Mary Blythe and her brother arrived on Tuesday for a two days' visit. Alix motored to town and brought them out in the automobile. She was surprised and gratified when Courtney, revoking his own decree, volunteered to go up with her to meet the visitors at the railway station in the city. But when the day came, he was ill and unable to leave his room. The cold, steady rains of the past few days had brought on an attack of pleurisy, and the doctor ordered him to remain in bed. He grumbled a great deal over missing the little dinner Alix was giving on the first night of their stay, and sent more than one lamentation forth in the shape of notes carried up to the house on the knoll by Jim House, the venerable handy-man at Dowd's Tavern.

"I really don't recall him," said Addison Blythe, frowning thoughtfully. "He probably came to the sector after I left, Miss Crown. I've got a complete roster at home of all the fellows who served in the American Ambulance up to the time it was taken over. I'd like to meet him. I may have run across him any number of times. Names didn't mean much, you see, except in cases where we hung out together in one place for some time. I would remember his face, of course. Faces made impressions, and that's more than names did. Courtney Thane? Seems to me I have a vague recollection of that name. You say he was afterward flying with the British?"

"Yes. He was wounded and gassed at—at—let me think. What was the name of the place? Only a few weeks before the armistice."

"There was a great deal doing a few weeks before the armistice," said Blythe, smiling. "You'll have to be a little more definite than that. The air was full of British aeroplanes from London clear to Palestine. What is he doing here?"

"Recovering his health. He has had two attacks of pneumonia, you see,—and a touch of typhoid. His family originally lived in this country. The old Thane farm is almost directly across the river from Windomville. Courtney's father was born there, but went east to live during the first Cleveland administration. He had some kind of a political appointment in Washington, and married a Congressman's daughter from Georgia, I think—anyhow, it was one of the Southern states. He is really quite fascinating, Mary. You would lose your heart to him, I am sure."

"And, pray, have you offered any reward for yours?" inquired Mary Blythe, smiling as she studied her friend's face rather narrowly.

Alix met her challenging gaze steadily. A sharper observer than Mary Blythe might have detected the faintest shadow of a cloud in the dark, honest eyes.

"When I lose it, dear, I shall say 'good riddance' and live happily ever after without one," she replied airily.

The next morning she started off with her guests for a drive down the river, to visit the old fort and the remains of the Indian village. Stopping at the grain elevator, she beckoned to Charlie Webster. The fat little manager came bustling out, beaming with pleasure.

"How is Mr. Thane today, Charlie?" she inquired, after introducing him to the Blythes.

Charlie pursed his lips and looked wise. "Well, all I can say is, he's doing as well as could be expected. Temperature normal, pulse fluctuating, appetite good, respiration improved by a good many cusswords, mustard plaster itching like all get out,—but otherwise he's at the point of death. I was in to see him after breakfast. He was sitting up in bed and getting ready to tell Doc Smith what he thinks of him for ordering him to stay in the house till he says he can go out. He is terribly upset because he can't get up to Alix's to see you, Mr. Blythe. I never saw a feller so cut up about a thing as he is."

"He must not think of coming out in this kind of weather," cried Alix firmly. "It would be—"

"Oh, he's not thinking of coming out," interrupted Charlie quietly.

"I am sorry not to have met him," said Blythe. "We probably have a lot of mutual friends."

A queer little light flashed into Charlie Webster's eyes and lingered for an instant.

"He's terribly anxious to meet you. It wouldn't surprise me at all if he got up today sometime and in spite of Doc Smith hustled over to call on you. I'll tell you what we might do, Alix. If Mr. Blythe isn't going to be too busy, I might take him up to see Court,—that is, when you get back from your drive. I know he'll appreciate it, and be tickled almost to death."

"Fine!" cried Blythe. "If you're sure he will not mind, Mr. Webster."

"Why should he mind? He says he's crazy to meet you, and he's able to see people—"

"But I've always understood that talking was very painful to any one suffering from pleurisy," protested Alix.

"Doesn't seem to hurt Court very much," declared Charlie. "He nearly talked an arm off of me and Furman Hatch this morning,—and it certainly seemed to be a real pleasure for him to cuss. I really think he'll get well quicker if you drop in for a chat with him, Mr. Blythe."

