Mary Wayne was in weak, human fear. The confession of Nell Norcross had not merely served to revive half-forgotten apprehensions, but had overwhelmed her with new ones. She wanted to quit. She did not dare. For where could she get another place, and who would take care of Nell? Circumstances were driving her toward a life of perpetual charlatanism, it seemed, but for the present she could not even struggle against them.

Mary was neither a prude nor a Puritan, so it may as well be said that what troubled her most was not the practice of deception. It was the fear of discovery. She now lived with an explosive mine under her feet. At any instant Aunt Caroline, for all her innocence and abiding faith, might inadvertently make the contact. Then—catastrophe! Even that queer valet might make a discovery; she was by no means certain that he was without suspicion. Bill Marshall himself might blunder into a revelation; but Mary feared him least of all. She did not regard him as too dull to make a discovery, but she had a feeling that if he made it he would in some manner safely remove her from the arena of disturbance before the explosion occurred.

All the way back to the Marshall house she was seized with fits of trembling. The trembling angered her, but she was unable to control it. Suppose Aunt Caroline had taken it into her head to seek a personal talk with Mrs. Rokeby-Jones! Or, even if matters had not gone that far, what would she say when Aunt Caroline asked for the result of Mary's interview?

"The city of New York is not large enough for Mrs. Rokeby-Jones and me," declared Mary. "I feel it in my bones. One of us must go. Which?"

She had reached a decision when the butler opened the front door and informed her that Mr. William would like to see her. He was the very person that Mary wanted to see. She found him in the office.

"Say, what's this I hear about a dinner?" demanded Bill.

"Has your aunt been speaking to you?"

"Uh, huh! I don't want any dinner. Good Lord, they'll ask me to make a speech!"

Mary smiled for the first time in hours.

"Of course," said Bill, uncomfortably, "I promised to do better and all that sort of thing, and I don't want to break my word. But a dinner—oh, gee!"

"I don't favor the dinner idea myself," said Mary.

"But it looks like Aunt Caroline was all set for it. What's the answer?"

Mary laid her gloves on the desk and removed her hat.

"It seems to me," she said, "that the thing to do is to go out of town for a while."

Bill looked at her with a hopeful expression.

"You see, Mr. Marshall, the town season is really over. Most of the worth-while people have left the city. It's summer. There will be nothing of importance in society before the fall; nothing that would interest you, at any rate. So I would advise doing exactly what the other people are doing."

Bill rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

"Trouble is, we haven't got a country house," he said. "We don't own a villa, or a camp or any of that fashionable stuff."

"I understand," said Mary. "But how about a yacht?"

"Don't even own a skiff."

"But we could hire one, couldn't we?"

Mary had unconsciously adopted the "we."

Bill regarded her with sudden interest. He stopped rubbing his nose, which was always one of his signs of indecision.

"Say, where did you get that idea?" he demanded.

"Why, it's a perfectly obvious one to arrive at, considering the season of the year."

"Have you spoken to my aunt about it?"

"Not yet. I wanted to consult you first, of course."

Bill liked that. It was another way of saying that she was still his secretary.

"You've got a whole beanful of ideas, haven't you?" he exclaimed, in admiration. "Well, I'm for this one, strong!"

Mary breathed a little more deeply. It seemed as if she had already removed herself a step further from Mrs. Rokeby-Jones and other perils of the city.

"I'm glad you like it," she said.

"Like it! Why, man alive—I mean little girl—well, anyhow, it's just the stunt we're going to pull off."

"It's not really a stunt," Mary reminded him. "It's not original at all. We do it simply because it is the right thing to do. Everybody of any account has a yacht, and now is the time for yachting."

"Now, don't you go crabbing your own stuff," said Bill. "This thing is a great invention, Secretary Norcross, and you get all the credit. I wouldn't have thought of it in a billion years. Now, what's your idea about this yacht? Do we want a little one or a whale? Where do we go? When? And who's going along?"

"Well, I don't know much about yachts," confessed Mary. "But it seems to me that a medium-sized one would do. We're not going across the ocean, you know."

"We might," declared Bill, hopefully—"we might start that trip around the world. I'm supposed to be on my way to Australia, you know, studying crustaceans."

Mary laughed.

"Do we cart a gang along?"

Mary had a vision of a tin ear. She shook her head.

"I see no occasion for a large party, Mr. Marshall. We might ask one or two besides the family; the bishop, for instance."

"Now you're joshing me. Into what part of the world do we sail this yacht, if you don't happen to be under sealed orders."

He was traveling somewhat rapidly, Mary thought; and she was right. Bill was already cleaving the high seas, perched on his own quarter-deck and inhaling stupendous quantities of salty air.

"I think we'd better obtain your aunt's approval before we plot out a cruise," she advised. "Also, there's the problem of getting a yacht."

