Richard de Jarnette was sitting down to a late breakfast the next morning when his telephone bell rang. He answered it impatiently, as was natural. But what he heard there caused him to leave his hot waffles untouched and go hurrying over to the house on Massachusetts Avenue.

At Margaret's door he met Judge Kirtley, brought thither by a similar message, and together they entered the house. It was evident to Mr. De Jarnette that Judge Kirtley's surprise was as unfeigned as his own.

The servants were gathered in the lower hall in a state of great excitement, with nobody in command. Johnson, the man servant, related how he had found the front door unlocked and fearing burglary had gone straight to Mrs. De Jarnette's room and knocked and knocked without rousing anybody. Then Mammy Cely took up the tale, telling of how she had heard Johnson's knock and made sure she had overslept, etc.—of how she had gone into Miss Margaret's room and found it in confusion, and nobody there. There were two letters that—

Mr. De Jarnette cut her short by demanding to see the room and the letters. They found every evidence of a hasty flight. Drawers had been left open with their contents tumbled about, clothes were lying on the floor, and the disordered bed showed that she had risen from it to go.

The two men read their letters hastily, but with widely different emotions. Mr. De Jarnette took the key enclosed with his and opened the drawer. The diamonds were there as she had said. He locked the drawer and handed the key to Judge Kirtley.

"As her legal adviser you will, of course, take charge of the place. These things should be put in safe keeping." Then, with a change of tone that was not pleasant. "I suppose it is hardly worth while to enquire of you where she has gone."

"I know no more, sir, about where she has gone than you do," the Judge answered, indignantly. "You can see for yourself," handing him Margaret's letter. Then he added, sternly, his face working with emotion. "I only know that she has become a homeless fugitive."

Richard De Jarnette read the letter, but his face did not soften. When he went from the house a few moments later it was to call a cab and go straight to the Detective Bureau. Mammy Cely stood looking after him as he went away.

"I wonder ef what I said about a white woman's chance to git off could a put that notion in Miss Margaret's head," she thought with some perturbation. Then defiantly, "Well, I don't keer ef it did! She got a heap mo' right to that chile than Marse Richard has. She done put a right smart of herself in him. An' Marse Richard ain't nothin' but his gyarjeen."

While the enginery for tracking her was thus being set in motion in Washington, Margaret, with her child in her arms, was speeding over the country hundreds of miles away, her face set toward the West. Every mile gave her an added sense of security. She was confident that Richard knew nothing of Mrs. Pennybacker's existence even, and was sure, too, that she had been able to get away without leaving a clue behind her at the station. It had been by a happy chance—was it chance?—that she had been able to cover her tracks there. She had gone directly to the lower waiting-room, hoping that she might find some way to get her ticket without presenting herself before the ticket agent. As she sat pondering this, a negro woman came in and sat down beside her. A sudden thought struck Margaret.

"Are you going on this next train?" she asked.

Yes, the woman said, she had been down in Virginia, and was going home. No'm, she didn't live in Washington. She lived in Maryland. She had been gone ten days—had a round-trip ticket.

Margaret took out some bills.

"Would you mind getting my ticket for me—to Cincinnati? I can't leave my baby." She held out a silver dollar, and the woman rose with alacrity. It was not often she could earn a dollar as easily as that.

And so it came about that when the detective in Mr. De Jarnette's employ questioned the agent about tickets sold the night before, that official could remember nothing bearing upon the case. No woman with a baby had presented herself at the window that evening, he felt quite sure.

Margaret had decided that it would be safer to get a ticket to Cincinnati, another to St. Louis, and still another to Callaway than to risk a through ticket to her destination.

It was a lucky star that guided Margaret De Jarnette to Missouri, where are warm hearts and hospitable homes. She found there the two things that she was in desperate need of—a refuge and a friend. Mrs. Pennybacker lived on a farm with her orphaned granddaughter, Bess, who was at that time at Synodical College in Fulton. She welcomed Margaret with all the warmth of a great heart and the accumulated love of two generations. And here for four years and a half the mother and child found a shelter from the storm—a covert so secure that Richard De Jarnette with all his efforts had never been able to ferret it out.