"It would be very nice," said Alix warmly, "if you could run in for a few minutes—"

"Sure I will," cried the young man. "This afternoon, Mr. Webster,—about half-past two?"

"Any time suits me," said the obliging Mr. Webster. As if struck by something irresistibly funny, he suddenly put his hand to his mouth and got very red in the face. After an illy-suppressed snort or two, he coughed violently, and then stammered: "Excuse me. I was just thinking about—er—about something funny. I'm always doing some fool thing like that. This was about Ed Jones's dog,—wouldn't be the least bit funny to anybody but me, so I won't tell you about it. Two-thirty it is, then? I'll meet you up at Alix's. It's only a step."

"Will you tell Mr. Thane that you are bringing Mr. Blythe to see him this afternoon, Charlie?" said Alix. "You said he was threatening to disobey the doctor's—"

"You leave it to me, Alix," broke in Charlie reassuringly. "Trust me to see that he don't escape."

A little before two-thirty, tall Mr. Blythe, one time Captain in the Field Artillery, and short Mr. Webster wended their way through the once busy stableyard in the rear of Dowd's Tavern. Charlie gave his companion a brief history of the Tavern and indicated certain venerable and venerated objects of interest,—such as the ancient log watering-trough (hewn in 1832); the rain-barrels, ash-hoppers and fodder cribs (dating back to Civil War days), the huge kettle suspended from a thick iron bar the ends of which were supported by rusty standards, where apple-butter was made at one season of the year, lye at another, and where lard was rendered at butchering-time. He took him into the wagon-shed and showed him the rickety high-wheeled, top-heavy carriage used by the first of the Dowds back in the forties, now ready to fall to pieces at the slightest ungentle shake; the once gaudy sleigh with its great curved "runners"; and over in a dark corner two long barrelled rifles with rusty locks and rotten stocks, that once upon a time cracked the doom of deer and wolf and fox, of catamount and squirrel and coon, of wild turkeys and geese and ducks—to say nothing of an occasional horsethief.

"They say old man Dowd could shoot the eye out of a squirrel three hundreds yards away with one of these rifles," announced Charlie; "and it was no trick at all for him to nip a wild turkey's head off at five hundred yards. I'll bet you didn't run up against any such shooting as that over in France."

Blythe shook his head. "No such rifle shooting, I grant you. But what would you say to a German cannon twelve miles away landing ten shells in succession on a battery half as big as this stable without even being able to see the thing they were shooting at?"

"I give up," said Charlie gloomily. "Old man Dowd was SOME liar, but, my gosh, he couldn't hold a—well, my respect for the American Army is greater than it ever was, I'll say that, Captain. Dan Dowd was the rankest kind of an amateur."

"Do you mean as a shot,—or as a liar?" inquired Blythe, grinning.

"Both," said Charlie.

He had a very definite purpose in leading his guest through the stable-yard. By doing so he avoided the customary approach to the Tavern, in full view from Courtney's windows. They circled the building and arrived at the long, low porch from the north. Here they encountered Furman Hatch. Charlie appeared greatly surprised to find the photographer there.

"What are you doing here at this time o' day, Tintype?" he demanded. "Takin' a vacation?"

"I come over for some prints I left in my room last night," explained Mr. Hatch.

"We're going up to call on Court," said Charlie. "Won't you join us?"

Hatch looked at his watch, frowned dubiously, and then said he could spare a few minutes,—and that was just what it was understood in advance that he was to say!

"He goes by the name of Tintype," explained Mr. Webster, after the two men had shaken hands. "Not because he looks like one, but because the village idiot's name is Furman, and we have to have some way of tellin' them apart."

A few minutes later, Charlie knocked resoundingly on Courtney's door.

"Who is it?"

"It's me,—Charlie Webster. Got a nice surprise for you."

"Come in."

And in strode Charlie, followed by the tall stranger and the lank Mr. Hatch.

Courtney, full dressed,—except that he wore instead of his coat a thick blue bath gown,—was sitting at a table in front of the small wood-fire stove, playing solitaire. A saucer at one corner of the table served as an ash tray. It was half full of cigarette stubs.

