"Beatrice," he said, with quiet emphasis, "you have always been a good fellow, if ever there was a girl born in the world who was one. I wonder if you could be persuaded to give me the benefit of your advice, and, possibly, your active assistance?"

She flushed a little under the praise and the intimately personal request that came with it, but he did not notice this as he went on: "I've somehow got things into the biggest kind of a muddle to-day, and I have a notion to tell you all about it; I have the impulse to take you into my confidence and to ask you to help me out. I know you can do it. By Jove, Beatrice, I think you are the only person in the world who can do it! Will you?"

She shrugged her shoulders ever so little, and the flush left her cheeks, rendering them paler than was their wont. It suddenly came home to her that he was asking a favor that might prove extremely difficult to grant.

"I cannot say as to that until I hear what you wish me to do," she replied.

"I want you to help me square myself," he said, quickly.

"To square yourself?" She raised her brows in assumed surprise. "With whom?"

"Why, with Patricia, of course."

"Help you to square yourself with Patricia?" She laughed outright, but without mirth. "I am afraid I don't at all understand you, Roderick. I supposed you had already accomplished that much, for you told me—did you not?—that Patricia has just accepted you?"

"Yes, and that's the devil of it!" was the unexpected astounding reply. Beatrice moved farther away from him, and took her hand from his grasp, in well-simulated horror of what he had said.

"Let us, at least, confine ourselves to the usages and language of polite society;" she said, with mock severity. "We will leave the devil out of it, if you please. Besides, you amaze me! Patricia has just accepted you, and that is 'the devil of it.' Really, I can't guess what you mean by such a paradoxical statement as that."

"Forgive me. I am so wrought up that I scarcely know what I am talking about, or what I am doing. As I said before, I have managed to get things into a terrible mess, and I believe that you, Beatrice, are the only person alive who can unravel the tangle for me. Will you help me out? Will you?"

"You must tell me what it is, before I commit myself. You are so very aggravating, in words and manner, that I cannot even attempt to understand you."

For just a few moments, he hesitated. There was within him the feeling that he would outrage Patricia's ideas of the fitness of things, if he should take Beatrice Brunswick into his confidence and relate to her all that had occurred this afternoon and evening. But, on the other hand, he saw in this beautiful girl a personification of the straw at which a drowning man grasps. He knew that she was, personally, closer to Patricia than any other friend had been, and that she understood Patricia better than did anyone else, save Stephen Langdon, perhaps. He knew, also, that he could trust her, and that he could rely, implicitly, upon her loyalty. He knew that she would never betray the secrets he would be obliged to tell concerning Stephen Langdon's affairs. He had tried her often, and he had never found her wanting. Therefore, he felt that the greatest secret of all, concerning the financial extremity in which Stephen Langdon had become involved, would be safe with Beatrice Brunswick. Manlike, he began very stupidly and very strangely.

"By Jove, Beatrice!" he exclaimed. "I wish I might have fallen in love with you, instead of with Patricia! You would never have seen things in the light she does!"

Beatrice's eyes widened and deepened; then, they narrowed so that she almost frowned. She bit her lips with vexation, and for an instant was angry. At last, she laughed. She did not wish him to know how deeply he had wounded her by that careless statement, so she uttered a care-free ripple of laughter.

"I don't quite know whether I should take that as a compliment or not," she replied. "It is more than likely that I would have conducted myself very much worse than Patricia has done in this affair which you have not as yet explained to me. Perhaps, it is a fortunate thing for both of us that you did not fall in love with me, instead of her. I'm sure I don't know what I should have done with you, in such a case. But I will help you if I can; only, understand in the beginning that if you tell me the story at all, you must tell me all of it. I don't want any half-confidences, Roderick."

Duncan did tell her all of it then, leaving nothing to be added, when he had finished; and she listened to the end of his tale in utter silence, with her head half-turned away and her chin supported by the palm of one of her jeweled hands. They did not move to the front of the box again, nor give any heed to the rise of the curtain or to what was taking place on the stage, during the ensuing act. Duncan talked straight on, through it all; and Beatrice listened with close attention. One might have supposed that the music and the singing did not reach the ears of either of them, and one would not have been very wrong in that surmise. The tragic fate of John, the Baptist; the unholy, unnatural passion of a depraved soul for the dead lips of a man who had spurned her while he lived; the exquisite music of Strauss; the superb scenery and stage-setting; the rich and gorgeous costumes—all remained unseen and unheard by these two, one intent upon reestablishing himself in the esteem of Patricia Langdon, the other disturbed by emotions she could not have named, which she would have declined to recognize, even had they presented themselves frankly to her. She had known, of course, of Duncan's love for her friend, but until this hour there had always existed an unformed, unrecognized doubt in the mind of Beatrice that it would ever be requited.

When he had finished, she was still silent, and for so long a time that at last, with some impatience, he bent nearer to her, and exclaimed:

"Well, Beatrice? What do you think of it all?"

She shuddered a little. There was still another interval before she spoke, and then, with calm directness, she replied:

"I think you are both exceedingly brave to be willing to face the situation that exists."

"Eh?" he asked her, not comprehending.

"Why, if you carry out this compact that you have made, if Patricia Langdon becomes your wife according to the terms she has dictated to Melvin—for I can guess, now, what they are—you will both be casting yourselves straight down into hell. I speak metaphorically, of course," she added, with a whimsical smile. "I have been told that there isn't any hell, really. But I mean it, Roderick. If there isn't a hell, you two seem to be bent upon the arrangement of a correct imitation of one."

"How is that?" he demanded, frowning. "I don't know what you mean."

"Our friend has not been named 'Juno' for nothing. She is a strange girl; but I love her, almost as much as you do," Beatrice continued, as if she had not heard his question. "She possesses characteristics, the depth of which I have never been able to sound, and I am her best and closest friend. If you two live up to this agreement, in the spirit in which it was made, and conclude it in the spirit in which she has dictated her conditions to Melvin, I tremble for the consequences that will ensue, for I can almost foresee them. Patricia is not one who forgives easily, and she will resent a hurt to her pride with all the force there is in her."

Beatrice rose to her feet, standing before him, and he, also, stood up, facing her. She reached out both her hands toward him, and he took them; and there were tears in her big blue eyes, when she added, with a depth of feeling that he did not understand:

"Roderick Duncan, it would be better for you, and for Patricia as well, if you never saw each other again. You might far better, and with much greater hope of happiness, cast your future lot with some other woman whom you have never thought of as a wife, than marry Patricia Langdon upon such terms as you have outlined. Have you known her so intimately all your life without understanding her at all? She might have forgiven disloyalty, or unfaithfulness, or at least have condoned such—but an offense against her pride? Never! You would be undergoing much less risk if you should select an utterly unknown woman from one of these boxes, and should take her out of this theatre now, and marry her instead!"

Having delivered this remarkable statement, Beatrice burst into laughter. Duncan, suddenly alive to her beauty and her nearness, deeply impressed by what she had said, and fully alive to the truth of her utterances, retained the grasp he had upon her hands, and drew her toward him, quickly.

"Why not?" he demanded, hotly. "I'll do it if you say the word! But not a strange woman. You, Beatrice—you!! I'll dare you!!! We'll go to the 'Little Church Around the Corner.' I dare you! I dare you, Beatrice! They always have a wedding ceremony on tap, there; if you've got the sand, come on. It offers a solution of everything. Come on, Bee—marry me!"

She raised her eyes to his, and he understood, instantly, how he had wounded her; he saw that her laughter had not been real, and that she was very near to tears. But the fact that she shrank away from his impetuous words and manner, only spurred him on anew. He caught her hands again.

"Let's do it, Beatrice," he said rapidly, bending forward with sudden eagerness. "I hate all this mess and muddle of affairs. I hate it! Say yes, Bee."

He stood with his back toward the curtains at the rear of the box; she was facing them. He saw her eyes dilate suddenly, and he had the sensation that she had discovered another person near them, or in the act of entering the box; and then, with more astonishment than he would have believed himself capable of feeling, he realized that Beatrice Brunswick had thrown herself forward and that her white arms were wound clingingly about his neck; at the same time, with evident design, she turned him still more, so that he could not see the curtains which screened the entrance to the box.

The last and final shock of that eventful day, came to him then, for he did turn, in spite of Beatrice's restraining arms—he turned to find that the curtains were drawn apart, and in the opening thus created stood Patricia Langdon. Duncan knew that she had both seen and heard.

He could not have moved, had he attempted to do so, although somewhere deep down inside of him he felt that it was his duty to untwine those clinging arms and somehow to account for the appalling situation. Beyond where Patricia stood, he saw and recognized two other figures that were moving steadily forward toward them, but he had the subconscious assurance in his soul that neither Stephen Langdon nor his lawyer, Melvin, had noticed the scene which Patricia had discovered. He could not guess that it had been the consequence of sudden inspiration on the part of Beatrice, who had thrown her arms around his neck at the very instant when she had intended to administer a rebuff.