Margaret had taken every precaution to lose her identity. The name of De Jarnette was of course discarded, and she would not even risk Varnum. She was known in the neighborhood as Mrs. Osborne, a friend of Mrs. Pennybacker's from the East, who had recently been bereaved and had come to her for a quiet home. It was not an inquisitive locality, and a word from Mrs. Pennybacker as to the depth of the widowed lady's grief and her reluctance to have it referred to effectually sealed the lips of the kindly folk among whom her lot was cast. Bess, when she came home for the vacation, was told as much as her grandmother thought best to tell, and no more. "We'll take her in on probation, and after a while when she has been proved, into full communion. I am that much of a Methodist, anyway," Mrs. Pennybacker said. It is needless to say that long before this Bess was a sister in full fellowship.

Margaret was not even willing to let her safety rest upon a change of name. In her first wild fear that she might be tracked she had wanted it given out in the neighborhood that the child was a girl, but upon this Mrs. Pennybacker set her foot down hard. It was a comparatively easy thing, she admitted, to change the sex of a baby, and it did seem under the circumstances that it would be a most innocent and inoffensive lie. But it was the nature of some lies that having been once entered into they must be persevered in to the bitter end. Margaret would find that having become entangled in this one the sex complications would grow in intricacy as the years went by. So that was given up.

The girl had written to Judge Kirtley a few weeks after reaching Missouri, telling him of her new home and her plans, and thereafter Mrs. Pennybacker received New York drafts at regular intervals. He had also written Margaret at once, informing her of Mr. De Jarnette's movements so far as they could be ascertained.

"He is very close-mouthed," he wrote, "but determined. I have reason to believe that he is keeping up a still hunt all the time. By the way, of course you must know that you have laid yourself liable to action against you on a charge of kidnapping. I am hoping that Mr. De Jarnette's feeling against you may wear itself out in time. But, in the meantime, take every precaution."

Margaret was wild with fear after this, and kept the old farmhouse locked night and day. Philip was never out of her sight. But as months and finally years went by and she heard nothing more, it seemed that Richard De Jarnette must have given up the search.

When Philip was nearly three her vigilance relaxed enough to permit her to go to California for the winter with Mrs. Pennybacker, Bess being still at "Synodical." For this trip Margaret had insisted upon dressing Philip in girl's attire. It was done half in jest, but it succeeded admirably, for a child of three is too young to object to such a metamorphosis, and it gave Margaret great comfort. She felt sure that Mrs. De Jarnette and son would never be recognized under the hotel alias of "Mrs. Osborne and daughter."

So successful had this trip been that Mrs. Pennybacker urged her going to the World's Fair the next summer. But there was too much risk there, Margaret decided, where all the world might be found. And now, this summer, some four years since her midnight flight from home, Judge Kirtley had written her that Mr. De Jarnette's counsel had told him privately he was sure that Mr. De Jarnette had abandoned all hope of ever finding his ward, and had given up the search. She grew so jubilant and buoyant in spirits after this that the natural instincts of a young woman asserted themselves, and when Mrs. Pennybacker proposed a summer at Mackinac, she made no opposition. It is hardly natural for a city-bred girl to enjoy for its own sake isolation on a quiet farm. She and Bess took up the work of planning for Mackinac with great zest. But there was one thing—if they went, Philip must go as a girl. That had given her such a sense of security on the California trip.

Mrs. Pennybacker disapproved strongly. "I tell you it isn't safe. It may get you into no end of trouble."

"I shall not go unless we can go that way," Margaret finally announced, and that settled it. Philip was told that his going depended upon his keeping the secret, and, of course, promised implicit obedience. But Philip did not then know the obloquy which attached to being a girl, nor the depth of humiliation into which it would plunge him. His long curls which had never been cut off, and his nickname, "Trottie,"—fortunately a sexless one,—aided greatly in the success of the scheme. Margaret generally called him "dearest" anyway, and Mrs. Pennybacker "baby," which he resented.

On the lake steamer they had fallen in with a Mr. Harcourt, a young man from the East whose home had once been in Michigan, and who after an illness had been remanded by his physician to that invigorating, health-giving region of balsams and cedars for a two-months' rest. He had made himself useful to Mrs. Pennybacker in the matter of baggage just as they were starting, and he came around after they were well out on the lake courteously solicitous of her comfort. He was introduced to the girls, and took some pains to interest the child, who showed an instant liking to him. He did not intrude himself upon them, but came back up from time to time to point out a boat in sight, or to show Philip the gulls which at dinner time followed fast and furious in their wake. Finally, with Mrs. De Jarnette's permission, he took the child off to investigate the boat, saying enthusiastically when he returned after an hour, "I never saw a girl show so much interest in everything. Why, she was as intent upon finding out what made the engine go as a boy would have been.... Yes, I understand children—I have nephews and nieces."

