On David's return to the hotel he found a hastily scrawled note from Artful Dick Cronk. He had remained at the Noakes' until mid-afternoon, discussing the sinister attitude of Thomas Braddock. Joey stubbornly maintained that it was worse than useless to have the man locked up; it would merely delay the consummation of his purpose, and it would add fuel to the fierce flames that already were consuming his brain. He was for temporizing methods, attended by shrewd efforts to keep the enemies apart. It was his opinion that Braddock would listen to reason before many days. Certainly there could be no immediate danger with Grand out of the city. Jenison at last came to his way of thinking, although not without a twinge of misgiving. He had no respect, no sympathy for Braddock. It was his firm opinion that the man had in no way reformed; that he was as bad, if not worse, than ever, for now he was himself and not crazed by drink.

Dick's note bore the disturbing news that Colonel Grand had returned to town, and that Mrs. Braddock was expected the following day. Ernie had obtained this information through the friendly Portman servant, who (to quote Dick) affected the hunchback's society because he believed that the "touching of a hump would bring good luck!" Old Mr. Portman, it was given out, was on his way to his summer place in the Adirondacks, Naturally he would be accompanied by his daughter and Christine. They were due to arrive at four o'clock, and expected to remain in town for ten days before going up to the cool hills. The closing sentences of the pickpocket's note were quaintly satirical: "Brad says he can't afford to be seen in my company. You know how politely he would say it, don't you? He says he can't take chances now. But I staked him to a bed for to-night and I told him I'd give him grub money. It seemed to tender him up a bit. He's hanging round with Ernie to-day and I'm going to see him to-night. Did I tell you that Ernie has a little apartment all to himself over on Fourth Avenue? He's some elegant. Of course, it won't do for me to be seen around his shack much. I might accidentally give the place a bad name, see? Well, I'll close, but will write again to-morrow. DICK. P. S. They come in on the Pennsylvania."

David spent a miserable night. He was obsessed by the fear that Braddock would seek out Grand that very night, and that it would all be over in the morning. At breakfast he scanned the newspapers closely, half expecting to find the dreaded head-lines. As the morning wore away his spirits lifted. He had made up his mind to go to the railway station. From an obscure corner he would see her without being seen. It was his whim to see her first in this manner, to stare to his soul's content, to compare her in the flesh to the glorious picture his brain had painted. He made no doubt that she would far surpass the portrait in his mind: did not Ruby say she was ravishingly beautiful? His heart leaped fiercely to the project in hand; more than once he found himself growing faint with the intensity of yearning and impatience.

He took Joey and Ruby to luncheon at Delmonico's. All through the meal he was busy picturing to himself the girl who was whirling northward, nearer and nearer to him with each minute of time. She would be tall and slender and shapely. His mind's eye traveled backward. Her hair would be brown—But, even as he constructed her to please his eager imagination, he quailed before the spectre of doubt: was the heart of the girl of fifteen unchanged in the woman of twenty?

Ruby was glibly telling him of the young men who paid court to the granddaughter of old Mr. Portman. Both she and Joey found rich enjoyment in the fact that these sprigs of gentility knew nothing of the circus-riding epoch in Christine's life; they wondered what the effect would be when the truth came out. Joey ventured the opinion that "the devil would be to pay," and Ruby added the prophecy that "they would drop her like a hot poker." Strange to say, David found considerable satisfaction in these dolorous predictions.

He caught the ferry soon after luncheon, and was in the station on the other side of the river long before the train was due.

Buying a newspaper, he took a seat in a far corner of the concourse. He read but little and that without understanding. His mind was quite fully occupied in peering over the top of the sheet in the direction of the sheds. Finally he became convinced, by certain psychic processes of the mind, that some one was staring at him. He looked about in all directions. At last his eyes rested on a squat, misshapen figure far over by the ferry entrance.