He did not imagine that she had discovered the approach of Patricia before she made this outward demonstration in acceptance of his mad proposal. Duncan felt very guilty indeed, in that trying moment; nevertheless, he was not one to attempt an ignominious escape from a predicament in which he believed himself to be wholly at fault. But Beatrice was not yet through with acting a part. She drew away from Duncan quickly, with an exclamation of mingled disappointment, pleasure and alarm. She cried out the single ejaculation, "Oh!" and dropped backward upon the chair she had recently occupied. But there was a gleam of mischief in her eyes, which belied the confusion otherwise expressed upon her face.

"So sorry to have interrupted you at such a critical moment," said Patricia coolly, at once master of herself and of the situation. "Good-evening, Beatrice. I hope you have enjoyed the opera. I decided to come at the last moment, and met my father at the door of the theatre, as I was entering. He insisted on seeing Mr. Melvin to-night, so we drove to his house together and brought him here. I thought I would enjoy the last act."

One might have thought that Roderick Duncan did not exist. Patricia did not so much as glance in his direction, but she moved forward to the front of the box and took her accustomed seat, just as Stephen Langdon and the lawyer, Melvin, entered it.

All this had passed so quickly that the interval it occupied could be reckoned only by seconds. Beatrice Brunswick's face was flushed, and her eyes were alight with mischief, or with something deeper, as she greeted the two gentlemen. Duncan's countenance was like marble; he realized that the mess was bigger now, by far, than it had been before.

Langdon and his lawyer perceived nothing unusual in the attitude of any person in the box; both were preoccupied with the discussion upon which they had just been engaged. Patricia's eyes were already fixed on the stage, and evidently her entire attention was devoted to it. She appeared to have forgotten the propinquity of other persons.

There was a vacant chair beside her which Duncan should have taken, and, doubtless, he would have done so, had not the lawyer stupidly preempted it for his own use. The banker occupied the middle chair, and the consequence was that Duncan was given no choice, but was literally forced into the one next to Beatrice. Not that he would have preferred it otherwise, at the moment. Not he. He was angered by Patricia's conduct toward him; he resented the whole circumstance—and possibly, too, he still felt something of the thrill induced by the clinging arms of Beatrice Brunswick. He stared silently toward the stage, seeing nothing upon it. He was endeavoring to arrange, in some comprehensive form, the combination of circumstances and scenes which it had been his misfortune to encounter, and in part enact, since noon that day. But the more he tried, the more difficult became the task. The whole thing was as exasperating as an attempt to put together, within an alloted time, a puzzle-picture which has been cut into all sorts of sizes and shapes. It was not a panorama of events, as he recounted them in his own mind; it was a kaleidoscope, a jumble of colors and figures, of angles and spaces—or to put it in his own words, it was literally a mess.

He turned toward Beatrice, whose right hand was negligently waving a fan. He reached out and claimed it, and she did not resent the act. He drew it toward him, and she looked up and smiled into his eyes with an expression he did not understand. She made no effort to withdraw her hand, nor any attempt to resist his advances. He bent nearer.

"Will you do it?" he asked her, whispering. "Will you do it, Beatrice?"

She made no reply, and he bent still nearer, seizing her hand in both his own, now.

"Will you do it, dear?" he repeated, a third time. "I'm game, if you are. It is a solution of the whole beastly muddle. Come on. I'll stump you! That is what we used to say, when we were kids. By Jove, girl, you're in as deep as I am, now; and, besides, you gave me your word that you'd help me, didn't you? Turn your eyes toward me. Tell me you'll do it. Say yes. Come on, Bee. I'll dare you. We can slip away from here while their backs are turned. What do you say? Will you marry me?"

"Yes," she replied, without moving or withdrawing her gaze from the stage, and she repeated: "yes, if you wish it." He could not see her face.

"Will you do it now?" Duncan demanded, half-startled by her ready acquiescence.

"Yes."

"Good! I knew you were game!"

He left his chair quickly and secured her wraps and his own coat and hat. Then, he stepped to the opening between the curtains and turned expectantly toward her.

She had not moved; but now, as if she had seen his every act without looking toward him, she turned her head slowly, observing him coolly, and she gave a little nod of comprehension and assent. He returned the nod, touched his fingers to his lips to enjoin silence, and passed outside. In another moment, she had glided softly but swiftly from her seat, and, unnoticed by the other occupants of the box, followed him, dropping the curtains silently after her.

He put her opera-cloak about her shoulders, and swiftly donned his own coat and hat, and so without as much as "by your leave," they left the theatre together and waited in the foyer while the special officer in gray called a taxicab for their use.

Duncan led her across the pavement to the cab, and assisted her inside.

"Do you know where the Church of the Transfiguration is located?" he asked the chauffeur.

"I do, sir," was the reply.

"Drive us there, and be quick about it," said Duncan, and he sprang inside and banged the door shut after him.



CHAPTER V

BEATRICE BRUNSWICK'S PLOT

The chauffeur to whom the order was given that the taxicab be driven to the Church of the Transfiguration, proved to be an adept and skillful driver; one of those who can exceed the speed limit and then slow down his machine so quickly and quietly at the sight of a bluecoat that he inevitably escapes arrest for his transgression. As a consequence, there was very little time for conversation between these two apparently mad young persons during the journey between the opera-house and the church.

Little as there was, the greater part of it was passed in silence. But when they were quite near to their destination, Beatrice spoke up quickly and rather sharply to her companion.

"Roderick, have you for a moment supposed that I have taken you seriously in this mad proposition you have made to me, to-night?" she demanded. "Surely, you don't think that, do you?"

Duncan stared at her, speechless. Then, with a vehemence that can better be imagined than described he exclaimed, half-angrily, half-resentfully:

"Then, in God's name, Beatrice, why are we here? and why should we go to the church at all?"

"Were you serious about it?" she asked.

"I certainly was—and am, now!"

"Foolish boy!" she exclaimed, laughing with nervous apprehension. What more she might have said on this point was interrupted by the skidding of the taxicab as they were whirled around the corner of Twenty-ninth street.

"Why, in heaven's name, are we here, then?" he demanded, just as they were drawn swiftly to the curb, and the cab came to a stop in front of the church.

"You requested my help, did you not?" she replied.

"I certainly did."

The chauffeur, in the meantime, had leaped to the pavement and thrown open the door of the cab.

"You may close the door again, chauffeur, and wait where you are for further orders," Beatrice told him, calmly. And when that was done, she again addressed her companion. "You have called me a 'good fellow' to-night," she said slowly, with quiet distinctness, "and I mean to be one. I have always meant to be one, and to a great extent I think I have succeeded. But I would have to be a much better fellow than I am to go to the extent of marrying a man who does not love me, and who does love another, simply to help him out of a mess in which his own stupidity has involved him. Wouldn't I? Ask yourself the question!"

Duncan shrugged his shoulders and parted his lips to reply, but she went on rapidly:

"That is asking me to go rather farther than I would care to venture, my friend; or you, either, if you should stop to think about it. Your proposition is utterly a selfish one. You must know that. You have thought only of yourself and the mess you are in. You do not consider me at all. You would cheerfully use me as a means of venting your spite—or shall I call it, temper?—against Patricia. For the moment, you are intensely angry at her. Not only that, you feel that you have been out-done, at every point. That she has acted unreasonably, I will not deny. But what a silly thing it would be for you and me to stand together at the altar, and pledge ourselves to each other for life, or until such time as the divorce-courts might intervene, just because of the events of to-day!" She was smiling upon him now, as if he were, indeed, a foolish boy who needed chiding.

Duncan pulled himself together. For the first time since their exit from the opera-house, and for perhaps the first time since the moment when Patricia discovered him in the private office of her father, he was capable of acting and thinking quite naturally.

"Beatrice," he said, "if the sentiments you have just expressed are the same as those you felt before you left the box at the opera-house, would you mind telling me why in the world you have acted as you have done? Why, in the name of all that's phenomenal and strange, are we here?"

She turned her head away from him, and peered through the glass door at the chauffeur, who was striding slowly up and down the pavement outside, and who had taken the opportunity to indulge himself in a smoke.

"I did it," she said, "because I thought I saw a way to help you and Patricia out of your difficulties. I saw that we could leave the box without her knowledge, and believed that neither she nor her companions would discover our departure for some time afterward. I remembered just then that Patricia had witnessed the tender and somewhat touching scene in the box between you and me. My goodness, Roderick! I hope you didn't think that I meant that! It was all done for Patricia's benefit, you goose! Didn't you know that? Did you suppose that I had suddenly fallen head over heels in love with you? You're not very complimentary, are you? Or is it that you were throwing bouquets at yourself?"

"Will you tell me why you did it?" he asked, flushing hotly under the jibe.

"Because I wished Patricia to see it."

"Why?"

"I thought it might bring her to her senses."

"How, Beatrice?"

