelve pounds,” Michael exclaimed, and then by a rapid-fire bit of mental arithmetic added: “Why, that’s sixty dollars. How women do gamble nowadays!”

“Pounds of flesh, Michael, pounds of flesh. She was on a diet. She didn’t eat for three days.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Nora said approvingly. “Sometime when I’m not hungry I’ll try it.”

Ethel Cartwright had refrained from joining in the conversation for the reason she had no part just now in their lighter moods. Their talk of weight losing had been well enough, but Michael’s misinterpretation of the twelve pounds brought back to her the cause of Amy’s misfortune and plunged her deeper into misery.

She walked toward the window and looked over the grass to the deep gloom of the cedar trees opposite. And it seemed to her that there were moving shadows that might be Taylor and his men ready to pounce upon a man to whom a year ago she had been deeply drawn. There was a charm about Denby when he set himself to please a woman to which she, although no blushing ingÉnue, was keenly sensible.

“Seeing ghosts?” said a voice at her elbow, and she turned, startled, to see his smiling face looking down at her.

She assumed a lighter air. “No,” she told him brightly. “Ghosts belong to the past. I was seeing spirits of the future.”

“Can’t we see them together?” he suggested. “I shall never tire of Parisian ghosts if you are there to keep me from being too scared. Let’s go out and see if the moon looks good-tempered. The others are talking about smuggling and light and airy nothings like that. Shall we?”

“No, no!” she said, with a tremor in her voice that did not escape him. “Not yet; later, perhaps.”

She could, in fact, hardly compose her face. Here he was suggesting that she take him into a trap to be prepared later by her treachery. But she had what seemed to her a duty to perform, and no sentiment must stand in the way of her sister’s salvation. And there was always the hope that he was innocent. At any other time than this she would have wagered he was without blame; but this was a day on which misfortunes were visiting her, and she was filled with dread as to its outcome.

She moved over to Mrs. Harrington’s side, gracefully and slowly, free so far as the ordinary observer could see from any care.

“So you are talking of smuggling,” she said. “Alice, did you really bring in anything without paying duty on it?”

“Not a thing,” Alice returned promptly. “I declared every solitary stitch.”

“I’d like to believe you,” her husband remarked, “but knowing you as I do—”

“I paid seven hundred dollars’ duty,” his spouse declared.

“Disgusting!” Nora exclaimed. “Think of what you could have bought for that!”

“Please tell me,” Michael inquired anxiously, “what mental revolution converted you from the idea that smuggling was a legitimate and noble sport?”

“I still don’t think it’s wrong,” Alice declared honestly. “Some of you men seem to, but I’d swindle the government any day.”

“Then, for Heaven’s sake,” Nora wanted to know, “why waste all that good money?”

Alice waved a jewelled white hand toward Steven Denby.

“Behold my reformer!”

Ethel Cartwright looked at him quickly. Her distrust of motives was the result of her conversation with Daniel Taylor, who believed in no man’s good faith.

“Mr. Denby?” she asked, almost suspiciously.

“What has Mr. Denby to do with it?” Nora cried, equally surprised that it was his influence which had stayed the wilful Alice.

“He frightened me,” Alice averred.

“I want to have a good look at the man who can do that,” Michael cried.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Harrington is exaggerating,” Denby explained patiently; “I merely pointed out that things had come to a pass when it might be very awkward to fool with the Customs.”

“They didn’t give us the least bit of trouble at the dock,” she answered. “I wish I’d brought in a trunk full of dutiable things. They hardly looked at my belongings.”

“That sometimes means,” Denby explained, “that there will be the greatest possible trouble afterwards.”

“I don’t see that,” Nora asserted. “How can it be?”

“Well,” he returned, “according to some articles in McClure’s a few months ago by Burns, very often a dishonest official will let a prominent woman like Mrs. Harrington slip through the lines without the least difficulty—even if she is smuggling—so that afterwards he can come to her home and threaten exposure and a heavy fine. Usually the woman or her husband will pay any amount to hush things up. I was thinking of that when I advised Mrs. Harrington to declare everything she had.”

“But you said a whole lot more than that,” Mrs. Harrington reminded him. “When our baggage was being examined at Dover, you spoke about that man of mystery who is known as R. J. It was cumulative, Mr. Denby, and on the whole you did it rather well. My bank-book is a living witness to your eloquence.”