"Well, what the—" he began, and then, catching sight of the stranger, scrambled up from his chair, his mouth still open.

"I thought you'd be surprised," said Charlie triumphantly. "This is Mr. Blythe, Mr. Thane,—shake hands with each other, comrades. When I told him you were so keen to see him and talk over old times, he said slap-bang he'd come with me when I offered to bring him up."

"I hope we're not intruding, Mr. Thane," said Blythe, advancing with hand extended. "Mr. Webster assured me you were quite well enough to receive—"

"I am glad you came," cried Courtney, recovering from his surprise. "Awfully good of you. These beastly lungs of mine, you know. The least little flare-up scares me stiff. Still, I had almost screwed up my nerve to going out this afternoon—"

"It doesn't pay to take any risks," warned Blythe, as they shook hands.

The two men looked each other closely, steadily in the eye. Courtney was the first to speak at the end of this mutual scrutiny.

"I wasn't quite sure whether I met you over there, Captain Blythe," he said, "but now I know that I didn't. I've been puzzling my brain for days trying to recall the name, or at least your face. I may be wrong, however. I haven't much of a memory. I hope you will forgive me if we did meet and I have forgotten it. I—"

"I have no recollection of ever having seen you, Mr. Thane," said Blythe. "It isn't surprising, however. It—it was a pretty big war, you know."

Charlie Webster was slightly dashed. If anything, Courtney Thane was more at ease, more convincing than Addison Blythe. He felt rather foolish. Something, it seemed, had fallen very flat. He evaded Mr. Hatch's eye.

"Sit down, Captain Blythe," said Courtney affably. "Hope you don't mind this bath gown. Charlie, make yourself at home on the bed,—you too, Hatch. We're as shy of chairs here as we were at the front, you see."

Blythe remained for half an hour and then went away with his two companions. Courtney shook hands with him and said good-bye at the hall door; then he strode over to the bureau to look at himself in the glass. He saw reflected therein a very well satisfied face, with brightly confident eyes and the suggestion of a triumphant smile.

Hatch accompanied the moody Mr. Webster to the warehouse office.

"Strikes me, Charlie," said he, thoughtfully, "that of the two our friend Courtney seems a long sight more genuine than this feller Blythe. I guess you're off your base, old boy. Why, darn it, he had Blythe up in the air half the time. If I was a betting man, I'd put up a hundred or two that Blythe never even saw the places they were talking about."

"Do you think Blythe is a fake?" cried Charlie in some heat.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that," said Hatch diplomatically, "but you'll have to admit that Court asked him a lot of questions he didn't seem able to answer."

Charlie stared hard at the floor for a few seconds. Then: "Well, if I was to ask you what my mother's maiden name was, Tintype, you'd have to say you didn't know, wouldn't you?"

"Sure," said Hatch. "But I wouldn't go so far as to say I wasn't certain whether she had a maiden name or not, would I?"

"There's no use arguing with you, Hatch," said Charlie irritably, and turned to his desk by the window, there to frown fiercely over his scales book.

II — Alix and Miss Blythe were sitting in front of the fireplace when young Blythe entered the living-room on his return from Dowd's Tavern. The former looked up at him brightly, eagerly as he planted himself between them with his back to the cheerful blaze.

"Did you see him?" she inquired. He was struck by the deep, straining look in her dark eyes,—as if she were searching for something far back in his brain.

"Yes," he replied, as he took his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. "He was up and around the room and was as pleased as Punch to see me." He began stuffing the bowl of the pipe. "He is a most attractive chap, Alix. I don't know when I've met a more agreeable fellow."

"Then you had not met before,—over there?"

"No. We missed each other by days on two or three occasions. He left for the Vosges just before I got to Pont-a-Mousson, and was transferred to another section when we all went up to Bar le Duc at the time of the Verdun drive. He joined the Ambulance several months before I did, and was shifted about a good deal. Had some trouble with a French officer at Pont-a-Mousson and asked to be transferred." Here he smiled feelingly. "He's got a mustard plaster on his back now, he says, that would cover an army mule. I know how that feels, by Jinks! I wore one for three weeks over there because I didn't have the nerve to rip it off."

He was still aware of the unanswered question in her eyes. Changing his position slightly, he busied himself with the lighting of his pipe.

