For a while after Porshinger and the constable had departed, Lorraine sat thinking. Those last words of Porshinger's, which he had seemed to laugh to scorn, none the less bred suspicion.

"You might ask what she and Pendleton were doing on the Criss-Cross piazza, one night about five weeks ago."

What did it mean? There must be some basis for the insinuation—some fact that was suspicious on its face. He did not want to mistrust Pendleton; he would not mistrust him; he would frankly tell him what Porshinger had said and accept his explanation or denial. Pendleton was fond of Stephanie—had been fond of her before the marriage—had stood by her nobly since her return. It was not credible. It was a scheme of that miserable brute to embroil him with Stephanie's best friend.—Yet he would like to have Pendleton's denial. He would feel better—yes, decidedly better. There would be a satisfaction in having the denial—in hearing it.

He got up and crossed over to where Pendleton and Emerson were sitting. The latter remained a few moments, then excused himself, on the plea of having to dress for golf, and went off to the locker-rooms.

Both Lorraine and Pendleton were silent—the former staring at the floor, the latter gazing through his cigarette smoke out on the links, which were beginning to fill with players.

"Well—it's done!" said Lorraine presently.

"Not exactly," Pendleton replied. "I should say it's only begun."

"The beginning is done, at any rate," Lorraine returned.

"It's easy to start something, but it's quite another thing to finish it."

"No doubt about that—the difficulty with me hitherto has been that I never started. Now——"

"Now it is a question whether it wouldn't be better if you hadn't started."

"Do you think so?" demanded Lorraine.

"Candidly, I don't know what to think," said Pendleton. "It's such a miserable mess all through. We want to do the best for Stephanie, but I admit I'm not competent to judge what the best is under the circumstances. However, the attack has been made—it only remains now to fight it out on your plan. Have you any plan, Lorraine?"

"Plan!" answered Lorraine vaguely. "No—I've no plan—other than to punish Porshinger for his dirty conduct toward Stephanie, and to meet Dolittle's nasty tale with the truth."

"Very good!" nodded Pendleton, "but that is the conclusion, not the plan. What if Porshinger fights—and is supported by Dolittle? What if he says that Stephanie was willing and that he did not use force?"

"I'll take Stephanie's word in preference to a thousand Porshingers and Dolittles!" Lorraine declared.

"And so will I—but will a jury? You have not consulted counsel, I suppose?"

"No—I've not consulted anyone. I acted solely on my own responsibility because I was satisfied it was right."

"And what is more important to Stephanie—will the public accept her word and believe it?" Pendleton reflected.

"Certainly it will. I haven't a bit of doubt of it."

Pendleton shrugged his shoulders.

"I wish I had your assurance," he replied. "There is only one thing about it that isn't doubtful, to my mind."

"What is that?" Lorraine demanded impatiently.

"That Stephanie will be damned utterly unless her story is accepted."

"She is damned if Dolittle's story is accepted. This is the only means she has of clearing herself—to fight openly. Unless"—he paused and looked hard at Pendleton—"unless she will consent to a reconciliation and resume her place as my wife."

"I wish someone could persuade her of that," Pendleton answered instantly. "It is her best and wisest course. It would relieve the entire situation."

"You will tell her so?" Lorraine demanded eagerly.

"I have told her so—many times within the last few weeks. I told her so to-day."

"And she——?"

Pendleton shook his head.

"It doesn't seem to appeal to her, Lorraine."

"I will do the next best thing—I'll stand by her," he exclaimed. "If she won't have me for husband, she can't object to the moral and active support of the man who has the first right to render it. Indeed, if I am with her, if I instituted the fight, what has Society to say?"

"That is the proper attitude, Lorraine," Pendleton replied. "It will go far to sustain Stephanie's story."

"I'll do everything in my power to make amends for the past," Lorraine went on. "Maybe it will soften her a little toward me."

Pendleton said nothing.

"There is one thing I wanted to ask you, Pendleton," he went on, after a moment's pause. "I trust that you won't misunderstand—that you'll take it in the right way."

"Certainly, I'll take it in the right way," Pendleton answered heartily.