He had no difficulty in recognizing Ernie Cronk. His presence there was disquieting in more than one sense. Dick had said that Braddock was "hanging 'round" with his brother. This, of itself, was sufficient to create alarm in David's mind. He searched the scurrying throng for a glimpse of the drab, sinister figure of Christine's father, all the while conscious that Ernie Cronk's baleful gaze was upon him. The beady eyes seemed to penetrate shifting obstructions, never changing, never wavering.

David considered briefly, and then decided to consult the cripple. As he made his way over to him he noted that Ernie was flashily dressed, almost to the point of grotesqueness. One might have forgiven the vivid checked suit on the person of a buoyant barber, but it was grewsome in its present occupation. Its gaudy, insistent cheapness leaped out at the observer with much the same appeal for favor that one imputes to the garments of a clown. One might have read the envy in Ernie's soul as his eyes swept the tall, straight, simply clad Southerner who approached. He stood his ground defiantly, however; there was no smile of friendliness on his thin lips.

"Hello, Ernie," said David. Ernie's arms were folded across his breast. As he gave no sign of unfolding them, David did not proffer his hand.

"You don't have to speak to me if you don't want to," muttered Ernie, his eyes snapping.

"Where is Braddock?" asked the other, imperturbably.

The rat-like eyes glittered with a cunning smile. "Don't ask me. Got you worried, eh?"

"We are trying to keep him from hurting Christine, that's all," said David tactfully.

"He ain't going to do that," said Ernie quickly. A shadow of anxiety crept into his face, however. "He's after Grand."

"Just the same, we are afraid. Is he here?"

"No. He's asleep at my place, if that'll do you any good. I'm not going to turn against her father, which is more than the rest of you can say. You can tell her, if you want to, that I'm still his friend." It was plain to be seen that he was adopting this pitiful policy as a means of gaining the attention of the otherwise unapproachable Christine. "He was up all night—looking!"

"For Grand?"

"I didn't ask," leered the hunchback. Suddenly his eyes flew wide open. He was staring past Jenison. "Say! Speaking of angels, look behind you."

David turned. Not twenty feet away stood Colonel Grand, twirling a light walking-stick and surveying the throng with disinterested eyes. He had seen and ignored Ernie, but had failed to recognize the young man whose back was toward him.

David experienced a sickening sense of disappointment. His heart sank like lead. Grand's presence in the station could have but one meaning. A great wave of revulsion swept through the Virginian. He forgot the anticipated joy of the moment before in contemplation of this significant proof of an understanding.

His lips were dry. He moistened them. Ernie, observing the movement, concluded that he was muttering something to himself.

"Say it to his face, why don't you?" he recommended sarcastically. Before David could interpose, the hunchback called out to Colonel Grand. The latter turned quickly. For a moment he stared intently at the face of the tall young man. Suddenly light broke in upon him.

"Why, it's Jenison," he exclaimed, and advanced, an amiable smile on his lips. David ignored the hand that he extended; he could only stare, as if fascinated, at the puffy face of the speaker.

Grand had altered but little in appearance during the five years that had passed. He seemed to have grown no older, nor was he less repulsive to look upon. As of old, he was carefully, even immaculately dressed.

Ernie Cronk moved away. They might have heard him chuckling softly to himself.

"Let me see, it's five years, isn't it?" went on the Colonel suavely. He did not appear to resent David's omission. "You've changed considerably. The mustache improves you, I think."

His voice was as oily as ever, his eyes and his nose as sheep-like. Something arose in David's throat, bringing a certain hoarseness to his voice.

"Time has not affected you, Colonel," he retorted.

"So they tell me," said the other. "Are you waiting to meet some one?"

"Yes," said David, and nothing more.

The Colonel twirled his stick. "My daughter is arriving by the four-twenty," he announced. "Beastly old station, this. What a godsend a destructive fire would prove if it took it from one end to the other."

"Your daughter is coming?" asked David. The note of eagerness and relief in his voice caused the other's eyes to narrow suddenly.

"You've met her, I believe," he said, studying David's face.

"Once,—at the Springs."