"Was he expecting you?" inquired Alix.

"Not at all. It seems that your roly-poly friend forgot to notify him. I say, Alix, what a wonderful lot of pre-historic junk there is in that old stable-yard. Webster took me around there and showed me the stuff. Tell me something about the place."

Late in the afternoon Blythe,—after submitting to an interview at the hands of A. Lincoln Pollock,—sat alone before the fire, his long legs stretched out, a magazine lying idly in his lap, his pipe dead but gripped firmly in the hand that had remained stationary for a long, long time halfway to his lips. He was staring abstractedly into the neglected fire.

His sister came in. He was not aware of her entrance until she appeared directly in front of him.

"Hello!" he exclaimed, blinking.

"What is on your mind, Addy?"

He glanced over his shoulder.

"Where is Alix?"

"Writing letters. There were two or three she has to get off before we start for town." She sat down on the arm of his chair. "You may as well tell me what you really think of him, Addison. Isn't he good enough for her?"

He lowered his voice. The frown of perplexity deepened in his eyes.

"I can't make him out, Mary," he said, lowering his voice.

"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.

"Well, I may be doing him the rottenest injustice, but—somehow—he doesn't ring quite true to me."

"For goodness sake, Addy,—" she began, and then: "In what way? Hurry up! Tell me before she comes down. Isn't he a—a gentleman?"

"Oh, yes,—I suppose he is. He's a most engaging chap; he certainly seems well-bred, and he's darned good-looking. That isn't what I mean." He hesitated a moment and then blurted out: "Does Alix know POSITIVELY that he was in the American Ambulance? I mean, has she anybody else's word for it except his?"

Mary Blythe stared at her brother, her lips parted. Then her eyes narrowed suddenly.

"Don't—don't you think he's straight, Addy?" she half-whispered.

"I confess I'm puzzled. I never dreamed of doubting him when I went there. But I've been doing a lot of thinking since I saw him, and,—by George, Mary, I'm up a tree. Good Lord, if he should be—well, if he should be putting something over on Alix, he ought to be shot, that's all. Do you think she's in love with him?"

"I don't know. She's interested in him, I'm sure, but two or three times I have caught the queerest little look in her eyes when she is speaking of him,—almost as if she were afraid of something. I can't describe it. It's just—well, the only thing I can think of is that it's kind of pleading, if you know what I mean."

"Groping, I guess is the word you're after."

"Exactly. But go on,—tell me."

"It won't do to say anything about this to Alix, Mary," said he firmly. "At least not at present. Not until I've satisfied myself. I'm going to write to three or four fellows who were in Section Two for months,—before I was there,—and see if they know anything about him. I'd write to Mr. Hereford himself, but he's in Europe. He could give me the right dope in a minute. Piatt Andrew's in France, I understand. The records will show, of course, but it will take time to get at them. We must not breathe a word of all this to Alix, Mary. Understand? I've got to make sure first. It would be unpardonable if I were to make a break about him and he turned out to be all right."

"You must find out as quickly as possible, Addison. We would never forgive ourselves if we allowed Alix to—"

"Don't you worry! It won't take long to get a line on him. I'd telegraph if I were sure of the addresses. I ought to hear in three or four days, a week at the outside. Of course, he talks very convincingly. That's what floors me. But, on the other hand, he's too darned convincing. First of all, he called me Captain Blythe all the time. That isn't done by fellows in the know. I'm just plain Mister these days. He was rather hazy about the places I know all about, and tremendously clear about places I've never even heard of,—the places around Pont-a-Mousson, I mean. He actually looked suspicious of me when I said I didn't know where they were. And he mentioned a lot of men that I am dead sure never were up at Pont-a-Mousson,—either before or after I was there. Names I had never heard before in my life. And, confound it, the way he lifted his eyebrows made me feel for a minute or two that I hadn't been there myself. He says that since his injury and his sicknesses his memory isn't the best, but when I spoke of some of the fellows who were there with me, he remembered them perfectly. Didn't know them well, because he wasn't with the bunch very long, it seems. When I remarked that he must see a good bit of the chaps who live in New York City, he told me he had been sick ever since he came home from England and hadn't seen one of the crowd. He said he knew Pottle, and Fay, and Tyler, Sudbery and several others,—so I'm going to write to all of them tomorrow."