He knew what was coming and was ready to meet it. Porshinger had not raised his voice in vain; though what he had intended for a threat was a warning also.

"I want you to explain," said Lorraine, "what Porshinger meant when he said, just before he went off with the constable: 'I'm not in Amherst's class, but your dear friend Pendleton is—if you doubt it, you might ask him what your wife and he were doing on the Criss-Cross piazza, one night about five weeks ago.'—Don't imagine that I believe the scoundrel's insinuation for an instant—that you and Stephanie were guilty of even the most trifling indiscretion. I trust you, Pendleton—you're not one to be swept away by passion or sentiment—and I think that Stephanie has had enough to steady her permanently. Yet what did he mean? Was it just thrown out for viciousness, or was there something happened at Criss-Cross which his vile brain distorted into vileness? Can you guess—can you imagine what basis in fact he could have?"

"My dear Lorraine, no basis in fact I can assure you," Pendleton answered very quietly. "I've been at Criss-Cross several times within the last five weeks when Stephanie was there. I was alone with her on the piazza repeatedly, by day and in the evening, but there wasn't a time when Gladys or any of the guests could not have overheard our conversation or seen our acts."

"God save me for a quibbler!" he thought. "A lie by inference and intended to deceive—though true enough in word—is none the less a lie. Yet for Stephanie's sake, I am remitted to it. The little woman was right—and I was a fool!"

Lorraine put out his hand; and Pendleton took it, feeling like a dog but smiling ingenuously.

"Woodside's place adjoins Criss-Cross and Porshinger visits him, you know; he was invited to the Chamberlains, one Sunday when we were there," Pendleton observed. "He might have seen me with Stephanie at that time; he might even have used a field-glass from Woodside's or say he did; and he might have seen us sitting together and concocted a story to fit his purposes."

"More than likely concocted it while he was saying it!" Lorraine exclaimed. "He wanted to embroil me with you—split the opposition into fighting among themselves, when they should stand together. Well—it hasn't succeeded. Nevertheless I thought it best that we should have it out at once, so as to have no misunderstanding hereafter."

"It was much the best way!" Pendleton agreed—"Much the best way. I thank you for giving me a chance to deny—and for accepting my denial."

"My dear Pendleton," Lorraine exclaimed, "you don't think I would have made that request of you at the Hospital—to watch over Stephanie—to protect her from herself—if I had doubted you or ever should doubt you?"

"I shouldn't suppose so!" Pendleton answered.

Then he switched the conversation—it was too acutely personal—he was writhing under it. He would much have preferred to tell Lorraine the truth—and stand shamed. But he might not on Stephanie's account.

"I think I'll go in and telephone Cameron about the case, and ask him to look after it," said Lorraine. "It needs a lawyer. It would have been wiser, I admit, if I had had a lawyer from the start."

"Before it started," amended Pendleton.

"Will you be here this evening?"

Pendleton nodded.

"Then I'll ask him to talk it over with you also. I'm very tired. I think I'll go home presently, if you don't mind."

Pendleton wanted to take him by the shoulders and fling him into his car—anything to be rid of him.

"Not in the least," he replied—"I'll talk it over with Cameron."

Presently Lorraine returned.

"I've told Cameron everything," he said. "He will be here about six o'clock. I asked him to see you. I'll call you up to-morrow. Good by!"

After a moment, Pendleton arose and went into the house. Choosing a magazine at random from the table, he crossed to a retired corner of the big living-room and buried himself behind it—not to read, but to think.

It was a peculiarly difficult situation; arising from causes simple enough in themselves when taken separately, but extraordinarily complicated when considered together. Stephanie, Gladys, Lorraine, Amherst, Porshinger, Dolittle and himself—everyone a party acting independently, so to speak, yet in effect acting together to attain the present embarrassing condition. Naturally a woman was at the bottom of it—she always is in such matters—and she would be the one to suffer for all their foolishnesses and mistakes. Stephanie would be pilloried because Porshinger and Dolittle and he himself had acted the cad—one by nature, one because he was a malicious gossip, and one because he was a natural born damn fool. The last was quite the most to blame because he should and ought to have known better.

