In spite of all Juliet’s efforts to bring about Rachel’s presence as one of her guests she found herself unable to accomplish it. Whenever she was needed for help Rachel was never absent, but the moment she was free the girl was off, and that quite without the appearance of running away. The men of the party followed her, but they were not allowed to remain. The girls, confident that her disappearances were part of a very deep game, begged her to stay; it was useless. Rachel’s excuses were ready, her manner charmingly regretful in a quiet way, but stay she would not.

Dr. Roger Barnes waylaid her one evening as she was vanishing down the willow-bordered path by the brook, leading to her own home.

“Here you go again,” he began discontentedly. “I wish I knew why.”

Rachel paused. It was difficult to do otherwise with a large and determined figure blocking a very narrow path.

“I have ever so many things waiting at home for me to do.”

“At nine o’clock in the evening?”

“At whatever hour I am through at Mrs. Robeson’s.”

“I wish I could imagine something of what they are. It might relieve my mind a little.”

“Why, I will tell you,” said Rachel with great appearance of frankness. “I have to do some mending for mother, read the evening paper for father, and set the bread. Then the clothes must be sprinkled for ironing in the morning.”

The doctor studied her face in the dimming light. “Who washed the clothes?” he asked bluntly.

“Do you think you ought to ask?” said Rachel.

“Yes. I’m in the habit of asking questions.”

“Of patients——”

“Of everybody I care for. You don’t have to answer, but if you don’t I shall know who did the washing.”

“Yes, I did it,” said Rachel steadily. “It is easily done.”

“And then you came over here and got breakfast?”

“Not at all. I helped Mrs. Robeson and Mary McKaim get it. Doctor Barnes, do you know that you are standing directly in my path?”

“Certainly,” said the doctor. “It’s what I’m here for.”

“Then I shall have to go back and take the road home.”

“If you do you will evade me only to encounter another man. Lockwood’s keeping a ferret’s eye on the Robeson house door; and I think Cathcart is already patrolling the road in front of your house.”

The girl turned. “You are making me feel very absurd,” she said. “I want to go home, Doctor Barnes. Please let me pass you.”

“May I go with you?”

“I would rather not.”

“Well, that’s frank,” he said, amusement and chagrin struggling for the uppermost. “I wonder I don’t stalk angrily away——”

“I wish you would.”

Roger Barnes threw back his head and laughed. “I wish you would give some other girls a leaf out of your book,” he said. “The more you turn me down the more ardently I long to be with you; while the opposite sort of thing—I’ll tell you, Miss Redding, if you want to be rid of me try these tactics: Say with a languishing smile, ‘Oh, Doctor Barnes, won’t you take me a little way down this lovely path?’ Perhaps that will accomplish your ends. I’ve often felt an instant desire not to do the thing I’m begged to.”

“‘Oh, Doctor Barnes,’” said Rachel Redding—and he caught the mischief in her tone—even Rachel could be mischievous, as Juliet had said—“‘won’t you take me a little way down this lovely path?’”

“With the greatest pleasure in the world,” replied the doctor promptly, and stood aside to let her pass him. Whereupon she slipped by him, and before he could realise that she had gone was running fleetly away in the twilight down the winding, willow-hung path. With an exclamation he was off after her, but though he dashed at the pace of a hunter through the intricacies of the way he presently discovered that he was following nothing but the summer breeze rustling the willow leaves and wafting into his face the breath of new-cut hay, the aftermath of late July. He stopped at length and stared about him, baffled and half angry.

“There never was a girl like you,” he muttered. “If you are deliberately trying to make men mad to get you you are succeeding infuriatingly well. If I catch you to-night it will be your fault if I tell you what I think of you. I’ll tell you now, for I suppose you are hiding somewhere in this undergrowth till I give it up and you can get away home. You shall listen to me if you are here, for you can’t help yourself.”

He was speaking in a low, even tone, walking slowly along the path and peering sharply into the bushes on both sides. Suddenly he stood still. He had detected a spot beside a low-hanging willow which showed nearly white in the deepening darkness. Rachel was wearing white to-night, he remembered. His heart quickened its paces and he paused an instant to get past a certain tightening in his throat.

Then he bent forward and whispered: “If that’s not you there I can say what I like, and there’ll be some satisfaction in that. If you’ll speak now you may save yourself, but if you don’t I’ve no reason to think it’s you, and so I can say——”

There was a sharply perceptible noise farther down the path toward the Redding home. Barnes turned quickly and stood up straight, waiting. Footsteps came rapidly along the path—no footsteps of hers, evidently. A man’s voice humming a tune grew momentarily plainer—then the voice stopped humming and began to sing in a subdued but clear and fine barytone:

The voice stopped. Two men’s figures confronted each other in an extremely narrow path. It was not too dark yet for each to be plainly recognisable to the other.

“Hallo—that you, Lockwood?”

“Hi there, Roger Barnes; what you doing here? Fishing?”

“Looking for something I’ve lost.”

“Getting pretty dark to find it. Something valuable?”

“Rather. Think I’ll give it up for to-night.”

“Too bad. Nice night.” Lockwood was hastening toward the end of the path which came out near Anthony’s house. Barnes looked after him grimly.

“That voice of yours, young man,” he thought, “handicaps me from the start. Now, if I could just warble my emotions that way——”

He turned and peered again at the white place by the tree. He moved stealthily toward it, and ascertained presently that it was not what it seemed. He rose to his feet and walked rapidly down the path to the Redding house. When he came in sight of it he saw that the kitchen windows were lighted and that a man stood with his arm on the sill of one of them. Silhouetted against the light were the familiar outlines of Stevens Cathcart. As Barnes stood staring amazedly at this, a slender figure in white came to the window, and in the stillness he could hear the quiet voice:

“Please let me close the window, Mr. Cathcart. Thank you—no—and good-night.”

“‘Three Men in a Boat,’ by Rachel Redding,” murmured the doctor to himself, and slipped back to the willow path, from which he at length emerged to join the group upon the porch—which then, it may be observed, held for the first time that night its full complement of men.

Three big Chinese lanterns shed a softly pleasant light upon the porch and the lawn at its foot. Suzanne Gerard and Marie Dresser made a most attractive picture, one in a low chair, the other upon a pile of cushions on the step. Suzanne lightly picked a mandolin. Marie was singing softly:

It was one of the songs of the summer—foolish words, seductive music—everybody hummed it half the time. Roger Barnes smiled to himself, remembering where he had heard it last.

“Come here and give account,” commanded Suzanne the instant he appeared. “Every unmarried man vanished the moment twilight fell. You are the last to show your face. I challenge you, one and all, to swear that you have not been within sight of a certain small brown house at the foot of the hill since supper.”

Her voice was music; in her eyes was laughter. Marie sang on, pointing her words with smiles at one and another of the culprits.

From his seat on the threshold of the door, where his head rested against Juliet’s knee as she sat behind him, Anthony laughed to himself. Then he turned his head and whispered to his wife: “Feel the claws through the velvet? Poor boys, they have my sympathy.”