"We'll get one if we steal it," Bill assured her. "I'll talk to Pete about it. He's amphibious. He's a sort of nautical valet. He knows all about yachts."

"I dare say. He seems to have a wide range of information. Suppose you consult him, while I speak to your aunt."

A frown clouded Bill's face.

"Do you suppose Aunt Caroline will want to go?" he asked.

"Want to? Why, she must."

"I don't see why. I don't believe she'd enjoy it a bit. We can have a barrel of fun if Aunt Caroline doesn't go. Let's leave her home."

Mary shook her head decisively.

"That's out of the question. Of course she'll go.

"But, listen; I don't need any chaperon."

"Well, perhaps I do," said Mary.

"Oh!" Bill was still scowling. "Why couldn't we let Pete be the chaperon?"

Mary squashed that suggestion with a glance.

"Then don't blame me if she turns out to be a bum sailor," he warned.

"I think I'll speak to her now," said Mary.

Aunt Caroline was frankly surprised. It had never occurred to her that there were times when society went to sea. Yet, to Mary's great relief, she did not prove to be an antagonist. She merely wanted to be shown that this cruise would actually be in furtherance of Bill's career.

"Of course it will," urged Mary. "It's the very thing. We'll take the regular summer society cruise."

"And what is that, my dear?"

Mary bit her lip. She did not have the least idea.

"Oh, I suppose we'll stop at Newport, Narragansett, Bar Harbor, and such places," she said, dismissing the details with a wave of her hand. "We'll make all the regular society ports—that is, of course, if you approve the idea, Miss Marshall."

Aunt Caroline smiled.

"Certainly I approve it, my dear. Although I admit it perplexes me. What sort of yachting flannels does an old lady wear?"

"Oh, they dress exactly like the young ones," said Mary, hastily.

"Which reminds me that we'll both need gowns. So, please order whatever you want."

"You're awfully generous with me," and Mary laid an impulsive hand on Aunt Caroline's. She felt very small and mean and unworthy.

"I want you to be a credit to the family, my dear. So far, you're doing beautifully! Have you spoken to William about buying the yacht?"

"Oh, we don't have to buy one! We just hire one—charter it, I think they say."

"It sounds like hiring clothes," said Aunt Caroline. "Still, I leave it all to you and William. But if it's necessary, buy one. And please get it as large as possible. We wouldn't want to be seasick, you know."

"We'll only sail where it's nice and calm," Mary assured her.

"And where there are the proper sort of people. Very well, my dear. And, oh, I've just remembered: have you done anything yet about Mrs. Rokeby-Jones?"

That lady had passed completely out of Mary's head.

"Why—er—you see, this other matter came up, Miss Marshall, so I haven't done anything about her as yet."

"Never mind the dinner, then," said Aunt Caroline.

"I'm afraid we wouldn't have time for it," agreed Mary.

"Probably not, my dear. We'll do better. We'll invite her to sail with us on our yacht."

Mary groped her way out of the room.

The business of fleeing the city went surprisingly well, notwithstanding Aunt Caroline's obsession on the subject of Mrs. Rokeby-Jones. Bill consulted Pete Stearns, who numbered among his friends a marine architect. The marine architect believed that he knew the very boat they needed. She was not a steam-yacht; most of the steam-yachts, he pointed out, were too large for a small party and a lot of them were obsolete. What they wanted was a big cruiser with Diesel engines, that ran smoothly, noiselessly and never smokily.

So through the offices of the marine architect, who made a nice commission, of which he said nothing at all, Bill Marshall became charterer of the yacht Sunshine, an able yet luxurious craft, measuring some one hundred and twenty feet on the water-line, capable of all the speed that was required in the seven seas of society and sufficiently commodious in saloon and stateroom accommodations.

Mary Wayne was delighted. Any craft that would sail her away from New York City would have been a marine palace, in her eyes. She would have embarked on a railroad car-float, if necessary. There was a vast amount of shopping to be done, which also pleased Mary. Aunt Caroline insisted upon being absurdly liberal; she was in constant apprehension that the ladies of the party would not be properly arrayed for a nautical campaign. So Mary presently found herself the possessor of more summer gowns than she had ever dreamed of.

Even when it came to the business of seeing that Bill Marshall was adequately tailored for the sea Aunt Caroline proved prolific in ideas. Somehow, she acquired the notion that Bill would need a uniform; she pictured him standing on the bridge, with a spy-glass under his arm, or perhaps half-way up the shrouds, gazing out upon the far horizon; although there were no shrouds on the Sunshine, inasmuch as there were no masts. But Aunt Caroline did not know that. To her, Bill would not merely be the proprietor and chief passenger of this argosy, but the captain, as well.

