He fidgeted awhile; then, finding the others fully preoccupied with their musical experiments, quietly left the drawing-room. It had occurred to him that Constance, who had disappeared when they left the table, might be seeking a chance to speak to him and he strolled through the library (a large room with books crowding to the ceiling) to a glass door opening into a conservatory, which was dark save for the light from the library. He was about to turn away when an outer door opened furtively and Cassowary stepped in from the grounds. The chauffeur glanced about nervously as though anxious to avoid detection.

As Deering watched him a shadow darted by, and his sister—unmistakably Constance in the dark gown with its white collar and cuffs that she had worn at dinner—moved swiftly toward the chauffeur. She gave him both hands; he kissed her eagerly; then they began talking earnestly. For several minutes Deering heard the blurred murmur of rapid question and reply; then, evidently disturbed by an outburst of merriment from the drawing-room, the two parted with another hand-clasp and kiss, and Cassowary darted through the outer door.

Constance waited a moment, as though to compose herself, and then began retracing her steps down the conservatory aisle. As she passed his hiding-place Deering stepped out and seized her arm.

"So this is what's in the wind, is it?" he demanded roughly. "I suppose you don't know that that man's a bad lot, a worthless fellow Hood picked up in the hope of reforming him! For all I know he may be the chauffeur he pretends to be!"

She freed herself and her eyes flashed angrily.

"You don't know what you're saying! That man is a gentleman, and if he went to pieces for a while it was my fault. I met him at the Drakes' last year when you were away hunting in Canada. He came to our house afterward, but for some reason father took one of his strong dislikes to him, and forbade my seeing him again. I knew he was with this man Hood, and when I left the table awhile ago I met him outside the servants' dining-room and told him I would talk to him here."

"What does he call himself?" Deering asked.

"Torrence is the name the Drakes gave him," she answered with faint irony. "He's a ranchman in Wyoming and was in Bob Drake's class in college."

He knew perfectly well that the Drakes were not people likely to countenance an impostor. His first instinct had been to protect his sister from an unknown scamp, and he was sorry that he had spoken to her so roughly. Her distress and anxiety were apparent, and he was filled with pity for her. Since childhood they had been the best of pals, and if she loved a man who was worthy of her he would aid the affair in every way possible. He was surprised by the abruptness with which she stepped close to him and laid her hand on his arm.

"Billy, who is Hood?" she whispered.

"I don't know!" he ejaculated, and then as she eyed him curiously he explained hurriedly: "I was in an awful mess when he turned up, Connie. I'd gone into a copper deal with Ned Ranscomb and needed more money to help him through with it. I put in all I had and touched one of father's boxes at the bank for some more and lost it, or didn't lose it; God knows what did become of it! It would take a week to tell you the whole story. Ranscomb disappeared, absolutely, and there I was! I should have killed myself if that lunatic Hood hadn't turned up and hypnotized me. But what—what—" (he fairly choked with the question), "in heaven's name are you doing here? Why did you cut out California? I tell you, Connie, if I'm not crazy everybody else is! I nearly fainted when you came into the dining-room."

Constance smiled at his despair, but hurried on with explanations:

"We can't talk here, but I can clear up a few things. Father read that woman's book, and it went to his head. Yes," she added as Deering groaned in his helplessness, "father's acting a good deal like those people in the drawing-room. He's got the May madness, and I'm afraid I've got a touch of it myself! Father started off to have adventures like the people in that book and dragged me along to get my mind off Tommy——"

"Tommy?"

"Mr. Torrence!"

Billy swallowed this with a gulp.

"But, Billy," Constance continued seriously, "there's really something on father's mind; he thinks he's looking for somebody, and I'm not sure whether he is or not. That's how I come to be here. He made me answer an advertisement and take this position to spy on these people."

"My God!" Deering gasped, "gone clean mad, the whole bunch of us. Who the deuce are these lunatics anyhow?"