"It would be terrible, Addy, if she were to—"

"Mind you, old girl, I'm not saying this fellow isn't square," he interrupted. "He may be all he says he is. He's got me guessing, that's all."

"She says he has the croix de guerre and a D. S. medal."

He looked at her pityingly. "I've got a couple of Iron Crosses, old dear, but that doesn't mean I had 'em pinned on me by a Boche general. I've also got a German helmet, but I got it the same way I got the Crosses,—off of a German whose eyes were closed. Anyhow, I'd like to see his medals. Has Alix seen them?"

"His mother has them in New York," she replied. She stared into the fire for a moment or two and then turned to him, a look of deep concern in her eyes. "I think Alix is in love with him, Addy. She isn't herself at all. She is distrait. Twice this afternoon she has asked me if I didn't want to walk down into the village,—to the postoffice or the library. What she really wanted to do was to walk past the place where he lives. Oh, I know the symptoms. I've had them myself,—when I was younger than I am now. We don't do the things at thirty-two that we did at twenty-four. She is the dearest, finest girl I've ever known, Addy. We must not let anything happen to her."

He shook his head slowly. "If she is really in love with him, there's nothing we can do. The saying that 'there's no fool like an old fool' isn't in it with 'there's no fool like a woman in love.' Look at Isabel Harrington. Wasn't she supposed to be as sensible as they make 'em? And didn't everybody she knew tell her what kind of a man he was? Did it do any good?"

"She knew he gambled,—and drank—and he WAS a fascinating chap, Addy. You'll admit that."

"You bet I admit it. It was certainly proved when those other women turned up with marriage certificates, and old Mrs. Mason jumped into the scrimmage and had him arrested for swindling her out of thirty-five thousand dollars, and the New York police came along with a warrant for—"

"Yes, yes," she interrupted impatiently. "But Alix is quite different. She is NOT a fool, and Isabel was,—and still is, I maintain. You have seen this friend of Alix's. Is he attractive?"

"Well," he mused aloud, "unless I am mistaken, he is the sort of fellow that women fall for without much of an effort. The sort that can fool women but can't fool men, Mary, if that means anything to you. Now that I think of it, I believe Webster and that friend of his are—Well, I'm sure they don't like him. He—"

"Sh! She is coming!"

Alix's quick, light tread was heard in the hall. She came from her "office" in the wing where the kitchen was situated.

There was a heightened colour in her cheeks and her lovely eyes were shining.

"Well, that job is done," she cried, tossing two or three letters on the table. "Don't let me forget them, Mary. I'll post them in the city. We leave at six o'clock, Addison. I telephoned to town and asked George Richards to meet us at the Raleigh at a quarter before seven. I am dreadfully disappointed, Mary, that Mr. Thane cannot go, but you will like George. Mr. Thane NEVER goes to town. He was going to break his rule tonight, and now he CAN'T go. Isn't that always the way?"

"Mary's awfully partial to Georges," said Addison, "so don't you worry about her. I know I shall have a better time if Thane isn't in the party. To be perfectly frank with you, I'm jolly well fed up with Mary,—as we say in London. And if Thane was along I'd HAVE to talk to her for three solid—Why, 'pon my soul, Alix, you're blushing!"

"Don't be silly!"

"Skip along, Addy, and see how quickly you can dress," interposed his sister briskly. "You've got forty-six minutes."

"I can dress and undress three times in forty-six minutes, and still have time to read the evening paper and do a few odd chores about the place. I say, Alix, red is awfully becoming to you." With that parting shot, he disappeared.

III — One of the envelopes on the table was addressed to David Strong. It was a reply to a special delivery letter received in the afternoon post. He had been very prompt in responding to Alix's curt note, and she was being equally prompt with her answer. There were stamps sufficient on hers to insure "special delivery" to him.