Margaret had taken Philip aside after this and held an earnest conversation with him, at the end of which the child nodded several times, not very joyously,—which all goes to show the benumbing influence upon the human mind of feminine attire—and exactly how it works.

A friendship begun on shipboard culminates rapidly, especially when it is under the fostering influence of a child and a sensible elderly lady who is sure she cannot be deceived in men. By the time these travelers reached their desired haven they seemed like old friends. It was undeniable that Mr. Harcourt had contributed more than his share to the pleasure of the trip. Mrs. Pennybacker, for one, began to think with regret of the time when he would leave them—a thing that Mr. Harcourt had by this time no intention of doing.

"Well, we are almost there now," he said, coming upon them as they stood in the bow watching the Island grow in distinctness of detail.

"Did you ever see anything finer than that?"

And certainly for beauty of approach the Island of Mackinac is without a rival.

"Have you decided on your hotel yet, Mrs. Pennybacker?" he asked, a moment later.

"Yes, we've looked it up a little and think we shall go to the Island House. They say that is near where Anne lived, and we thought we would like that."

"How fortunate I am," he exclaimed with instant choice. "That's where I'm going myself."

Bess looked away toward Round Island with slightly heightened color.

It was in this very natural way that he attached himself to their party. It proved pleasant for them all. With the child he was prime favorite. He asked Bess one day what her real name was, and Bess, forgetting that Philippa had been the name agreed upon in case the question were ever asked, and remembering Varnum, had answered with some confusion that she was named after her mother.

"Well, naturally." he had laughed. "I suppose you mean for her mother."

In the good-natured raillery that ensued, Bess escaped, and he always supposed the child's name was Margaret.

He had never told them where he was from, beyond the fact that he was a Michigan man, until their intimacy was well established—an accidental omission, evidently, since he had told them almost everything else in his frank, boyish way. It was, therefore, with the utmost astonishment that Margaret one day heard him speak of Washington as his place of residence.

"Washington!" she exclaimed, "I thought Michigan was your home."

"It was formerly. But for several years I have lived in Washington."

"How many years?" she asked with the air of an inquisitor.

"Four—this month." Then raising his right hand, "I would further state, if it please the court, that I am a member of that large and respectable body which pours out of the departmental halls promptly at four o'clock—

"You mean you are a clerk in one of the departments?" asked Mrs. Pennybacker. Margaret was thinking, "Well, I'm glad he isn't a lawyer or a business man."

"That is my humble occupation, madam. I hope I haven't led you to suppose that I am a cabinet officer or a justice of the Supreme Court in disguise."

"You haven't misled me into thinking you other than you are," Mrs. Pennybacker replied composedly, "and that is a fun-loving, rollicking boy!"

After this talk Margaret was most circumspect in her references to Washington. It seemed as if Mr. Harcourt would be trustworthy, "But," she told Mrs. Pennybacker that night, "I don't trust anybody."

The four were sitting on the piazza of the Island House one day late in the summer, looking out over the Straits. A steamer from Chicago was rounding the buoy preparatory to making the harbor, and they were watching it. Opposite them Round Island rose from the waters like an emerald set in translucent pearl, and across the straits to the south and miles away could be discerned the outline of the mainland. A dark diagonal smoke line across the sky defined the path of the patient little ferry which kept up communication with the outer world, and the fraying out of the line at the further end into an indeterminate bank of cloud showed which way it was going. Far off to the left, where the waters of Lake Michigan merge into those of Huron, was another faint blur on the horizon. To the initiated, versed in signs and seasons, it stood for the steamer from Detroit. Carriages were driving swiftly to the docks to meet the incoming boat, for Mackinac's short season was nearing its end, and it behooved the emptying caravanseries to be making all the hay they could.

The group on the piazza watched the hacks with interest, two of them laying mild wagers on the results.

"I'll bet on the Island House!" said John Harcourt, "the caramels against a cigar—I to select it. Come, now!"

"And I on the Mission House," cried Bess. "And please understand that I am to specify the amount of caramels. We'll watch and see when they come back. Now don't forget to look!"