"Jealousy, you dunce!"

"But why the rest of your superb play-acting?"

"It all works out toward the same end. Don't you suppose that Patricia is in hot water, by this time? When she realized that we had sneaked away, to put it plainly, don't you think she would put two and two together, and make four out of it?"

"It strikes me," he interrupted her, with a light laugh, "that this is a case where two are supposed to make one."

"We won't joke about it, if you please. Still, that isn't a bad idea. But, at all events, I wish Patricia to believe that we left the opera-house because, for the moment at least, you preferred my society to hers. If we can convince her that we ran away to be married, so much the better!"

"You are deeper than I am, Bee. I confess that you've got me up a tree. I haven't the least idea what you are driving at, but I am quite willing to be taught. What is to be the next play in this little game of yours?"

"You need not be nasty about it, when I'm trying to help you," she retorted.

"What's the next move, Bee? I couldn't induce you to give me another hug, could I? There, now—don't get angry. I liked it, whether you did, or not. You put a lot of ginger into it, too. Oh, yes, I liked it!"

For a moment, it seemed as if she would resent his bantering tone; then she shrugged her shoulders, and smiled.

"I did it to help you—to make Patricia jealous." She laughed lightly, still keeping her face turned away from him. "I saw the curtains part, and recognized Patricia. With the recognition, there came also a revelation as to how I could best help you both. If I had dreamed that you would suppose for a moment I was in earnest, do you think I would have done it? And when I told you that I would come here, to this church, and would marry you like this—good heavens!—did you flatter yourself I meant that?"

"Of course, I did."

"Are you in earnest, Roderick Duncan? If I thought your selfishness, your egotism, was as great as that, I—I don't know what I'd do! Have you so little regard for me that you think I would become your wife, in this manner, knowing as I do that you love another—and when that other is my best friend—when I know that Patricia Langdon loves you? For I do know it. Do you—did you think that of me—did you think that of me?" She was a-tremble with indignation, now.

"By Jove, Bee, I acted like a brute, didn't I? I didn't consider you; I was selfish enough to think of no one but myself. But, all the same, my girl, I was in dead earnest. If you've got the pluck and the spirit to go through with it, now, we'll see the thing out, side by side, just as we started, and I will make you, perhaps, a better husband than if the circumstances were different. You say that Patricia loves me: I doubt it. I thought so once, but I don't now. It doesn't matter, anyhow. I shall ask you again calmly, with all humility and respect; with all seriousness, too: will you be my wife, and will you marry me, now?"

"I will reply with equal seriousness, Roderick," she retorted, mockingly. "No."

He uttered a sigh, and there was so much satisfied relief in it that she laughed aloud, but without bitterness.

"Then, what shall we do? Sit here in this cab, in front of the Church of the Transfiguration, for the balance of the night? Or shall we go around to Delmonico's and have some supper?" he asked her.

"I think that last suggestion of yours is a very excellent one," she replied, naively. "But we will wait yet a few moments before we start. We haven't been at the Church of the Transfiguration quite long enough to have been married, and to have come out of it again."

Duncan stared at her. Then, slowly, a smile lighted up his eyes and relaxed the lines of his face, so that after a moment he chuckled. Presently, he laughed.

"By Jove, Bee, you're a corker!" he said. "You can give me cards and spades, and beat me hands down, when it comes to a matter of finesse. Is it your idea to play out the other part of the game? What will it avail, if we do?"

"Never mind that," she replied. "In order to carry out the scheme, and to make it work itself out, as it should, one thing more is necessary. It will be great fun, too—if we don't carry it too far."

"What is that?" he asked her. "What more is necessary?"

"I want you to tell the chauffeur to stop for a moment at the side-entrance to the Hotel Breslin; there I wish you to leave me alone in the cab, while you go inside, and telephone to the opera-house, to have Jack Gardner and his wife meet us as soon as they can, at Delmonico's for supper. You may not have noticed, but they occupied their box, which is directly opposite the Langdon's. One of the ushers will carry the message to him, and Jack will come, if he has no previous engagement."

"But what in the name of—what in the world do you want of Jack Gardner and his wife? what have they to do with it?"

"I want them to take supper with us, that is all; and then I want a few moments' conversation with Jack, while you talk with Sally."

They were driven to the Breslin, and the telephone-message was sent. Duncan waited for a reply, and received one, to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. Gardner would come at once. And so, not long afterward, the four occupied a conspicuous table of Beatrice's selection, at the famous restaurant.

Recalling the injunction put upon him to occupy himself with Sally Gardner, Duncan began to get a glimmer of understanding regarding the plot that Beatrice had concocted. He, therefore, gave all of his attention to the spirited and charming wife of the young copper-king. Jack Gardner was everybody's friend. He loved a joke better than anyone else in the world, and a practical joke better than any other kind. He was especially fond of Roderick Duncan, and both he and his wife were intimate friends of Beatrice. Duncan noticed, while talking with Sally, that Jack and Beatrice had drawn their chairs more closely together, toward a corner of the table, and were now whispering together with low-toned eagerness. He could hear no word of what Beatrice said, but an occasional exclamation of Gardner's came to him. He saw that Beatrice was talking rapidly, with intense earnestness, and that Gardner seemed to be highly amused, even elated, by what she was saying. Such expressions as, "By Jove, that's the best, ever!" "Sure, I can do it!" and, "You just leave it to me!" came to his ears, from Gardner; and presently the latter excused himself and left the table.

If they had followed him, they would have seen that he went to the telephone, where he called up several numbers before he obtained the person he sought; but he presently returned, apparently in the best of spirits, and with intense satisfaction written upon every line of his smiling features.

As he seated himself at the table, other guests were just assuming places at another one, quite near to them, and he bent forward toward Beatrice, saying in a tone which their companion could not hear:

"I say, Beatrice, it's all working out to the queen's taste! When you get a chance, look over your left shoulder. Gee! but this is funny! All the same, though, I expect I'll get myself into a very devil of a stew. When that reporter discovers that I've given him an out-and-out fake, he'll go gunning for me as sure as you are alive."

"Is he coming here to see you?" she asked him.

"Sure. He will be here in about twenty minutes."

"Now, tell me who it is at the table behind me. I don't care to look around, to discover for myself."

"Why, Old Steve and his Juno; and they've got Malcolm Melvin with them." He leaned back in his chair, and laughed; then, he emptied the champagne-glass he had been playing with. Presently, he chuckled again.

"Tell you what, Beatrice," he said, in an undertone, "I almost wish that you had taken Duncan at his word, and married him. You should have called that bluff. Sure thing! Think of the millions he's got, and—"

"Hush!"

"Oh, all right. All the same—"

"Hush, I tell you! Don't you see that Sally is trying to talk to you?"

After that, the conversation became general among the four. During it, Jack Gardner sought and found an opportunity to wave a greeting to the late arrivals, whose names he had just mentioned to Beatrice. Duncan, observing him, glanced also in that direction, and, meeting Patricia's eyes fixed directly upon him, flushed hotly as he, also, bowed to her. Then, Sally and Beatrice turned their heads and nodded, as another course of the service was placed upon the table before them.

It was not yet finished when the head-waiter brought a card to Jack Gardner, who instantly left his seat for the second time that evening, and, with a curt, "I'll be back in a moment," departed, without further excuse. The person whose card he had received, was awaiting him in one of the reception-rooms; and the two shook hands cordially, for they were old acquaintances and on excellent terms with each other. It was not the first time they had got their heads together concerning matters for publication, although, in this instance, the newspaper man was to be made a wholly innocent party in the affair.

Burke Radnor was a newspaper man of prominence in New York. He was one of the few men of his profession who have succeeded in attaining sufficient distinction to establish themselves independently, and his "stories" were eagerly sought by all of the great dailies.

The two seated themselves in a corner of the room, and talked together earnestly, although in whispers, for a considerable time. It was Gardner who did most of the talking; Radnor only occasionally interjected a questioning remark. When they parted, it was with a hearty hand-clasp, and this remark from Radnor:

"I'll fix it up all right, old man; don't you worry. Nobody shall know that I got the story from you. But it is a jim dandy, and no mistake!"

"Which of the papers will you use it in, do you think?" asked Gardner.

"I am not sure as to that. To the one that will pay the best price for a first-class 'beat,' for that's what it is. Anyhow, that part of it is none of your business. Now that I've got the story, I shall handle it as I think best, and you can bet your sweet life it will be used for all it's worth!"

Gardner returned to the dining-room, with vague misgivings concerning what he had done; his smile was a bit less self-satisfied. Radnor, apparently, left the building. But the shrewd news-gatherer went no farther than the entrance, where he wheeled about and returned; and this time he sent his card to Roderick Duncan. Having "nailed the story," the proper thing now was to obtain an interview with one of the principals concerned in it; with both, if possible.

Duncan received the card, wonderingly. He knew Radnor, and liked him; but he could not imagine what the newspaper man could want with him at that particular time. The truth about it, did not even vaguely occur to him.