He had written:

DEAR ALIX:

I have not received the bracelet yet. Registered mail moves slowly. If I did not know you so well, I might even hope that you had changed your mind at the last minute and did not send it. But I know it will come along in a day or so. I shall not ask you to explain why you are returning my gift. You have a good reason, no doubt. We have not been very friendly of late. I admit that I have been stubborn about paying back the money your grandfather lent to me, and I suppose I have not been very gentlemanly or tactful in trying to make you understand. I still maintain that it is a very silly thing for us to quarrel about, but I am not going to hector you about it now. I trust you will forgive me if I add to your annoyance by saying that I'd like to be where I could shake a little sense into that stubborn head of yours.

You are returning my gift. As I told you when I sent it to you, it was given me by a French lady whose son I had taken care of and for whose ultimate recovery I was perhaps responsible. She appreciated the fact that I could not and would not accept pay for my services. This much I have told you before. Now, I shall tell you something more. When she pressed it upon me she said that I was to give it to my sweetheart back in America. I gave it to you. I daresay I am greatly to blame for never having told you before that you were my sweetheart, Alix.

Very sincerely yours,

DAVID.

To this Alix replied:

DEAR DAVID:

By this time you will have received the bracelet. It is not beyond the bounds of probability that you may yet be in a position to carry out the terms imposed by the lady in France. All the more reason for my returning it to you. You are now free to give it to any one to whom you may have confided the astonishing secret you so successfully withheld from me. You seem to have forgotten that I gave you a receipt in full for the amount you are supposed to have owed my grandfather's estate. I did this with the consent of my lawyer. He said it was perfectly legal and that it was in my power to cancel the so-called obligation,—especially as we have no documentary evidence that you ever had promised to reimburse my grandfather. On the contrary, as I have told you over and over again, I have in my possession a statement written by Grandfather Windom which absolutely settles the matter. He states in so many words that in making his will he failed to mention his "beloved young friend, David Strong" as a beneficiary, in view of the fact that "I have made him a substantial gift during the closing years of my life in the shape of such education as he may require, and for which I trust him to repay me, not in money, but in the simplest and truest form of compensation: gratitude." In spite of this, you continue to offend me,—I might even say insult me,—by choosing to consider his gift as an obligation which can only be met by paying MONEY to me. All that you owed my grandfather was gratitude and respect. As for myself, I relieve you of the former but I do think I am entitled to the latter.

Yours sincerely,

ALIX CROWN

The same post that carried her letter east was to take one from Courtney Thane to his mother.

DEAREST MATER:

I am going to ask Alix Crown to marry me. I have hesitated to do so for obvious reasons, perfectly clear to you. Now, I have decided. She understands my financial situation. She knows that I am almost entirely dependent on you for support at present. If it had not been for the war and my confounded ill-health, I should, of course, have been quite independent by this time. I have explained my present unbearable situation to her in a general sort of way, and I know that she is in complete sympathy with me. Your resolve to not increase my allowance is, I suppose, irrevocable. I shall soon be in a position, I hope, to dispense with what you are already so gracious as to allow me. I have not deemed it wise to tell her at this time of my unfortunate and, as you say, foolish mismanagement of my affairs before and after father's death. When all is said and done, he didn't leave me very much. It went before I quite knew what was happening, and I submit that it was bad judgment due to my youth rather than to recklessness, as old Mumford claims. I'll make him eat his words some day. Thanks for your cheque. You are a darling. You're the best mother a fellow ever had. I quite understand your position, so don't lose a moment's sleep thinking that I may be resenting your decision. I shall manage very nicely on what you give me. It is ample for my present needs. I shall probably find it rather humiliating when it comes time for a wedding journey, but, bless your dear old heart, I'll manage somehow.

I am quite well and very happy. Hope you are the same. By the way, have you made that visit to Washington?

Your loving son,

COURTNEY.

P.S.—I am still looking for the little parcel I asked you to send me. Have you forgotten to attend to it?

C.

As Alix and her friends went out to the automobile, the big police dog trotted beside Addison Blythe, looking up into his face with pleased and friendly eyes. He allowed the man to stroke his head and rumple the thick fur on his back.

"He likes you, Addison," said Alix, a serious little frown in her eyes. "I can't understand his not liking Courtney Thane. His hair fairly bristles and he growls like a bear every time he sees him. Isn't it odd?"

Blythe looked up quickly. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something tactless. What he did say was this:

"Can you blame the poor dog for being jealous?"