"She's coming rather unexpectedly to make me an extended visit. I should deem it quite an honor, David, if you would give us the pleasure of your company some evening for dinner—"

"My stay here is to be very brief, Colonel Grand, and my time is entirely taken up," said David coldly.

"I'm sorry," said the Colonel, shrugging his shoulders in self-commiseration.

It was on the tip of David's tongue to ask him if he knew of Thomas Braddock's presence in town, but timely reflection convinced him that it would be unwise. The Colonel, in his alarm, might set about to have Braddock hunted down and confined without delay; and there was no telling what crime he would lay at Braddock's door in order to secure long imprisonment.

"I met your wife, also, at the Springs," said David, coolly substituting the thrust.

The Colonel frowned slightly. "You are doubtless aware that my wife and I are no longer living together," he said, his lips straightening.

"I have heard something to that effect," said David easily,—so easily that the other could not mistake the insolence of the remark.

Grand flushed. "I am happy to say, young man, that my train is pulling in. I must therefore deny myself the pleasure of conversing with you any longer. Good-day, sir."

He did not bow as he turned away. A moment later he was threading his way through the crowd. David sauntered over to his first place of waiting, a smile on his lips. He was immensely relieved now, and not a little ashamed of a certain unworthy suspicion.

He fixed his eager gaze on the throng of people that came up from the train, pouring into the big waiting-room. First, he saw Roberta Grand as she came rushing up to her father. He was struck by the swift change that came over the Colonel's face, who stared in amazement over the girl's shoulder, even as he embraced her. David allowed his gaze to return to the oncoming crowd.

Mary Braddock approached, apparently unconscious of the presence of either of her old associates. She walked beside a decrepit old gentleman whom David at once surmised to be Albert Portman. A maid and a male attendant followed close behind. Christine was not in sight.

Mrs. Braddock saw Grand when not more than half a dozen paces separated them. She almost stopped in her tracks. David detected the look of surprise and dismay in her face. She and Grand were staring hard at each other, but neither made the slightest pretense of anything more than visual recognition. She averted her gaze after a moment of uncertainty, and, with her head erect, passed close by the Colonel and his daughter, both of whom were scrutinizing her with brazen interest.

She did not see David Jenison, although he might have touched her by moving two steps forward. Disconcerted by the rude, insolent stare that was leveled jointly by her old enemy and his daughter, a vivid flush mantled her cheek and brow.

Time had made few changes in her appearance. Her face was softer, gentler if possible; her carriage was as erect and as proud as ever. She was modestly, unobtrusively attired, as David expected she would be.

After she had passed, the young man turned his attention again to the crowd, his nerves jumping with eagerness. Christine was sure to be not far behind her mother.

He saw her at last, a laggard at the end of the hurrying procession. She passed close by him. He stood motionless, seeing no one else, thinking of no one but this slim, adorable girl who had no eyes for him. At her side strode a tall, good-looking fellow whose manner toward her could be mistaken for nothing short of simple adoration.

She was smiling brightly, even rapturously up into the eyes of this eager swain. In another instant they were lost in the crowd that rushed to the ferry, but David was never to forget that passing glimpse of her—not to the day of his death.

She was all that his fondest dreams, all that his fairest prophecies, had promised—nay, she surpassed them!

The pure, girlish face—the one of the deep, earnest eyes and tender lips—had been toned and perfected and rechiseled by the magic hand of Time. She was taller by several inches; a lissome creature who moved with the sureness and grace of an almost exalted symmetry.

His dazzled, gleaming eyes followed her into the vortex below. A vast wave of exultation suddenly rushed over him. He had held her in his arms—he had kissed this beautiful, joyous creature—this product of enchantment! Now, more than ever, was he resolved to claim her for his own. It was as good as settled, in his enraptured mind! Nothing could keep her from him now. He had loved her, he had waited for her, and he would have her in spite of everything.

What could it matter to him that she was coveted by all the men who knew her? He rejoiced in the fact that they were at her feet. It was left for him to look down upon them in the end, and smile with all the arrogance of triumphant possession!