Excusing himself, he left the table and presently found Radnor in the same room where the recent interview with Jack Gardner had taken place.

"Hello, Radnor," said Duncan, cordially, extending his hand. "There must be something doing when you call me away from a supper table, at Del's. Make it as brief as possible—won't you?—because I am dining, and—"

"Oh, I won't keep you but a moment, Mr. Duncan," was the quick reply. "I just want to ask you a question or two about the interesting ceremony that took place this evening—that is all."

"Eh? What's that? Ceremony? What the devil are you talking about?"

"Look here, Mr. Duncan, you know perfectly well that I am your friend, and that I'll use you as handsomely as possible in the columns of any paper that gets this story. But I've got the straight tip, and I know what I am talking about. I thought, possibly, you might wish to say a few words in explanation—just to tone the thing down, to give it the mark of authenticity, you know. I thought you'd like to be quoted, and to know, from me, that the story'll be all right. On the level, now, isn't that better?"

Duncan laughed. He did not in the least understand. He had the idea that Radnor had been drinking.

"Burke," he said; "upon my life, this is the first time I ever saw you when you had taken too much to drink."

"Is that the way you are going to reply to me?" asked Radnor, with all the insistence of a thoroughly trained newspaper man. "You'd best use me right, you know. It's a great 'beat,' and I want all of it. I'd like to talk with the bride, too, if you can fix—"

"But I don't know what the blazes you are talking about, man."

"I am talking about the little ceremony that took place this evening at the Little Church Around the Corner, and was indulged in between you and the former Miss Brunswick; as a sort of entr'acte to the opera of Salome," said Radnor, with slow distinctness.

Duncan stiffened where he stood. The smile left his face, and his eyes narrowed, while his clean-cut features seemed to harden in every line of them.

"Radnor," he said with a slow drawl, which to those who knew him best betrayed intense anger, "you will be good enough to explain to me, here and now, in plain English and in as few words as possible, exactly what you mean."

"I mean," was the ready retort, "that you and Miss Beatrice Brunswick were married to-night at the Little Church Around the Corner, between two of the acts of Salome. I mean that I've got the straight tip, and I know it to be true. I wish to quote you, if possible, in what I shall write about it for the morning papers. I'd like to get a statement from the bride, too."

"Are you crazy, Radnor?" asked Duncan, bending forward, his face white and set, and his eyes hard and cold; for Roderick Duncan, with all his apparent quietude, was a man whom it was not safe to try too far.

"No, I'm not crazy. I'm just telling you what's what. I'll get the whole story, and what's more, I'll print it in the morning papers! If you wish to say anything in explanation of the incident, I shall be glad to quote you; but, otherwise, I shall take the liberty of drawing my own inferences, and assuming my own conclusions, from the story I have heard. I tell you, Mr. Duncan, I've got it straight, and I know it to be true."

"It is not true," said Duncan, quietly. "The person who told you such a story as that lied."

Radnor shrugged his shoulders, and laughed, ironically.

"I don't know that I blame you for denying it," he said, "but I happen to know differently. If you choose to deny it, I'll send my card inside to Mrs. Duncan, and we'll see, then, what we shall see. You can't bluff me, Mr. Duncan. I'm not that sort. If you won't talk, perhaps the former Miss Brunswick, will, and—"

Radnor got no further than that. Duncan's rage, the moment he understood the situation and fully realized the possible consequences of it in the hands of this ubiquitous newspaper man, overcame him, utterly. His right arm shot out with terrific force, his clenched fist caught Radnor squarely on the point of the chin, and the latter was knocked half-senseless to the floor. Waiters, and attendants about the place rushed toward them; but Duncan slowly drew a handkerchief from one of his pockets, and, calmly wiping his hands upon it, said to the manager:

"Kick the dog into the street; that is what he deserves. He probably followed me when I came away from the opera-house, and now he is trying to make capital out of a meaningless incident. Put him out, and don't permit him to pass the door again to-night; otherwise, he will seek to annoy a lady who is here."

Then, he turned calmly about, and, although his features were still pale, reentered the dining-room as if nothing had happened. Duncan confidently believed that he had correctly estimated the cause of Radnor's quest for news. It never occurred to him that Beatrice Brunswick was herself, through the agency of Jack Gardner, the cause of it.



CHAPTER VI

A REMARKABLE MEETING

When Jack Gardner returned to the dining-room after his interview with Radnor, he was vaguely troubled, notwithstanding the fact that he was also highly amused. There were elements associated with the thing he had just done that might stir up unpleasant consequences. His inordinate love for a practical joke had led him into it willingly, and he had thought he saw in this affair the best and greatest joke he had ever attempted to perpetrate. But he began to understand that there was a tragic element to it which he could not deny to himself; and, when he was in the act of resuming his chair beside Beatrice, he was more than half-inclined, even then, to rush from the building in the pursuit of Burke Radnor, and to withdraw the whole story that he had given to the newspaper man.

When, a few moments later, Radnor's card was brought to Duncan, the sense of impending disaster was stronger than ever upon Gardner, and he watched the departure of the young millionaire with many misgivings, not one of which he could have defined in words. But he watched the doorway through which Duncan passed, and, during the interval that ensued, he was very palpably disturbed and uneasy. He had recognized the card, although he had been unable to see the name that was engraved upon it. He had not supposed that Radnor would so quickly pursue his investigation of the story, and it had not even remotely occurred to the young copper-king, that the newspaper man would dare to go so far as to seek an immediate interview with Duncan. Even had the man selected Beatrice, it would not have been quite so bad.

Nobody knew Duncan better than did Jack Gardner, and he realized what a strong and stirring effect this fake-story, as made up between himself and Beatrice, might have upon one who was such a stickler for certain forms as he knew Duncan to be. His impulse was to follow his friend from the room, but he resisted it, although he did keep his gaze spasmodically fixed upon the door by which Roderick must reenter the dining-room.

Gardner was the first of the party to discover him, when he did return, and was quick to see that something unusual had happened during the interval outside, which had been all too short to have been fruitful of any other result than violence of some sort. He saw, by the set expression of his friend's face and by the pallor upon it, that something had gone wrong, and he started to his feet and moved rapidly forward, so that he met Duncan half-way between the entrance and the table where Beatrice and Sally Gardner were now left alone together. He grasped his friend by the arm, and drew him aside, saying rapidly, as he did so:

"For God's sake, Dun, what has happened? Tell me quickly."

Roderick Duncan looked down calmly, and without change of expression upon Gardner, for he was considerably taller than his friend; and he said, slowly, in reply:

"Without answering your question, Jack, I wish to ask you one. Was it Burke Radnor whom you were called out to meet, a little while ago, in the reception-room?"

Not thinking of the possible consequences of his response, Gardner admitted, hastily, that it had been Radnor, and Duncan asked another question.

"Did Radnor question you about a marriage-ceremony that is supposed to have taken place between Beatrice Brunswick and myself, to-night?"

"Well, you see—"

"Answer me yes, or no, Jack, if you please."

"Well, then, he did."

"Have you any idea, Jack, where he obtained the nucleus for such a story?"

Gardner hesitated, and Duncan from his greater height, bent forward quickly, and with a strong grip, seized the young copper-king by the shoulder.

"Jack Gardner," he demanded, "did you, at the instigation of Beatrice, concoct that story? Have I you to thank for it? You need not answer, Jack. I can read the reply in the expression of your face." He withdrew his hand from its detaining grasp upon his friend, and took a half-step backward; then, he added: "Jack, if we were anywhere else than in a public dining-room, I should resent what you have done bitterly—and by actions, not words. As it is, I demand that you instantly seek, and find, Burke Radnor, and retract whatever you have said, or inferred, during your conversation with him. I warn you, Gardner, that if one single line appears in any of the papers to-morrow morning on this subject I'll find a way to resent it, which will make you regret, all your life, your nameless conduct of to-night."

Gardner turned decidedly pale, not because of any physical fear he felt of Duncan, but in dread of the possible consequences of what he had permitted himself to do.

"Where is Radnor, now?" he exclaimed, quickly.

"I left him half-conscious, on the floor of the reception-room," replied Duncan, calmly. "I knocked him down."

"Good God!" exclaimed Gardner; and he turned and rushed away with precipitate haste.

Duncan went on toward the table at which Beatrice and Sally were seated, but as he approached it, a desire to hear the sound of Patricia's voice possessed him, and he turned abruptly toward that other table, occupied by Stephen Langdon, with his daughter and the lawyer.

Devoting a careless nod to the two men, Duncan addressed his fiancee, speaking loudly enough so that her companions might hear.

"Patricia," he said, "will you do me a very great favor? It is of vital importance, otherwise I would not ask it."

"Indeed?" she replied, raising her big, dark eyes to his. "Your question and your manner as well imply something that is almost tragic, Roderick. What is it that you wish me to do?"