The more he pondered the situation, the more hopeless it became. Amherst was out of it now except as an original cause. Lorraine was only in it by right, and out of it on every other basis. Dolittle was in it by reason of his disposition to meddle in the affairs of others; but Porshinger and he were in it because they were guilty against Stephanie. Technically Lorraine had a perfect right to prosecute Porshinger—and Porshinger deserved to be prosecuted—but what of himself? Who was the more guilty of the two? He had betrayed an implied trust. It mattered not if Stephanie loved him—it mattered not that she had no reproaches for him; he was guilty none the less, and had only complicated the matter for her, for Porshinger had seen them—or at least he knew. And Stephanie, the innocent cause of it all—of his and Porshinger's audaciousness—was to be the real victim because of Dolittle's babbling tongue and Lorraine's misdirected energy. The whole thing, however, came back to Dolittle, so far as the present complication was concerned. If he had not seen—or had been blind though seeing—it would never have arisen.

However, none of these matters confronted them now. There was small profit in searching for causes, or for whom to blame. Their business was to meet a present condition in the best way possible—and there appeared to be no best. All were equally bad. The more he thought over it, the more hopeless it all was and the more futile every effort to save Stephanie. She was bound to be smirched, take it whatever way one would. If the prosecution was abandoned, then Dolittle's story would be believed no matter how she treated Porshinger in the future. If the prosecution was persisted in, then Porshinger's story of the willing victim had to be met by Stephanie's story of violence—all the nasty details threshed out for an eager populace—with Stephanie the real defendant with all to lose and nothing to gain.—And if Porshinger dragged him into it, by telling what he saw on the Criss-Cross piazza, the verdict would scarcely be in doubt and the——

In disgust with himself, he sprang up and crossed the room to a distant window. It was a lovely prospect that lay before him—the fields, the trees, the close-cut fair-green of the course dotted with the players, all under a lazy afternoon sky—but he did not see it. He saw only the miserable situation into which he had put the woman he loved—and who loved him—and whom he was utterly unable to help save in one way: marriage. And she was married to another! whom she would have none of, but who was determined on a reconciliation. Even if he acknowledged the Criss-Cross affair to Lorraine, it would effect nothing for Stephanie's salvation. Lorraine might be moved to divorce her, and that very circumstance would establish Porshinger's defence and prove Dolittle's nasty story. Guilty of the one, she would be deemed guilty of the other. It was a dark prospect for her. Her rehabilitation, which had appeared so sure, had suddenly been wrapped in blackness——

"Is it so very absorbing—I mean the prospect?" said a low voice behind him.

He turned quickly, with something of a start, and met Stephanie's intimate little smile.

"I found it so," he replied, taking her hand.

She laughed softly—the beautifully modulated laugh that Pendleton loved, and that had rung in his ears for many years.

"You were not looking at the prospect, my friend—confess it," she said.

"I was not," he admitted.

"You were thinking of—me; of the trouble I have been—and am—and always shall be. Were you not, Montague?"

"No! I was not. I was trying to think of some way to help you out of your trouble."

"And wishing I had never—come back!"

"You know better than that!" he smiled.

"Because there isn't any way to help me out of the trouble," she went on. "I've got to take my punishment."

"You have already taken your punishment," he answered. "That which is in prospect is not due you."

"I have incurred it none the less," she said. "It is but the result of what has gone before. If I had not merited that punishment, I would not be threatened now. The one wouldn't have happened—and the other wouldn't matter."

"You mean?"

"That Porshinger would never have been in a position to take advantage of me—and that you——" she broke off with a fascinating smile.

"May I supply the rest?" he whispered.

"Do you think you can be trusted?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I can't be trusted for anything where you are concerned."

"Not even to defend?" she smiled.—"I'll trust you, Montague—for anything."

"You see how I've betrayed your trust."

"Nonsense! we were equally culpable—equally indiscreet. Now we are to be punished equally. You by your conscience, and I openly. Please think no more about it."

"If only you were free!" he exclaimed.

"Which I'm not—and haven't any prospect of being. Like all vacillating people, Lorraine has suddenly become possessed by a fixed idea, and right or wrong he will cling to it until he dies. Why couldn't it have been to divorce me, instead of to keep me? However, it is profitless to wonder why, when to wonder won't make it any different." She gave a little gesture of despair. "Do you think Lorraine will actually have Porshinger arrested—or is it only an evanescent fancy?"