Even as he exulted, a dissolving element was flung upon the crystal in which he saw his own glorification. A harsh, discordant voice was speaking at his elbow. He turned. Ernie Cronk was standing beside him. It required a moment of concentration on the part of the infatuated David to grasp the significance of a certain livid hue in Ernie's face. The hunchback was looking up at him. His eyes were bleak with unhappiness. There was no anger in them: only despair.

"That's the fellow," he was saying, his voice cracking hoarsely. "He's the one she's in love with."

David started. "You mean—she's in love with him?" he demanded blankly.

"That's Bertie Stanfield. He's a great swell. He was here to meet her. I saw him. It's—it's no use, David. No one else has got a show." His inclusion of David in his own misfortune, though by inference, would have been amusing at another time. Somehow, at this moment, it struck David as tragic. Was it possible that he was to find himself in the same boat with this unhappy, uncouth worshiper?

He pulled hard at the end of his short mustache, and swallowed hard with involuntary abruptness.

"I—I have heard of him," he said, a sudden chill creeping into his veins.

"Did she—did she speak to you?" asked Ernie. The hard look was creeping back into his eyes.

"She didn't see me," muttered David.

"She spoke to me. She always does," said Ernie, twisting his fingers. "But," he went on, almost in a wail, "it's because she—she pities me!"

David's heart was touched. He laid his hand on Cronk's shoulder and was about to speak kindly to him. The other drew back, shaking off the compassionate hand.

"None o' that, now. I don't need any pity from you. Keep your trap closed about me." He jammed his hands into his coat pockets and allowed his gaze to travel toward the ferry entrance. The despondent note returned to his voice. "Shall we take this boat or wait for the next?" he asked. It was as if he had said: "We are companions in misery, you and I. Let's make the best of it."

David looked at him for a moment oddly. The humor of the situation struck him all at once; but the smile of derision died on his lips. After all, perhaps he was in the discard with Ernie Cronk.

"I'm going to catch this boat," he said decisively. He started off, followed by his unchosen comrade, and caught the boat almost as it cast off in the slip.

Mrs. Braddock and Christine were far forward. They were chatting gayly with the blonde Mr. Stanfield, who appeared to be giving them the latest news of the town. Old Mr. Portman sat against the deck house.

David watched the little group at the rail from a safe distance. He allowed his fancy full play; his hopes rebounded; his confidence revived. By the time the ferry-boat was locked in the Manhattan slip he was buoyant with the hope and resolution of unconquered youth. He would win her away from them all.

All the way across the river he had been aware of Colonel Grand's close proximity to the little party of three. He stood, with Roberta, across the forward deck, leaning against the rail, his arms folded. At no time did he withdraw his gaze from the figure of Mary Braddock. Her back was toward him,—resolutely, it seemed to David,—and she must have been conscious of the carnal eyes bent upon her. Somehow David had the feeling that she was battling against the impulse to turn in response to the hypnotic command.

He hung back, biding his time, until the party had disappeared inside the ferry building. Then he hastened toward one of the exits, intent on securing a cab. He had made up his mind not to accost them; he would not present himself unexpectedly at a time and place when embarrassment to them might be the result.

From somewhere at the edge of the crowd a thin, sardonic voice called out to him:

"So long, David. You know how it feels yourself now, don't you?" He knew who the speaker was without looking.

Mrs. Braddock was standing at the counter of the telegraph office near one of the street doors. He did not see her until he was almost upon her. She was alone and engaged in writing out a telegram. His plans were altered in an instant. A moment later, he was at her side, his face flushed and eager.

For many seconds she stared wonderingly into his smiling eyes. Before uttering a word she glanced at the message she had finished and was about to hand it to the clerk; then her gaze returned to his face.

"David Jenison," she said, and there was something like awe in her voice, "is it really you? How strange—how very strange!"

"I'm not a ghost," he cried. "You look at me as if I had crept out of my grave."

