The broad veranda, which faced the avenue and terminated at the corner of the house in a huge circle, not unlike an open conservatory, afforded a secluded and comparatively cool retreat for the diners later in the evening. Banked along the rails were the rarest of tropical plants; shaded incandescent lamps sent their glow from somewhere among the palms, and there was a suggestion of fairy-land in the scene. If Quentin had a purpose in being particularly assiduous in his attentions to Mlle. Gaudelet, he did not suspect that he was making an implacable foe of Henri de Cartier, the husband of another very charming young woman. Unaccustomed to the intrigues of Paris, and certainly not aware that Brussels copied the fashions of her bigger sister across the border in more ways than one, he could not be expected to know that de Cartier loved not his wife and did love the pretty Louise. Nor could his pride have been convinced that the young woman at his side was enjoying the tete-a-tete chiefly because de Cartier was fiercely cursing the misfortune which had thrown this new element into conflict. It may be unnecessary to say that Mrs. Garrison was delighted with the unmistakable signs of admiration manifested by the two young people.

It was late when Quentin reluctantly arose to make his adieux. He had finished acknowledging the somewhat effusive invitations to the houses of his new acquaintances, and was standing near Dorothy, directly in front of a tall bank of palms. From one point of view this collection of plants looked like a dense jungle, so thickly were they placed on the porch at its darkest end. The light from a drawing-room window shone across the front of the green mass, but did not penetrate the recess near the porch rail. He was taking advantage of a very brief opportunity, while others were moving away, to tell her that Mile. Louise was fascinating, when her hand suddenly clasped his arm and she whispered:

“Phil, there is a man behind those palms.” His figure straightened, but he did not look around.

“Nonsense, Dorothy. How could a man get—” he began, in a very low tone.

“I saw the leaves move, and just now I saw a foot near the rail. Be careful, for heaven's sake, but look for yourself; he is near the window.”

Like statues they stood, she rigid under the strain, but brave enough and cool enough to maintain a remarkable composure. She felt the muscle of his forearm contract, and there swept over her a strange dread. His eyes sought the spot indicated in a perfectly natural manner, and there was no evidence of perturbation in his gaze or posture. The foot of a man was dimly discernible in the shadow, protruding from behind a great earthen jar. Without a word he led her across the porch to where the others stood.

“Good-night, Mrs. Garrison,” he said, calmly, taking the hand she proffered. Dorothy, now trembling like a leaf, looked on in mute surprise. Did he mean to depart calmly, with the knowledge that they needed his protection? “Good-night, Miss Garrison. I trust I shall see you soon.” Then, in a lower tone: “Get the people around the corner here, and not a word to them.”

The ladies were quite well past the corner before he ventured to tell the men, whom he held back on some trifling pretext, that there was a man among the plants. The information might have caused a small panic had not his coolness dominated the nerves of the others.

“Call the gendarmes,” whispered de Cartier, panic stricken. “Call the servants.”

“We don't want the officers nor the servants,” said Philip, coolly. “Let the ladies get inside the house and we'll soon have a look at our fellow guest.”

“But he may be armed,” said the count, nervously.

“Doubtless he is. Burglars usually are. I had an experience with an armed burglar once on a time, and I still live. Perhaps a few palms will be damaged, but we'll be as considerate as possible. There is no time to lose, gentlemen. He may be trying to escape even now.”

Without another word he turned and walked straight toward the palms. Not another man followed, and he faced the unwelcome guest alone. Faced is the right word, for the owner of the telltale foot had taken advantage of their momentary absence from that end of the porch to make a hurried and reckless attempt to leave his cramped and dangerous hiding-place. He was crowding through the outer circle of huge leaves when Quentin swung into view. The light from the window was full in the face of the stranger, white, scared, dogged.

“Here he is!” cried Quentin, leaping forward. “Come on, gentlemen!”

With a frantic plunge the trapped stranger crashed through the plants, crying hoarsely in French as he met Quentin in the open:

“I don't want to kill you! Keep off!”