"He has had him arrested—here. Within half an hour of his departure, he was back with an officer and a warrant—and the officer has taken Porshinger to the magistrate's."

"It's just as well, I suppose," she reflected. "We can have everything out in court at once, and not have it in detachments forever. The more I think of it, the better I like Lorraine's course—if I must fight; and, as you have said, we can't avoid a fight if I am to have a shred of reputation left. The Amherst affair well nigh damned me—only you and Gladys and a few others, and my mother's position, enabled me to regain a little of what I had lost—caused Society to suspend its final judgment on me. Now if I'm guilty of this Porshinger matter, it will be taken to show such a natural aptitude to go wrong—such a disposition for the unmentionable that there is only one course open to me: to go away and never return. So far as the town is concerned, I might just as well be dead—better, indeed."

He nodded gravely. He, too, knew that it was as she had said. Even Lorraine's attitude in the matter would have no effect. Society would have none of her—she would have condemned herself.

"You are not going to lose," he encouraged. "It is not a pleasant alternative to be sure, but it is the only one possible under the circumstances, and we're going to carry it through. It may be a bit unpleasant while it lasts, but it will soon be over—and all the sympathy will be with you. Porshinger is such a contemptible cad that no one of right mind will doubt you for a moment."

"No one of right mind should doubt," she admitted—"but only the future will reveal whether my past hasn't overcome their right minds."

"Why don't you forget your past—it's past!" he exclaimed.

"As I think you have said to me many times, Montague!" she smiled, "and as you know is impossible."

"It is not just to yourself to remember what your friends have forgot."

"What my friends have overlooked, you mean—they can never forget."

"Then you overlook it," he said.

"I wish I could," she replied.

"You can. It's simply a rule of action."

"Don't you think I try to act the part?" she said sadly. "It's try, try, try all the time. I'm about worn out with trying."

"It succeeds, dear," he encouraged. "No one would ever know that you are not as calm and unconcerned as you appear to be. Even I would be deceived, if you yourself had not told me otherwise."

"I'm glad I've acted the part so well," she smiled. "I only hope I can keep it up to the end—if there is ever to be an end."

"It can always have a certain end, Stephanie," he whispered.

"Thank you, Montague; I'll not pretend that I don't understand—nor that I——" she broke off, and looked by him and out to the distant horizon. "It is no use for us to discuss the impossible," she said softly.

"It is going to be the probable," he declared.

"Then wait until it is the probable."

"And then it is going to be the fact."

She shook her head—but an adorable smile came into her soft blue eyes.

"You seem very sure, my friend," she whispered.

"I am very sure, dear," he replied. "Very sure, indeed."

"You must not call me dear," she reminded him.

"Dearest, then," he amended.

"Nor dearest, either."

"Darling!"

"Worse still."

"Sweetheart!"

"Not even sweetheart."

He sighed.—"You're very hard to please!"

"Do you think so?" she asked naÏvely.

"In the matter of names, I mean."

"Appellations of friendship were better."

"But it isn't friendship!" he laughed.

"Not friendship?"

"Well, call it friendship, if you please. I'll call it something else."

"A riddle!" she exclaimed.

"To which the answer is found on the next page—shall we turn it?"

"Do you think it wise?" she asked—"wise to turn the new page before we have finished the old?"

"No, it is not wise," he answered slowly. "You are right, Stephanie. You see I call you simply Stephanie, but it is hard to have to read what doesn't interest me."

"If it is hard to have to read, what do you think it is to have to live it?" she asked.

"It must be hell!" he replied.

"It is hell," she admitted—"hell of my own making—that is what hurts."

"Don't let it hurt, Stephanie," he pleaded, taking her hand. "It will all come right very soon—very soon, I'm persuaded."

"By what?"

"By the natural turn of events—they can't go against you much longer."

"The only turn that would help me would be for Porshinger to die suddenly—and Lorraine to become reasonable and give me my freedom."