"A very little thing, Patricia. Will you, for a moment, accompany me to the table where Beatrice and Sally Gardner are dining?"

"Why, most certainly," she replied. "You give a very big reason for a very small thing, don't you? Of course, I will go to them." She left her seat instantly, and crossed to the other table; Duncan followed, closely. Patricia accepted the chair that Jack Gardner had occupied, which Duncan drew out for her. Then, he resumed his own. As soon as they were seated, the young millionaire, drawing his chair a bit closer, said, addressing them, generally:

"I have something to say which I wish each of you to hear. To-night, a rumor has been started, somehow, that Miss Brunswick and I were married an hour or so ago, at the Church of the Transfiguration." Patricia gave a slight start, but he continued, unheedingly: "A certain newspaper man, Radnor by name, has already sought to interview me, and he went so far as to insist that he was positive in his assertions as to such a ceremony having taken place. Of course, Beatrice and I both know it to be untrue, and I now make this statement in order to warn you all of what may possibly appear in the morning papers; that is all I have to say on the subject."

Beatrice had flushed hotly at the beginning of his statement, and, while he continued, she turned deadly pale. Sally, who it will be remembered had not been taken into the confidence of the intriguers, laughed. Patricia was the only one who appeared to be unmoved by the announcement, but she kept her eyes fixed upon the face of her friend, and she correctly interpreted the changing colors and expressions of Beatrice Brunswick's face.

Whatever might have been the consequences of Duncan's announcement and Miss Brunswick's emotions, her conscious blushes and subsequent pallor, it was interrupted by the sudden and swift return of Gardner, who exclaimed, excitedly:

"Sally, I want you right away; and you, too, Beatrice. It's almost a matter of life and death. Never mind the supper—we can have one some other time. Duncan, you won't mind, will you, if I take them away?" He leaned forward and added, in a whisper: "I am carrying out what you asked me to do, and I need their help." Then, straightening himself, he addressed Patricia: "You will excuse us all, won't you? Come, Sally; for heaven's sake, make haste! There isn't a moment of time to lose."

Sally Gardner had never seen her husband in quite such a state of excitement, but as she was one of the kind that is always ready for anything in the shape of adventure, and scented one here, she lost no time in complying with his request. Beatrice's expression was first of amusement; then, of comprehension. Almost before any of the party fully realized what had happened, Jack Gardner and his companions were gone. Patricia and Roderick Duncan were alone at the table.

She turned her expressive eyes toward him and regarded him closely, but in silence, for a moment. Then, in a low tone, she inquired:

"May I ask if you understand this amazing succession of incidents? To me, it is entirely incomprehensible. If you can explain it, I wish you would do so."

"I am afraid, Patricia, that it cannot be explained—that is, any farther than I've already done so," he replied.

"Who is responsible for this remarkable story you say the newspaper man asked you about?"

Duncan hesitated. Then, he replied:

"When Beatrice and I left the opera-house to-night, we entered a taxicab, and we did drive as far as the iron gateway that admits one to the Church of the Transfiguration. We did not enter; in fact, we did not leave the cab at all. It is possible, though hardly probable, that we were followed by some reporter."

"But why did you drive to the Church of the Transfiguration, at all?" she asked him, with a smile upon her face that had something of derision in it, for she plainly saw that Duncan was floundering badly in his effort to explain. When he hesitated for a suitable reply, she continued: "Why, may I ask, did you leave the box at the opera-house, in such a surreptitious manner? It seems to me that the Church of the Transfiguration was an odd destination for you to have selected, when you did leave it, with Beatrice for a companion. Or was there a pre-arrangement between you. Was it her suggestion, or was it yours, Roderick?"

"It was mine," he replied; and he could not help smiling at the recollection of it, even though the present moment was filled with tragic possibilities.

"It seems to amuse you," she told him.

"It does—now."

"Had you, for the moment, forgotten that you were under contract with me, for Monday morning?"

Instead of replying at once, he leaned forward half-across the table toward her, and, fixing his gaze steadily upon her, said, with low earnestness:

"Patricia, for God's sake, let us cease all this fencing; let us put an end to this succession of misunderstandings. You know how I love you! You know—"

"I know that this is a very badly chosen time and place for you to make such declarations, or for me to listen to them. Will you come back with me now to the other table, and join Mr. Melvin and my father? People have begun to observe us. If these rumors bear any fruits, such a course seems to me to be the best one to adopt, under the circumstances."

She arose without awaiting his reply, and he followed her.

"Melvin," he said to the lawyer, as soon as he was seated at the other table, "Miss Langdon will agree with me, I think, that it is quite necessary I should accompany you to your home when we leave this place, in order to examine with you certain papers which you have drawn, or are to draw, at her request. Have I your permission, Patricia?" he added.

"I see no objection, if that is what you mean," Patricia replied; "although I think it would be better that we should all drive together to Mr. Melvin's house for the papers—"

"I have them here, in my pocket," the lawyer interrupted her.

"So much the better, then," Patricia continued, rapidly. "I think the best arrangement, all circumstances considered, would be to go together to my father's house, so that all the interested parties may be present at the interview."

Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, this was agreed upon, and in due time the four were grouped in the library of the Langdon home, where Malcolm Melvin, with the notes he had made that afternoon before him, began in a monotonous voice to read the stipulations of the document upon which Patricia Langdon had decided that she could rely, to supply a soothing balm for her wounded pride. It was a strange gathering to assemble at two o'clock in the morning, but none of them, save possibly the lawyer, seemed cognizant of the curious aspect of the meeting.



CHAPTER VII

THE BITTERNESS OF JEALOUSY

James, the footman, entered the library before Malcolm Melvin had completed the first sentence of the reading of Patricia's stipulations, and deferentially addressed himself to Roderick Duncan:

"Pardon me, sir," he said, "but there is an urgent demand for you at the telephone—so urgent that I thought it necessary to interrupt you."

"For me? Are you sure?" asked Duncan, in surprise. For, at the moment, he could not imagine who sought him at such an hour, or how his presence at Langdon's house, was known.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Gardner is on the wire."

Duncan started to his feet, and hurried from the room, while Patricia, after a moment's hesitation, arose and followed him, glancing toward the big clock in one corner of the library as she passed it, and observing that it was already Sunday morning.

She waited in the hallway, outside the library door, until Duncan reappeared, after his talk with Jack Gardner over the telephone, and she stopped him, by a gesture.

"What is it, Roderick?" she asked. "I think I know what it must be. If it is anything that concerns me, I should like to know about it at once. It is something about the—the rumor of your marriage to Beatrice?"

"It concerns you only indirectly, Patricia," he replied. "I am afraid that I must defer the reading of those stipulations until another time. Gardner is very anxious for me to go to him at once."

"Why?" It was a simple, but a very direct question, which there was no possibility of avoiding.

"Gardner has kidnapped Radnor, and has him now at his own house. Radnor is the newspaper man whom I—who sought to interview me. Beatrice is there, with Sally. You know, they left Delmonico's together. My presence is insisted upon in order properly to clear up this unfortunate business. I really must go, you see. It is necessary for all concerned that this matter go no farther."

He would have said more, but she turned calmly away from him, and spoke to the footman.

"James," she said, "have Philip at the front door with the Packard, as quickly as possible." Then, to Duncan, she added: "I'll go with you; I shall be ready in a moment. You must wait for me, Roderick."

"But, Patricia," exclaimed Duncan, startled and greatly dismayed by her decision, reached so suddenly, "have you thought what time it is?"

"Yes," she responded, moving toward the stairway. "I have just looked at the clock. It is two o'clock, Sunday morning. I understand, also, that the conventions would be shocked, if the conventions understood the situation; but, fortunately, the conventions do not. You and I will drive to Sally Gardner's home together. I shall bring Beatrice back with me when we return. Please, make our apologies to my father and Mr. Melvin. I shall rejoin you in a moment."

There was no help for it, and Duncan waited, for he knew that, even if he should hasten on alone, Patricia would follow in the automobile, as soon as Philip brought it to the door. He sent James into the library with the announcement, and a moment later assisted Patricia into the hastily summoned car. The drive to the home of Jack Gardner was a short one, and was made in utter silence between the two young persons so deeply interested in each other, yet so widely separated by the occurrences of that fateful Saturday afternoon. Duncan knew that it was useless to expostulate with Patricia; and she, following her adopted course of outward indifference to everything save her personal interests, preferred to say nothing at all.

When the automobile came to a stop before Gardner's door, Jack himself rushed down the steps; but he paused midway between the bottom one and the curb, when he discovered that Duncan was not alone in the car, and he uttered a low whistle of consternation. He said something under his breath, too, but neither of the occupants of the automobile could hear it; and then, as he stepped forward to assist Patricia to alight, she said to him, in her usual quiet manner:

"Inasmuch as I am an interested party in this affair, Jack, I thought it important that I should accompany Mr. Duncan. I hope you do not regret that I have done so."