Ethel asked rather eagerly, “But this R. J., Mr. Denby, what is he?”

“I’ve heard of him,” Michael answered. “Some man at the club told me about him, but I very soon sized that matter up. If you want to know my opinion, Ethel, R. J. is the bogey man of the Customs. If they suspect an inspector he receives a postal signed R. J., and telling him to watch out. It’s a great scheme, which I recommend to the heads of big business corporations. I don’t believe in R. J.”

Ethel looked up at Denby brightly. “But you really believe in him, don’t you?”

“I only know,” he told her, “that R. J. has many enemies because he has made many discoveries. Unquestionably he does exist for all Mr. Harrington’s unbelief. He’s supposed to be one of these impossible secret service agents, travelling incognito all over the globe. He is known only by his initials. Some people call him the storm-petrol, always in the wake of trouble. Where there is intrigue among nations, diplomatic tangles, if the Japs steal a fortification plan, or a German cross-country aeroplane is sent to drop a bomb on the Singer Building, R.J. is supposed to be there to catch it.”

“What an awfully unpleasant position,” Nora shuddered.

“Think of a man deliberately choosing a job like that!” Monty commented.

“So,” Denby continued, “when a friend of mine in Paris told me that R.J. had been requested by the government to investigate Customs frauds, I knew there would be more danger in the smuggling game than ever. I warned Mrs. Harrington because I did not want to see her humiliated by exposure.”

“That’s mighty good of you, Denby,” Michael said appreciatively; “but all the same I don’t see how—supposing she had slipped in without any fuss some stuff she had bought in Paris or London and ought to have declared—I don’t see how if they didn’t know it, they could blackmail her.”

“That’s the simplest part of it,” Denby assured him. “The clerk in the kind of store your wife would patronize is most often a government spy, unofficially, and directly after he has assured the purchaser that it is so simple to smuggle, and one can hide things so easily, he has cabled the United States Customs what you bought and how much it cost.”

“They do that?” said Michael indignantly. “I never did trust Frenchmen, the sneaks. I’ve no doubt that the heure de l’aperitif was introduced by an American.”

Miss Cartwright had been watching Denby closely. There was forced upon her the unhappy conviction that this explanation of the difficulties of smuggling was in a sense his way of boasting of a difficulty he had overcome. And she alone of all who were listening had the key to this. It was imperative—for the dread of Taylor and his threats had eaten into her soul—to gain more explicit information. Her manner was almost coquettish as she asked him:

“Tell me truly, Mr. Denby, didn’t you smuggle something, just one tiny little scarf-pin, for example?”

“Nothing,” he returned. “What makes you think I did?”

“It seemed to me,” she said boldly, “that your fear that Mrs. Harrington might be caught was due to the fear suspicion might fall on you.”

Denby looked at her curiously. He had never seen Ethel Cartwright in this mood. He wondered at what she was driving.

“It does sound plausible,” he admitted.

“Then ’fess up,” Michael urged. “Come on, Denby, what did you bring in?”

“Myself and Monty,” Denby returned, “and he isn’t dutiable. All the smuggling that our party did was performed by Monty out of regard for you.”

“I still remain unconvinced,” Ethel Cartwright declared obstinately. “I think it was two thoughts for yourself and one for Alice.”

“Now, Denby,” Michael cried jocularly, “you’re among friends. Where have you hidden the swag?”

“Do tell us,” Nora entreated. “It’d be so nice if you were a criminal and had your picture in the rogues’ gallery. The only criminals I know are those who just run over people in their motors, and that gets so commonplace. Do tell us how you started on a life of crime.”

“Nora!” Monty cried reprovingly. Things were increasing his nervousness to a horrible extent. Why wouldn’t they leave smuggling alone?

“I’m not interested in your endeavors,” Nora said superciliously. “You’re only a sort of petty larceny smuggler with your silver hair-brushes. Mr. Denby does things on a bigger scale. You’re safe with us, Mr. Denby,” she reminded him.

“I know,” he answered, “so safe that if I had any dark secrets to reveal I’d proclaim them with a loud voice.”

“That’s always the way,” Nora complained. “Every time I meet a man who seems exciting he turns out to be just a nice man—I hate nice men.” She crossed over to the agitated Monty.

“Mr. Denby is a great disappointment to me, too,” Ethel Cartwright confessed. “Couldn’t you invent a new way to smuggle?”