Quentin's arm shot out and the fellow went tumbling back among the pots and plants. He was up in an instant. As the American leaped upon him for the second blow, he drove his hand sharply, despairingly, toward that big breast. There came the ripping of cloth, the tearing of flesh, and something hot gushed over Phil's shoulder and arm. His own blow landed, but not squarely, and, as he stumbled forward, his lithe, vicious antagonist sprang aside, making another wild but ineffectual sweep with the knife he held in his right hand. Before Quentin could recover, the fellow was dashing straight toward the petrified, speechless men at the end of the porch, where they had been joined by some of the women.

“Out of the way! Out of the way!” he shrieked, brandishing his knife. Through the huddled bunch he threw himself, unceremoniously toppling over one of them. The way was clear, and he was down the steps like a whirlwind. It was all over in an instant's time, but before the witnesses to the encounter could catch the second breath, the tall form of Philip Quentin was flying down the steps in close pursuit. Out into the Avenue Louise they raced, the fugitive with a clear lead.

“Come back, Phil!” cried a woman's voice, and he knew the tone because of the thrill it sent to his heart.

He heard others running behind him, and concluded that his fellow guests had regained their wits and were in the chase with him. If the pursued heard the sudden, convulsive laugh of the man behind him he must have wondered greatly. Phil could not restrain the wild desire to laugh when he pictured the sudden and precipitous halt his valiant followers would be compelled to make if the fugitive should decide to stop and show fight. One or more of them would doubtless be injured in the impossible effort to run backward while still going forward.

Blood was streaming down his arm and he was beginning to feel an excruciating pain. Pedestrians were few, and they made no effort to obstruct the flight of the fugitive. Instead, they gave him a wide berth. From far in the rear came hoarse cries, but Quentin was uttering no shout. He was grinding his teeth because the fellow had worsted him in the rather vainglorious encounter on the porch, and was doing all in his power to catch him and make things even. To his dismay the fellow was gaining on him and he was losing his own strength. Cursing the frightened men who allowed the thief to pass on unmolested and then joined in the chase, he raced panting onward. The flying fugitive suddenly darted into a narrow, dark street, fifty feet ahead of his pursuer, and the latter felt that he had lost him completely. There was no sign of him when Quentin turned into the cross street; he had disappeared as if absorbed by the earth.

For a few minutes Philip and the mob—quite large, inquisitive and eager by this time—searched for a trace of the man, but without avail. The count, de Cartier and the Honorable Mr. Knowlton, with several of Mrs. Garrison's servants, came puffing up and, to his amazement and rage, criticised him for allowing the man to escape. They argued that a concerted attack on the recess amongst the palms would have overwhelmed the fellow and he would now be in the hands of the authorities instead of as free as air. Quentin endured the expostulations of his companions and the fast-enlarging mirth of the crowd for a few moments in dumb surprise. Then he turned suddenly to retrace his steps up the avenue, savagely saying:

“If I had waited till you screwed up nerve enough to make a combined attack, the man would not have been obliged to take this long and tiresome run. He might have called a cab and ridden away in peace and contentment.”

A laugh of derision came from the crowd and the two Frenchmen looked insulted. Mr. Knowlton flushed with shame and hurried after his tall countryman.

“You are right, Quentin, you're right,” he wheezed. “We did not support you, and we are to blame. You did the brave and proper thing, and we stood by like a lot of noodles—”

“Well, it's all over, Knowlton, and we all did the best we could,” responded Philip, with intense sarcasm which was lost on Mr. Knowlton. Just then a sturdy little figure bumped against him and he looked down as the newcomer grasped his arm tightly.

“Hello, Turk! It's about time you were showing up. Where the devil have you been?” exclaimed he, wrathfully.

“I'll tell y' all about it w'en I gits me tires pumped full agin. Come on, come on; it's private—strictly private, an' nobody's nex' but me.” When there was a chance to talk without being overheard by the three discomfited gentlemen in the rear, Turk managed to give his master a bit of surprising news.

“That guy was Courant, that's who he was. He's been right on your heels since yesterday, an' I just gits nex' to it. He follers you up to th' house back yonder an' there's w'ere I loses him. Seems like he hung aroun' the porch er porticker, er whatever it is over here, watchin' you w'en you wuz inside. I don't know his game, but he's th' guy. An' I know w'ere he is now.”