"Why—er—certainly not; not at all, Patricia. I don't know but that it is better—your having done so. You see—er—things have somehow got into a most damna—terrific tangle, you know, and I suppose I am partly responsible for it; if not wholly so. I—"

"You need not explain; believe me, Jack," she interrupted him, and passed on toward the steps, ascending them alone in advance of the two men who had paused for a moment beside the automobile, facing each other. Then, things happened, and they followed one another so swiftly that it is almost impossible to give a comprehensive description of them.

Philip, the chauffeur, sprang out from under the steering-wheel and for some reason unknown to anyone but himself, passed around to the rear of the car. He had permitted the engine to run on, merely throwing out the clutch when he came to a stop. The noise of the machinery interfered with the low-toned conversation that Duncan wished to have with Jack Gardner, and so the two stepped aside, moving a few paces away from the car, and also beyond the steps leading to the entrance of Gardner's home. Patricia passed through the open door, unannounced, for the owner of the house had left it ajar when he ran down the steps to greet Duncan. Miss Langdon had barely disappeared inside the doorway, when the hatless figure of a man sprang through it. He ran down the steps, and jumped into the driver's seat of the Packard car before either Duncan, or Gardner, whose backs were half-turned in that direction, realized what was taking place.

The man was Radnor, of course. He had found an opportunity to escape from his difficulties, and had taken advantage of it, without a moment's hesitation. He had argued that there would still be time, before the last edition of the newspapers should go to press, if he could only get to a telephone and succeed in convincing the night editor of the wisdom of holding the forms for this great story. Any newspaper would answer his purpose, for he believed that he could hold back any one of them a few moments, if only he could get to a telephone.

Radnor had not reckoned on the automobile, but he knew how to operate a Packard car as well as did the chauffeur himself, and he had barely reached the seat under the wheel when the big machine shot forward with rapidly increasing speed. He left the chauffeur, and the two young millionaires gaping after it with unmitigated astonishment and chagrin. Duncan and Gardner, both, realized that the newspaper man had escaped them, and each of them understood only too well that at least one of the city newspapers was now likely to print the hateful story of the supposed marriage, beneath glaring and astonishing headlines, the following morning.

Duncan swore, softly and rapidly, but with emphasis; Jack Gardner, broke into uproarous laughter, which he could not possibly repress or control; the chauffeur started up the avenue on a run, in a fruitless chase after the on-rushing car, which even at that moment whirled around the corner toward Madison avenue, and disappeared. Gardner continued to laugh on, until Duncan seized him by the shoulder, and shook him with some violence.

"Shut up your infernal clatter, Jack!" he exclaimed, momentarily forgetful of his anger at his friend. "Help me to think what can be done to head off that crazy fool, will you? It isn't half-past two o'clock, yet, and he will succeed in catching at least one of the newspapers, before it goes to press; God only knows how many others he will connect with, by telephone. What shall we do?"

"I can get out one of my own cars in ten minutes," began Gardner. But his friend interrupted him:

"Come with me," Duncan exclaimed; and, being almost as familiar with the interior of the house as its owner was, he dashed up the steps through the still open doorway, and ran onward up the stairs toward the smoking-room on the second floor, closely followed by Gardner. There he seized upon the telephone, and asked for the New York Herald, fortunately knowing the number. While he awaited a response to his call he put one hand over the transmitter, and said, rapidly, to his companion:

"Jack, I have just called up the night city editor of the Herald. While I am talking with him, I wish you would make use of the telephone-directory, and write down the numbers of the calls for the other leading newspapers in town. This is the only way possible by which we may succeed in getting ahead of Radnor."

Any person who has ever had to do with newspaper life will understand how futile such an attempt as this one would be to interfere with interesting news, during the last moments before going to press. City editors, and especially night city editors, have no time to devote to complaints, unless those complaints possess news-value. Nothing short of dynamite, can "kill" a "good story," once it has gone to the composing-room. Whatever it was that Duncan said to the gentleman in charge of the desk at the Herald office, and to the gentlemen in charge of other desks, at other newspaper offices, need not be recorded here. Each of the persons, so addressed, probably listened, with apparent interest, to a small part of his statement, and as inevitably interrupted him by inquiring if it were Mr. Duncan in person who was talking; and, when an affirmative answer was given to this inquiry, Roderick was not long in discovering that he had succeeded only in supplying an additional value to the story, and in giving a personal interview over a telephone-wire. He realized, too late, that instead of interfering with whatever intention Burke Radnor might have had in making the escape, he had materially aided this ubiquitous person in his plans. The mere mention by him to each of the city editors that Radnor was the man of whom he was complaining, gave assurance to those gentlemen that some sort of important news was on the way to them, and therefore Duncan succeeded only in accomplishing what Radnor most desired—that is, in holding back the closing of the forms, as long as possible, for Radnor's story, whatever it might prove to be.

Meanwhile, directly beneath the room where Duncan was so frantically telephoning, a scene of quite a different character was taking place.

When Patricia entered the house, she passed rapidly forward to the spacious library, encountering no one. Entering it, she found Sally Gardner seated upon one of the chairs, convulsed with laughter, while directly before her stood Beatrice, her eyes flashing contemptuous anger, and scorn upon the fun-loving and now half-hysterical young matron, who seemed to be unduly amused. Neither of them was at the moment, conscious of Patricia's presence. She had approached so quietly and swiftly that her footsteps along the hallway had made no sound.

"You helped Burke Radnor to escape from us, Sally!" Beatrice was exclaiming, angrily. "I haven't a doubt that you put him up to it. I believe you would be delighted to see that hateful story in the newspapers. It was a despicable thing for you to do."

"Oh, Beatrice!" Sally exclaimed, when she could find breath to do so. "It is all so very funny—"

She discovered Patricia's presence, and stopped abruptly; then, she started to her feet, and, passing around the table quickly, greeted Miss Langdon with effusion.

"Why, Patricia!" she exclaimed. "I had no idea that you were here."

Beatrice turned quickly at the mention of Patricia's name, and her anger at Sally Gardner was suddenly turned against Patricia Langdon, with tenfold force and vehemence. It is an axiom that blue-eyed women have more violent tempers than black-eyed ones, once they are thoroughly aroused. Your brunette will flash and sputter, and say hasty things impulsively, or emotionally, but her anger is likely to pass as quickly as it arises, and it is almost sure to leave no lasting sting, behind it. Your fair-haired, fair-skinned, man or woman, when thoroughly aroused, is inclined to be implacable, unrelenting, even cruel.

Beatrice Brunswick's eyes were flashing with passionate fury, and, although she did not realize it, the greater part of her display of temper, was really directed against herself, because deep down in her sub-consciousness she knew that she alone was responsible for the present predicament. But anger is unreasoning, and, when one is angry at oneself, one is only too apt to seek for another person upon whom to visit the consequences. Patricia made her appearance just in time to offer herself as a target for Miss Brunswick's wrath; and Beatrice, totally unmindful of Sally's presence, loosed her tongue, and permitted words to flow, which, had she stopped to think, she never would have uttered.

"It is you! you! Patricia Langdon, who are responsible for this dreadful state of affairs," she cried out, starting forward, and, with one hand resting upon the corner of the library table, bending a little toward the haughty, Junoesque young woman she was addressing. "It is you, who dare to play with a man's love as a child would play with a doll, and who think it can be made to conform to the spirit of your unholy pride as readily. It is your fault that I am placed in this dreadful position, so that now, with Sally's connivance, this dreadful tale is likely to appear in every one of the morning papers. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Pat Langdon, for doing what you have done! You ought to get down on your knees to Roderick Duncan, and beg his eternal pardon for the agony you have caused him, since noon of yesterday. I know it all—I know the whole story, from beginning to end! I know what your unreasoning pride and your haughty willfulness, have accomplished: they have driven almost to desperation the man who loves you better than he loves anything else in the world! But you have no heart. The place inside you where it should exist is an empty void. If it were not, you would realize to what dreadful straits you have brought us all, and to what degree of desperation you have driven me, who sought to help you. I tell you, now, to your face, that Roderick Duncan is one man in ten thousand; and that he has loved you for years, as a woman is rarely loved. But you cast his love aside as if it were of no value—as if it were a little thing, to be picked up anywhere, and to be played with, as a child plays with a toy. Possibly it may please you now to hear one thing more; but, whether it does or not, you shall hear it. Roderick was in a desperate mood, to-night, because of your treatment of him, and he did ask me to marry him. So there! He did ask me! And I—I was a fool not to take him at his word. But he doesn't—he didn't—he—" She ceased as abruptly as she had begun the tirade.

Patricia had started backward a little before Beatrice's vehemence, and her eyes had gradually widened and darkened, while she sought and obtained her accustomed control over her own emotions. Now, with a slight shrug of her shoulders and a smile that was maddening to the young woman who faced her, she interrupted:

"You should have accepted Mr. Duncan's proposal," she said, icily, "for, if I read you correctly now, the fulfillment of it would have been most agreeable to you. One might quite readily assume from your conduct and the words you use that you love Roderick Duncan almost as madly as you say he loves me."