"In the meantime," suggested Mrs. Pennybacker, "let's talk about that inland trip that Mr. Harcourt has been expatiating on. I think I should like to go down to We-que-ton-sing for a few days, and we may as well go that way. What do you say, Margaret?"

Margaret De Jarnette, who had been leaning over the railing watching the child at play on the lawn below, looked up. She was older, but her face had not lost its beautiful contour, and she had the same queenly way of lifting her head, upon which lay great masses of golden brown hair. The glint on it where it was touched by the sun hinted that it might once have been like the burnished gold of the child's long curls. Her eyes matched her hair.

"I should like to go. 'We-que-ton-sing,' with all its breaks and musical repetitions, has an attractive sound. It seems as if we might be likely to drop into a community of wigwams there."

"That wouldn't be strange," said the young man, "for here we are very close to

Mrs. Osborne," Harcourt broke in suddenly, "that girl of yours throws exactly like a boy. Look at her now!"

"Well, this isn't settling the question," said Mrs. Pennybacker, hastily. "Mr. Harcourt, tell us some of the points of this inland trip."

John Harcourt was doing this very enthusiastically when Bess, catching sight of the returning vehicles, cried out, "Wait a minute! There come the carriages. Now let's watch."

"All right. First carriage—Mission House—empty, please note! Half a dollar, if you please. I never smoke less than fifty cent cigars on a wager."

"Well, you can just get me a pound of caramels any way," pouted the girl, "for the Island House has just one lone man."

"Oh, come! that's a hundred per cent, more than your house has."

The one lone man was the object of their most interested scrutiny as the carriage drew up. From their seats they could see without themselves being observed.

"Why—y!" said Harcourt in surprise. "Isn't that queer! I've seen that man—in Washington."

"Who is he?" asked Mrs. Pennybacker, abruptly.

"His name is Smeltzer. He is on the detective force there, or he was when I knew him."

"Does he know you?"

"I doubt if he would remember me. Still, you can't tell. It is a part of a detective's stock in trade to remember faces.... Why, he did some work for a friend of mine once, and I used to see him sometimes."

Margaret De Jarnette leaned over the piazza rail and spoke quietly to the child playing below.

"Dearest! Come to mama now."

"Not yet, mama!" pleaded the child.

"Yes—now!"

She had been gone but a few minutes when Mrs. Pennybacker followed her to her room. She found the door locked and the young woman in the act of packing a suit case.

"What are you doing, Margaret?"

"I am going away from this place to-night," the girl exclaimed excitedly, "somewhere—I don't know where."

"You think this man is here after you?"

"I feel sure of it."

"Would he know you?"

"I can't tell. You know the case was tried in Washington, and the court-house is just across the street from the Detective Bureau. He may have been in the court-room. And, as Mr. Harcourt says, without doubt they acquire the habit of noticing faces.... No, I won't take any chances. There is too much at stake. I am going to get aboard the first boat that comes and go anywhere it takes me. I think I shall take the ferry for Mackinaw City; but I may go back to St. Ignace if that boat is in first."

"The Mackinaw ferry will be in first," said Mrs. Pennybacker. "It will be here inside of a half hour." Then, after a moment's thought, "Margaret, why don't we all go down to We-que-ton-sing with you now?... Why, yes, we can get ready if you can. There is nothing to do but to pack our grips. We needn't give up our rooms. We'll tell Mr. Harcourt that it's a sudden inspiration. He can join us or not as he likes. I'll speak to them at once."

When she did so, Mr. Harcourt remonstrated vigorously, having in mind the inland trip, but without avail. There was evidently something in the wind that he did not understand, and when Mrs. Pennybacker told him plainly that they would have to go whether he found it convenient to accompany them or not, he gave in.

A half hour later found them all ensconced on the deck of the ferry, Margaret with her black veil drawn down over her face. She sat where she could watch the gangway, and she saw every passenger that got on. She did not feel easy till the plank was in. But the man was not there, she was very sure of that, and she drew a long breath as the boat pushed off.

John Harcourt saw nothing but tragedy in the wreck of his plans.

"To think of that beautiful inland trip going to the bow-wows like this!" he grumbled to Bess as they sat together in the hot, dusty car enroute for We-que-ton-sing. "I don't pretend to understand why we did it. I don't believe they know themselves."

"You didn't have to come," said Bess.

"Oh, well!"