“The dickens you do! You infernal little scoundrel, take me there at once. Good Lord, Turk, I've got to catch him. These people will laugh at me for a month if I don't. Are you sure he is Courant? How do you know? Where is he?” cried Phil, excited and impatient.

“You ain't near bein' keen. He doubled on you, that's w'at he done. W'en you chased him off on that side street he just leaps over th' garden wall an' back he comes into a yard. I comes up, late as usual, just in time t' see him calmly prance up some doorsteps an' ring th' bell. Wile th' gang an' you wuz lookin' fer him in th' gutters an' waste paper boxes, he stan's up there an' grins complackently. Then th' door opens an' he slides in like a fox.”

“Where is the house? We must search it from top to bottom.”

“Can't do that, Mr. Quentin. How are you goin' to search that house without a warrant? An' w'at are you goin' to find w'en you do search it? He's no common thief. He's in a game that we don't know nothin' about, an' he's got cards up his sleeve clear to th' elbow. Th' people in that house is his friends, an' he's safe, so w'at's th' use? I've got th' joint spotted an' he don't know I am nex'. It's a point in our favor. There wuz a woman opened the door, so she's in th' game, too. Let's lay low, Mr. Quentin, an' take it cool.”

“But what in thunder was he doing behind those palms? That wasn't a very sensible bit of detective work, was it?”

“Most detectives is asses. He was hidin' there just to earn his money. To-morrow he could go to th' juke an' tell him how slick he'd been in hearin' w'at you said to th' young lady w'en you thought nobody was listenin'. Was he hid near a window?'

“Just below one—almost against the casing.”

“Easy sailin'. He figgered out that some time durin' th' night you an' her would set in that window an' there you are. See? But I wonder w'at he'll say to th' juke to-morrow?”

“I hate to give this job up,” growled Phil. “But I must get back to the hotel. The villain cut me with a knife.”

By this time they were in front of the Garrison home, and in an undertone he bade Turk walk on and wait for him at the corner below.

“Did he escape?” cried Dorothy from the steps.

“He gave us the slip, confound him, Dorothy.”

“I'm glad, really I am. What could we have done with him if he had been caught? But are you not coming in?”

“Oh, not to-night, thank you. Can't you have some one bring out my hat and coat?” He was beginning to feel faint and sick, and purposely kept the bloody arm from the light.

“You shall not have them unless you come in for them. Besides, we want you to tell us what happened. We are crazy with excitement. Madame de Cartier fainted, and mamma is almost worried to death.”

“Are you not coming up, Mr. Quentin?” called Mrs. Garrison, from the veranda.

“You must come in,” said de Cartier, coming up at that moment with the count and Mr. Knowlton.

“Really, I must go to the hotel, I am a little faint after that wretched run. Let me go, please; don't insist on my coming in,” he said.

“Mon dieu!” exclaimed the count. “It is blood, Monsieur! You are hurt!”

“Oh, not in the least—merely a—”

“Phil!” cried Dorothy, standing in front of him, her wide eyes looking intently into his. “Are you hurt? Tell me!”

“Just a little cut in the arm or shoulder, I think. Doesn't amount to anything, I assure—”

“Come in the house at once, Philip Quentin!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Knowlton, will you ask Franz to telephone for Dr. Berier?” Then she saw the blood-stained hand and shuddered, turning her face away. “Oh, Phil!” she whispered.

“That pays for this cut and more, if necessary,” he said, in a low voice, as he walked at her side up the steps.

“Lean on me, Phil,” she said. “You must be faint.” He laughed merrily, and his eyes sparkled with something not akin to pain.

Dr. Berier came and closed the gash in his shoulder. An hour later he came downstairs, to find Mrs. Garrison and Dorothy alone.

“You were very brave, Mr. Quentin, but very foolhardy,” said Mrs. Garrison. “I hope from my heart the wound will give you little trouble.”

His good right hand closed over hers for an instant and then clasped Dorothy's warmly, lingeringly.

“You must let us hear from you to-morrow,” said she, softly.

“Expect me to fetch the message in person,” said he, and he was off down the steps. He did not look back, or he might have seen her standing on the veranda, her eyes following him till he was joined by another man at the corner below.