"Well?" Beatrice raised her chin, and stood erect and defiant before her former friend. "Well?" she repeated. "And what if I do?"

Patricia shrugged her shoulders again, and turned slowly away, but as she did so, said slowly and distinctly:

"Possibly, I am mistaken, after all. I had forgotten the attractive qualities of Mr. Duncan's millions." Beatrice gasped; but Patricia added, without perceptible pause: "I should warn you, however, that Mr. Duncan is under a verbal agreement with me! We are to meet and sign a contract, Monday morning. It seems to be my duty to remind you of that much, Miss Brunswick."

Patricia did not wait to see the effect of her words. Outwardly calm, she was a seething furnace of wrath within. She turned away abruptly, and passed through the open doorway into the hall. There, she stopped. She had nearly collided with Duncan and Jack Gardner, who were both standing where they must have heard all that had passed inside the library. Both were plainly confused, for neither had meant to hear, but there had been no way to escape. Patricia understood the situation perfectly, and she kept her self possession, if they did not. For just one instant, so short as to be almost imperceptible, she hesitated, then, addressing Gardner, she said in her most conventional tones:

"Jack, will you take me to my car, please?"

"It's gone, Patricia," he replied, relieved by the calmness of her manner. "Radnor took it, you know, when he made his escape. I suppose it is standing in front of some newspaper office, at the present moment, but God only knows which one it is. I'll tell you what I'll do, though: I'll order one of my own cars around. It won't take five minutes, even at this ungodly hour. I always keep one on tap, for emergencies."

"I prefer not to wait," she replied. "It is only a short distance. I shall ask you to walk home with me, if you will."

"Sure!" exclaimed Gardner, glad of any method by which the present predicament might be escaped; and he called aloud to one of the servants to bring him his hat and coat.

Duncan had moved forward quickly, toward Patricia, to offer his services, but had paused with the words he would have said unuttered. He understood that the trying scene through which Patricia had just passed, had embittered her anew against him; and so he stood aside while she went with Gardner from the house to the street. His impulse was to follow, for he, also, wished to escape. Then, he was aware that he still wore his hat. During the excitement, he had not removed it, since entering the house. He started for the door, but was arrested before he had taken two steps, by Sally Gardner's voice calling to him frantically from the library.

He turned and sprang into the room, to find that Beatrice was lying at full length on the floor, with Sally sobbing and stroking her hands, and calling upon her, in frightened tones, to speak. But Beatrice had only fainted, and, when Duncan knelt down beside her, she opened her blue eyes and looked up at him, trying to smile.

In that instant of pity and remorse, he forgot all else save the stricken Beatrice, and what, in her anger, she had confessed to Patricia. The rapidly succeeding incidents of that day and night had unnerved him, also. He was suddenly convinced of the futility of winning the love and confidence of Patricia, and, with an impulse born, he could not have told when, or how, or why, he bent forward quickly and touched his lips to Beatrice's forehead.

"Is it true, Beatrice? Is it true?" he asked her, in a low tone; and, totally misunderstanding his question, entirely misconstruing it's meaning, she replied:

"God help me, yes. God help us all."

Then, she lapsed again into unconsciousness.



CHAPTER VIII

BETWEEN DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT

Sally Gardner had found time during this short scene to recover from her moment of excitement. She had heard, and she thought she understood. Being a many-sided young matron, the best one of all came to the surface now—the one that even her best friends had never supposed her to possess. Underneath her fun-and-laughter-loving nature, Sally was gifted with more than her share of rugged common-sense, inherited, doubtless, from her Montana ancestors.

Even as Duncan bent above Beatrice's unconscious form, and before he spoke to her, Sally had started to her feet and pressed the electric-button in the wall, with the consequence that, at the instant when Beatrice became unconscious the second time, two of the servants entered the room.

"Miss Brunswick has only fainted," she told them, rapidly. "Lift her, and carry her to my room. Tell Pauline to care for her, and that I shall be there, immediately." She stood aside while they carried out her commands; then, she turned upon Duncan.

"You are a great fool, Roderick!" she exclaimed, without stopping to weigh her words. "I thought you had some sense; but it seems that you have none at all. Leave the house at once; and don't you dare to seek Beatrice Brunswick, until you have settled, in one way or another, your affairs with Patricia Langdon. Now, go! Really, I thought I liked you, immensely, but, for the present moment, I am not sure whether I hate you, or despise you! Do go, there's a good fellow; and I'll send you word, in the morning, how Beatrice is."

"Sally, what a little trump you are!" he exclaimed. "I know I'm a fool; I have certainly found it out during the last twelve or fourteen hours. You'll have to help me out of this muddle, somehow; you seem to be the only one in the lot of us who has any sense."

"Then, help yourself out of the house, as quickly as you know how," she retorted; and she ran past him up the stairs, toward the room where she had directed that Beatrice should be taken.

Duncan sighed. He looked around him for his hat, to find that it was still crushed down on the back of his head, and, smiling grimly to himself, he passed out of the house upon the street.

* * * * *

Only one of the great dailies of New York City, published that Sunday morning, contained any reference whatever to the supposed incident of the wedding ceremony between Roderick Duncan and Miss Brunswick, at "The Little Church Around the Corner." The editors had been afraid to use Radnor's story, without verification. To them, it had seemed preposterous and unnatural, and especially were they reluctant to print anything concerning it when Radnor was forced to admit to them that Jack Gardner had ultimately denied the truth of the story he had first told.

But there is one paper in the city that is always eager for sensations, and unfortunately it is not very particular concerning the use of them. This paper published a "story," as a newspaper would call it, which was told so ambiguously and with such skill as to preclude any possibility of a libelous action, while the suggestions it contained were so strongly made that the article was entertaining, at least, and it supplied, in many quarters, an opportunity for discussion and gossip. It hinted at scandal in association with Roderick Duncan and his millions. What more could be desired of it?

The story was merely a relation of the events as we know them, at the outset. It told of the party in the box at the opera-house, of the departure therefrom of Duncan and Miss Brunswick and of their destination when they entered the taxicab; after that, everything contained in the article, was surmise, but it was couched in such terms that many who read it actually believed a marriage-ceremony had taken place. During Sunday, Duncan was sought by reporters of various newspapers. He readily admitted them to his presence, but would submit to no interview further than to state that the rumor was absolutely false, was utterly without foundation, and that he would prosecute any newspaper daring to uphold it. Miss Brunswick could not be found by these news-gatherers. Old Steve Langdon laughed when they sought him, and assured them that there was no truth whatever in the rumor. Patricia, naturally regarded as an interested party, declined to be seen.

Radnor himself sought out Jack Gardner, but it is not necessary that we should relate the particulars of that interview. Suffice it to say that no further reference was made to the supposed incident by any newspaper, and that it was quickly forgotten, save by a very few individuals, who made it a point to remember.

During the day, Duncan sought to communicate with Sally Gardner over the telephone, but succeeded only in obtaining a statement from one of the footmen, to the effect that Mrs. Gardner presented her compliments to Mr. Duncan, and wished it to be said that she would communicate with him by letter; and that, in the meantime, there existed no cause whatever, for anxiety on his part.



CHAPTER IX

PATRICIA'S COWBOY LOVER

On Sunday evening Patricia Langdon was alone in the library of her home, occupying her favorite corner beneath the drop-light. For an hour she had tried in vain to interest herself in the reading of the latest novel. Try as she might, she could not center her mind upon the printed words contained in the volume she held, for, inevitably, her thoughts drifted away to the occurrences of the preceding day and evening. No matter how assiduously she endeavored to put those thoughts aside, they insisted upon looming up before her, and at last, with a sigh, she closed her book and laid it aside. The hour was still early, it being barely eight o'clock, when James, the footman, entered the room and announced:

"Miss Houston; Miss Frances Houston."

Patricia had fully intended to instruct the servants that she was not to be at home to anyone, that evening, but, absorbed by other thoughts, she had forgotten to do so, and now it was too late; so she received the two young ladies who were presently shown into the library. She greeted them in her usual manner, which was neither cordial, nor repellant, but which was entirely characteristic of this rather strange young woman. She understood perfectly well why they had called upon her at this time. They had not missed seeing that article in the one morning paper where it appeared.

"You see, Patricia," exclaimed Miss Houston, whose given name was Agnes, "Frances and I happened to read that remarkable tale that was printed in one of the papers this morning, about a marriage between Rod Duncan and Beatrice. We thought it so absurd: We couldn't resist the temptation to come over to see you, for a few minutes this very evening, and discuss it; could we, Frances?"

"No, indeed," replied her sister.

"I have not seen any such article," said Patricia; and, indeed, she had not. "But I don't know why either of you should wish to discuss it with me; so, if you don't mind, we'll change the subject before we begin it."