“It wasn’t for lack of inventive powers,” he assured her, “it was just respect for the law.”

“I didn’t know we had any left in America,” Michael observed, and then added, “but then you’ve lived a lot abroad, Denby.”

“Mr. Denby must be rewarded with a cigarette,” Ethel declared, bringing the silver box from the mantel and offering him one. “A cigarette, Mr. Denby?”

“Thanks, no,” he answered, “I prefer to roll my own if you don’t mind.”

It seemed that the operation of rolling a cigarette was amazingly interesting to the girl. Her eager eyes fastened themselves intently on a worn pigskin pouch he carried.

“Can’t you do it with one hand?” she asked disappointedly; “just like cowboys do in plays?”

“It seems I’m doomed to disappoint you,” he smiled. “I find two hands barely sufficient.”

“Sometime you must roll me one,” she said. “Will you?”

“With pleasure,” he returned, lighting his own.

“But you don’t smoke,” Alice objected.

“Ah, but I’ve been tempted,” she confessed archly.

“The only thing that makes my life worth living is yielding to temptation,” Nora observed.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Michael said rising. “I’m tempted to take a small drink. Who’ll yield with me and split a pint of Brut Imperial?”

“That’s your last drink to-night,” his wife warned him.

“I’m not likely to forget it,” he said ruefully. “My wife,” he told the company, “thinks I’m a restaurant, and closes me up at one sharp.”

“Let’s have some bridge,” Mrs. Harrington suggested. “Ethel, what do you say?”

“I’ve given it up,” she answered.

“Why, you used to love it,” Nora asserted, surprised.

“I’ve come to think all playing for money is horrible,” Ethel returned, thinking to what trouble Amy’s gambling had brought her.

“Me too,” Michael chimed in. “Unless stocks go up, or the Democratic party goes down, I’ll be broke soon. How about a game of pool?”

“I’d love to,” Nora said. “I’ve been dying to learn.”

“That’ll make it a nice interesting game,” Monty commented. He knew he could never make a decent shot until the confounded necklace was miles away.

“Then there’s nothing else to do but dance,” Alice decreed. “Come, Nora.”

“No,” Michael cried, “I’ll play pool or auction or poker, I’ll sit or talk or sing, but I’m hanged if I hesitate and get lost, or maxixe!”

Alice shook her head mournfully. “Ah, Michael,” she said, “if you were only as light-footed as you are light-headed, what a partner you’d make. We are going to dance anyway.”

Ethel hesitated at the doorway. “Aren’t you dancing or playing pool, Mr. Denby?”

“In just a moment,” he said. “First I have a word to say to Monty.”

“I understand,” she returned. “Man’s god—business! Men use that excuse over the very littlest things sometimes.”

“But this is a big thing,” he asserted; “a two hundred thousand dollar proposition, so we’re naturally a bit anxious.”

Monty shook his head gravely. “Mighty anxious, believe me.”

Whatever hope she might have cherished that Taylor was wrong, and this man she liked so much was innocent, faded when she heard the figure two hundred thousand dollars. That was the amount of the necklace’s value, exactly. And she had wondered at Monty’s strained, nervous manner. Now it became very clear that he was Denby’s accomplice, dreading, and perhaps knowing as well as she, that the house was surrounded.

She told herself that the law was just, and those who disobeyed were guilty and should be punished; and that she was an instrument, impersonal, and as such, without blame. But uppermost in her mind was the thought of black treachery, of mean intriguing ways, and the certainty that this night would see the end of her friendship with the man she had sworn to deliver to the ruthless, cruel, insatiable Taylor. It was, as Taylor told her, a question of deciding between two people. She could help, indirectly, to convict a clever smuggler, or she could send her weak, dependent, innocent eighteen-year-old sister to jail. And she had said to Taylor: “I have no choice.”

Denby looked at her a little puzzled. In Paris, a year ago, she had seemed a sweet, natural girl, armed with a certain dignity that would not permit men to become too friendly on short acquaintance. And here it seemed that she was almost trying to flirt with him in a wholly different way. He was not sure that her other manner was not more in keeping with the ideal he had held of her since that first meeting.

“I should be anxious, too,” she said, “if I had all that money at stake. But all the same, don’t be too long. I think I may ask you for that cigarette presently.”