She looked again at the telegram. "Why, David," she began falteringly. Then her face cleared. A glad smile broke over it, and both her hands were extended. "It really is you? I am not seeing visions? Yes, you are flesh and blood! You dear, dear David! I am so glad to see you. How does it happen that you are here? Where do you come from and—" She went on with the eagerness of a child, asking more questions than he could remember, much less answer. "And how wonderfully you have grown up!"

"I have seen Christine," he said eagerly. "She is perfection—she is marvelous."

"Seen her? Where? But we cannot talk here. We must have hours and hours all by ourselves. Come to my father's house to-night. We are living with him, you know. There is so much that we have to tell each other—all that has happened in the five long years."

"I am here solely to remind you that the five years are ended, Mrs. Braddock. Mahomet has come to the mountain, you see."

Her face clouded. She glanced quickly through the window. His gaze followed hers. Christine and young Stanfield were driving away together in a hansom. He read her thoughts. "I'll take my chances," he remarked confidently.

"I know that she has not forgotten, David," she said after a moment of deliberation, "but—well, I will be frank with you. She has suddenly shot past my comprehension. It is the privilege of a girl to change her mind, you know, when she changes the length of her frocks."

"You haven't changed, have you?" he asked bluntly. She stared. "I?"

"I mean, you are still my champion?"

"Of course," she replied readily.

"Then, as I said before, I'll take my chances with the rest. I'll not hold her to that girlhood bargain. That would be unfair. But, if you'll permit me, I'll go in and win her as she is to-day—if I can."

She smiled at his ardor. "I hope you may win, David. But you must win for yourself. Do not look to me for help. She must decide for herself."

He did not refer to the young man who had taken her away in the cab. Mrs. Braddock noted this and was not slow to divine the well-bred restraint that lay behind the omission.

"That was young Stanfield," she observed. "He is delightful. My father is devoted to him."

David smiled. "I hope to have the pleasure of meeting him soon."

"You may meet to-night."

If she expected to see a trace of annoyance in his face, she was disappointed. He gracefully confessed his interest in the prospective meeting.

"I shall be more than delighted to come," he said.

"And I am glad he will be there to engage Christine's attention while I devote myself to you, Mrs. Braddock."

"You nice boy!"

She extended her hand. "I must not keep my father waiting out there. You don't know how glad I am that you are here, David." Suddenly a wave of red mounted to her cheek; an expression of utter loathing came into her deep eyes. In some alarm he glanced over his shoulder.

Colonel Grand was standing at the door through which she would have to pass. He was not looking at her, but his motive in placing himself there was only too plain.

"Confound him!" involuntarily fell from David's lips.

"If he dares to address me—" she began, her face going white. "David, I have not seen that man since the day I left the show. Why is he here to-day? Is it to annoy—to torment me in—"

"He won't do that," announced David firmly.

"I have a strange foreboding, David,—of evil, of something dreadful. Perhaps it is due to the unexpected sight of—his horrid face. I—"

"That's it," said he promptly. Nevertheless, a slight chill entered his heart. There was Tom Braddock to be considered. "I'll come early to-night, if I may," he said, more soberly than he meant. "There are some very important things to discuss. Now I'll take you to your carriage."

During their talk she had absently folded the telegram. He observed it in her hand and said:

"The telegram—don't forget that, Mrs. Braddock."

Her smile was enigmatic. With a diverted smile for the waiting clerk she said: "I shall not send it, after all."

David walked with her to the door. They passed so close to Colonel Grand that David's elbow touched his arm, but neither of them looked at him. She hastily entered the waiting carriage, a sort of panic overtaking her.

Thrusting the crumpled bit of paper into David's hand, her eyes steadfastly held against the impulse to look at the satiric figure in the doorway, she said in a half-whisper:

"Take it, David—and come to-night."

He stood there with his hat in his hand as the carriage drove off, sorely perplexed by her action. Suddenly a light broke in upon his understanding. He spread out the small sheet and read:

"The five years have passed. I redeem my promise. You are not obliged to keep yours, however." It was signed "Mary Braddock."

Colonel Grand was smiling sardonically in the doorway.