"Why, you see," began Agnes Houston, with some evidence of excitement; but she was fortunately interrupted by the footman, who entered, and announced in his automatic voice:

"Mr. Nesbit Farnham."

The workings of the human mind will forever remain a mystery. Had Nesbit Farnham been announced before the arrival of the two young women, Patricia would undoubtedly have denied herself to him; but, with the announcement of his name, there came to her the sudden recollection of the ultimatum pronounced by Richard Morton the preceding afternoon, when he had brought her home from her father's office in his automobile, the tonneau of which had been occupied by the two young women who were now present with her in the room. Why the announcement of Farnham's name should remind her of Morton's promise to call, this Sunday evening, cannot be said; but it did so, and she nodded to James.

"Hello, Patricia!" Farnham exclaimed, as he entered the room vigorously, for this young society beau and cotillion-leader had long been on terms of intimacy with the Langdon household, and was, in fact, a privileged character throughout his social set. "I am mighty glad that you received me. It's rather an off night, you know, and I wasn't sure, at all that you would do so. Good-evening, Agnes. How are you, Frances? Jolly glad to see you. I say, Patricia, what's all that nonsense I saw in the paper this morning, about Duncan and Beatrice getting married last night? Do you know anything about it?"

"I know nothing whatever about it, Nesbit, save that it is untrue," replied Patricia, calmly. "That much I do know; but I don't care to discuss it."

Farnham flirted his handkerchief from his pocket, and patted it softly against his forehead, smiling gently as he did so. Then, he said:

"To tell you the truth, Patricia, the news was rather a facer, don't you know; for my first impulse was to believe it. Oh, I won't discuss it; you needn't frown like that; but I just want to tell you that I've been looking all over town for Duncan, and I couldn't find him. Then, about an hour ago, I called upon Beatrice, only to be informed that she was not at home, and had not been, ever since yesterday evening. You see, I didn't get out of bed till two this afternoon, and it was four by the time I was dressed and on the street. I didn't take much stock, myself, in the report I read in the paper, until I was told that Beatrice had disappeared. But that got me guessing, and so I came to you, to find out the truth about it. Please tell me again that it isn't true, and I'll be satisfied."

"It isn't true," replied Patricia, calmly.

James, the footman, made another appearance on the scene at that moment, and proclaimed the arrival of Mr. Richard Morton, who stepped passed him into the library as soon as the announcement was made.

He stopped just inside the threshold, and the chagrin pictured upon his face when he found that Patricia was not alone was so plainly evident, that even Patricia smiled, in recognition of it. Morton was known to Patricia's other callers, having met them frequently since his coming to New York, and, as soon as greetings had been exchanged, they all drifted into a general conversation, which had no point to it whatever, but was, for the most part, the small-talk of such impromptu social gatherings. The subject of the supposed clandestine marriage-ceremony between Duncan and Beatrice was not mentioned again, and fifteen minutes later Miss Houston and her sister arose to take their departure. Farnham, also, got upon his feet, and, stepping lightly and quickly across the room toward Patricia, said to her in a low tone:

"Won't you tell me where I can find Beatrice? I think you can do so, if you will. Please, Patricia. You know why I ask."

"If you should call upon Sally Gardner and ask her that question, I think it would be answered satisfactorily," replied Patricia, smiling at him. "Go and see her, Nesbit, by all means."

A moment later, Miss Langdon found herself alone with Morton, who, true to his promise of the preceding evening, had come to her. She had forgotten him temporarily, but now she was not sorry that he had called. Nevertheless, as she turned toward him, after bidding her friends good-night, Patricia was conscious that the atmosphere had suddenly became surcharged with portentous possibilities. She had recognized in that expression of disappointment, so plainly depicted upon Morton's face when he entered the room, that he had come to her with a self-avowed determination to continue the conversation interrupted by the Houston girls when he was bringing her home, the preceding afternoon. On the instant, she was sorry that she had permitted the others to leave her alone with this man. For some inexplicable reason, she was suddenly afraid of him. She who had never acknowledged fear of any person, who had always met every circumstance calmly as it arose, found herself confronted now by a condition of affairs that rendered her less self-reliant. Her mind was in a turmoil of a hundred doubts and fears, and there was a vague sense of apprehension upon her, which she could not dismiss, and which she found it difficult to control.

"I told you that I would come, Patricia, and I am here," said Morton, stepping forward quickly, and taking one of her hands, before she could resume her seat. She attempted to withdraw it, but he held it firmly in his own strong clasp; and that expression of unrelenting determination was again in his face and eyes.

"No, Patricia," he said calmly, but in a tone of finality which there was no denying, "I will not release your hand, just yet." He was half-smiling, but wholly insistent and determined. "You see," he went on, "I am taking advantage of your known qualities of courage. I have come to you, determined to say something—something that is very close to me." Patricia's arm relaxed; she permitted her hand to lie limply inside his larger one. Then, she raised her eyes to his, and looked calmly up at him.

As he gazed steadily and keenly into her dark eyes, Morton's face was pale, under the tan of his skin, and he had the look of one who ventures his all upon a single chance. In that moment, Patricia admired him more than she had ever before, and, as he continued to gaze upon her, she permitted her features slowly to relax, and, gradually, a winning smile, which to Richard Morton was overwhelming, was revealed upon her lips and in her eyes.

"You have no right to speak to me like that, Mr. Morton," she said. "Still less have you the right to hold my hand, against my will. The men of my acquaintance, with whom I have associated all my life, would not do as you are doing now; but"—she shrugged her shoulders—"I suppose it is a matter of training."

The words were like a blow, although she smiled while she uttered them. With a sharp exclamation that came very near to being an oath, he threw her hand from him with such force that she was half-turned around where she stood, and he started back two paces away from her, and folded his arms.

"Thank you," said Patricia, still smiling; and she crossed to the chair she had previously occupied.

Morton did not move from the position he had assumed. He stood with folded arms in the middle of the room, staring at her with set face and hard eyes, wondering for the moment why he had been fool enough to go there at all, and trying to read in her face, what was the charm of her that so fatally attracted him.

"I do a great many things, Miss Langdon, that I have no right to do," he said, after a pause. "That, also, is a matter of training, as you so fittingly adjudged my conduct, just now. But I was trained in the open country, where one can see the sky-line toward any point of the compass; I was trained in the West, where a man is a man, and a woman is a woman, and they are judged only by their conduct toward others, and toward themselves. It is true that I know very little about this Eastern training, to which you have just now called my attention, but from what little I have seen of it, I can't believe that it is wholesome, or good. I was trained to tell the truth, and to insist that the truth be told to me; I find here, in the East, that the truth is the very last thing to be uttered; that it is avoided as long as it possibly can be. In this way, Miss Langdon, our trainings differ. Naturally, then, I am not like the men of your knowledge."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Morton, I didn't mean to give offense by what I said." The girl was more amazed than she cared to show by his vehemence.

"The fault is mine," he said to her. "I have no right to expect you to meet me on the plane of my own past life, and with the freedom and candor of the West, any more than you can demand from me, the usages and customs of your social world in New York."

"Won't you sit down?" she asked him. She was beginning to be a bit uneasy, because of Morton's determined attitude, and because she realized that nothing she could say or do would turn him from his set purpose of saying what he had come there to tell her.

"Not yet," he replied. "I can talk much better on my feet. I want you to tell me what you meant by two expressions you used in your speech with me yesterday, after you came from your father's office."

"We will not return to that subject, if you please, Mr. Morton," she replied to him, coldly.

"Pardon me, Patricia, we must return to it—at least, I must. You don't want me to kill anybody, do you?" He smiled grimly as he asked the question, hesitatingly; "you need have no fear on that point, for I probably won't have to."

"Probably won't have to kill anyone?" She raised her eyes to his, but there was no fear in them; there was only amazement in their depths, astonishment that he should dare to say such a thing to her.

"The qualification of my statement was made because I reserve the right to do what I please, toward anyone who dares to bring pain upon you, Patricia Langdon," he said, incisively; "but I tell you now that I wouldn't trust myself not to kill—again my Western training is uppermost, you see—if I were brought face to face with any man who had dared to bring any sort of an affront upon you. Do you love this man to whom you referred yesterday? Answer me!" The question came out sharply and bluntly. It was totally unexpected, and it affected her with a sort of shock she could not have described.

"You are impertinent," she replied.

"Impertinent, or not, I desire an answer. If you refuse an answer, I shall find other means of ascertaining. Great God, girl, do you suppose that, when my whole life is at stake, I am going to stand on ceremony and surrender to a few petty conventions, just to please an element of false pride that you have built around you, until there is only one way of getting past it? I'm not the sort of man who stands outside, and entreats. My training has taught me to get inside; and, if there isn't a gate, or an opening of any sort, why, then I tear down the barrier, just as I am doing now. Do you love that man?"