"If Porshinger were to die suddenly," he repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, that might clarify the matter very much. Unfortunately Porshinger isn't cultivating death these days—he has quit shooting wells, you know."

"And he hasn't any cause to shoot himself," she remarked.

"He has plenty of causes but he won't recognize them!" Pendleton smiled.

The Postlewaite carriage drove up with a flourish, and Mrs. Postlewaite descended with heavy dignity and becoming condescension. Her arrival was an event at the Club-house—only equalled by the arrival of the other Queen P; and she was fully aware of the fact.

The doorman and a couple of "buttons" danced out—and continued to dance during the royal progress inward—while a crowd of her satellites, who were on the piazza, rushed forward to meet her.

"It is very amusing—Mrs. Postlewaite's assumption of greatness," Pendleton remarked.

"Not half so amusing as Society's according it to her," Stephanie returned.

"Bluff and arrogance wins mostly."

"If one has the requisite manner and cool nerve to carry them off," she amended.

"I don't see anything wanting in the lady immediately in our fore!" Pendleton smiled. "Only in her case, she has been doing it so long it has become part of her life—she actually does it naturally and by arrogation of divine right. It must be pleasant to have such a comfortable feeling about one's self."

Mrs. Postlewaite, in her progress down the piazza, glanced casually in and saw them.—She paused, considered an instant; then facing around, and dismissing her attendants she came over to the window.

"Stephanie, dear!" she purred, in her most gracious tones, "will you come out a moment. I've something I want to tell you."

Stephanie, dear!

It was the evidence of the return of the royal favor—the piazza had heard it—the entire Club-house would know it in a moment—it would spread like the wind.

Even Stephanie's equanimity was startled into a calm surprise, which showed in her face and in her heightened color. And coming now—of all times!

"Certainly, Mrs. Postlewaite," Stephanie answered.

"And bring Montague along. I want him to hear it too," the grande dame went on.

"What does it mean?" Stephanie whispered, as she and Pendleton passed toward the door.

"You heard what she called you: 'Stephanie, dear'?"

"Yes!"

"Then there isn't much doubt."

"But at this juncture!" she marvelled.

"Mrs. Postlewaite knows the exigencies and the juncture too, never fear. The turn has come, sweeth—I mean, Stephanie."

She shot him a bewildering smile; the next moment they stood in "the presence."

"Stephanie, dear," began Mrs. Postlewaite, without any preliminary, "I have heard of Mr. Dolittle's nasty tale of what he saw last night in the Croyden conservatory; I have also heard of Harry's prompt prosecution of that unspeakable Porshinger, and I want to tell you that I and Mrs. Porterfield are ready to testify in your behalf. We were on the little balcony overhanging one side of the room; we saw Porshinger make the attempt, your indignant repulse, your seizure again, your freeing yourself, and then your making him take you back to the ball-room. The last was delightful! I saw it all, my dear—and I'm proud of Harry Lorraine, because he chose to believe your story rather than that horrid Dolittle's, and to prosecute Porshinger instead of a disgraceful use of physical violence."

"You're very kind, Mrs. Postlewaite," Stephanie replied—"very kind——"

"Not at all, my dear, not at all! We shall take particular care to tell it. It is fortunate we happened to see everything, and so can vouch for your story in the face of Dolittle's scandalous tale and Porshinger's lie—he will lie, of course. Now, if you don't mind, we will let by-gones be by-gones—and start fresh." She laid her hand intimately on Stephanie's arm. "And we'll have tea together here to bind it—just we three. Will you, my dear?"

"Of course, I will, Mrs. Postlewaite!" Stephanie responded, with a happy little laugh. The Porshinger episode was over—the victory was theirs.

Just then, from somewhere downstairs, came a voice calling so loudly the whole piazza heard:—

"I say, fellows, do you know that Amherst is in town—got back this morning? I shouldn't be surprised if the damn scoundrel would actually have nerve enough to come up here and ask us all to take a drink!"

Pendleton deliberately leaned forward and took Stephanie's hand in his—and held it, with a reassuring pressure.

"As you were saying, Mrs. Postlewaite," he remarked, "I hear that the Croyden ball was a charming affair, though I was so unfortunate as to miss it."