Mary saved Bill from the uniform. She did it tactfully but firmly, after explaining to Aunt Caroline that only the hired persons on board would wear uniforms. Nevertheless, Aunt Caroline insisted on such a plethoric wardrobe for her nephew that for a time she even considered the advisability of an assistant valet. Pete fell in with that idea instantly, but again there was a veto from Mary. One valet was trouble enough, as she well knew.

When it came to the matter of Mrs. Rokeby-Jones, however, Mary was hard put for a suitable defense. Aunt Caroline mentioned the lady several times; she hoped that the negotiations were progressing favorably; in fact, she at last reached the point where she decided upon two additional evening gowns for herself, because she was certain that Mrs. Rokeby-Jones would come arrayed like the Queen of Sheba. Poor Aunt Caroline did not know that the Queen of Sheba, in these times, would look like a shoddy piker beside even the humblest manicure in New York.

Mary had consulted Bill about Mrs. Rokeby-Jones. She could not explain as fully as she would have liked just why it was impossible for her to transmit Aunt Caroline's invitation; but she did not need to. Bill was flatly against his aunt's scheme. He declared that he would back Mary to the uttermost limit of opposition.

"But opposition is exactly what we must avoid," said Mary. "We mustn't antagonize—and yet we must stop it. Oh, dear! It seems a shame for me to be plotting this way against your aunt; she's been so wonderful to me. But there's no way to make her see that a perfect stranger is hardly likely to accept an invitation to a yachting party. Of course, your aunt is relying on the Marshall name." Bill nodded.

"And names don't get you anywhere; except, perhaps, in society. I knew a youngster who called himself Young John L. He kept at it for quite a while, but the only thing he was ever any good at was lying on his back in the middle of the ring and listening to a man count ten. That's all his name ever got him."

"But to get back to Mrs. Rokeby-Jones," said Mary, with a slight frown. "We've got to appear to want her, but we mustn't have her."

"We won't; don't you worry. We'll count her out or claim a foul. We'll leave her on the string-piece, if it comes to the worst."

"It isn't quite so simple as that, Mr. Marshall. Do you know what your aunt did to-day? She wrote her a note—personally."

"I know it," said Bill.

"She told you?"

"No; but here's the note."

He delved into a pocket and produced an envelope. Mary's eyes became round.

"Why, how in the world——"

"You see, the letters were given to Pete, to put stamps on and mail. And—well, he thought I might be interested in this one."

"But—that's a crime, isn't it?"

"Why do you have such unpleasant thoughts, Secretary Norcross? Pete says it's no crime at all; not unless it's been dropped in a letter-box. But if you feel finicky about it, why here's the letter. Mail it."

Mary shook her head.

"I'd be afraid to touch it."

"Thought so," said Bill, as he returned the letter to his pocket. "I'll hold it for a while."

"If the boat was only sailing now!" exclaimed Mary.

"That's a good suggestion. I'll hold it till we sail."

"Why, I never suggested anything of the kind, Mr. Marshall."

She made a very fair show of indignation, but Bill simply winked at her. Mary turned away for fear of betraying herself. Nevertheless, she knew that it was all very discreditable and she was not in the least proud of herself. It was a comfort, though, to have somebody else sharing the guilt.

The day came for the sailing of Aunt Caroline's armada. The Sunshine lay at anchor in the Hudson. From early morning a launch had been making steady trips from wharf to yacht, carrying trunks, boxes, grips, hampers, and packages. A superficial observer would have been justified in assuming that the Sunshine was documented for the Philippines, or some equally distant haven. All of Aunt Caroline's new gowns, all of Mary's, all of Bill's wardrobe, all of Pete's, and many other things that might prove of service in an emergency went aboard the Sunshine.

At the last moment there was great difficulty in persuading Aunt Caroline to leave the house. There had been no word from Mrs. Rokeby-Jones, and the good lady who was determined to be her hostess insisted that she would not depart without her. Bill fumed; Mary twisted her handkerchief. Aunt Caroline was displaying stubborn symptoms.

"Madam, I telephoned myself, only half an hour ago," said Pete. "She was not at home."

"She's probably on her way to the yacht," said Bill, with a glance at Mary.

"We'll wait a while and telephone again," announced Aunt Caroline.

"But if she's on her way," said Mary, "wouldn't it be better for you to be there to receive her?"

Aunt Caroline hesitated. It was Pete who saved the day.

"If I may make bold to suggest, Miss Marshall, you could go to the yacht at once. If Mrs. Rokeby-Jones has not arrived you could then telephone from the boat."

Mary turned away and stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth. Bill went out into the hall to see if the taxis had arrived.

"Peter," said Aunt Caroline, "that's a most sensible suggestion. I never thought of the telephone on board."