"I don't know, Billy; honestly I don't! You know nearly as much about them as I do. Their mail goes to a bank in town, and I met my employer at a lawyer's office in Hartford. Father suspects something and made me do it, so I might watch them. The mother and daughter have been abroad a great deal, and just came home a month ago. I never saw this man Hood until to-night. The mother and daughter and the old gentleman call each other by the names you heard at the table, and the books in the library are marked with half a dozen names. Even the silver gives no clew. I've been here a week and only one person has come to the house" (she lowered her voice to a whisper), "and that was Ned Ranscomb!"

He clutched her hands, and the words he tried to utter became a queer, inarticulate gurgle in his throat.

"Ned came here to see a girl," she went on: "an artist who made the pictures for 'The Madness of May.' He's quite crazy about her. I did get that much out of Pierrette. This artist's a victim of the madness too, and seems to be leading Ned a gay dance!"

"Took my two hundred thousand and got me to steal two more," he groaned, "and then went chasing a girl all over creation! And the fool always bragged that he was immune; that no girl——"

"Another victim of the same disease, that's all," answered Constance with a wry smile.

"Not Ned; not Ranscomb! That settles it! We've all gone loony!"

"Well, even so, we mustn't be caught here," said Constance with decision as the music ceased.

"Tell me, quick, where can I find the governor?" Deering demanded.

"If you must know, Billy," she replied, her lips quivering with mirth, "our dear parent is in jail—in jail! Tommy collected those glad tidings at the garage."

Having launched this at her astounded brother, she pushed him from her and ran away through the conservatory.



VIII

"Tuck, my boy, you should cultivate the art of music!" cried Hood as Deering reappeared, somewhat pale but resigned to an unknown fate, in the drawing-room. "And now that ten has struck we must be on our way. Madam, will you ring for Cassowary, the prince of chauffeurs, as we must leave your hospitable home at once?" He began making his adieus with the greatest formality.

"Mr. Tuck," said the mistress of the house as Deering gave her a limp hand, "you have conferred the greatest honor upon us. Please never pass our door without stopping."

"To-morrow," he said, turning to Pierrette, "I shall find you to-morrow, either here or in the Dipper!"

"Before you see me or the Dipper again, many things may happen!" she laughed.

The trio—the absurd little Pantaloon; Columbine, laughing and gracious to the last, and Pierrette, smiling, charming, adorable—cheerily called good night from the door as Cassowary sent the car hurrying out of the grounds.

"Well, what do you think of the life of freedom now?" demanded Hood as the car reached the open road. "Begin to have a little faith in me, eh?"

"Well, you seemed to put it over," Deering admitted grudgingly. "But I can't go on this way, Hood; I really can't stand it. I've got to quit right now!"

"My dear boy!" Hood protested.

"I've heard bad news about my father; one of the—er—servants back there told me he was in jail!"

"Stop!" bawled Hood. "This is important if true! Cassowary, I've told you time and again to bring me any news you pick up in servants' halls. What have you heard about the arrest of a gentleman named Deering?"

"He's been pinched, all right," the chauffeur answered as he stopped the car and turned round. "The constables over at West Dempster are trapping joy-riders, and they nailed Mr. Deering about sundown for speeding. I learned that from the chauffeur at that house where you dined."

Hood slapped his knee and chortled with delight.

"There's work ahead of us! But probably he's bailed himself out by this time."

"Not on your life!" Cassowary answered, and Deering marked a note of jubilation in his tone, as though the thought of Mr. Deering's incarceration gave him pleasure. "The magistrate's away for the night, and there's nobody there to fix bail. It's part of the treatment in these parts to hold speed fiends a night or two."

Again Hood's hand fell upon Deering's knee.

"A situation to delight the gods!" he cried. "Cassowary, old man, at the next crossroads turn to the right and run in at the first gate. There's a farmhouse in the midst of an orchard; we'll stop there and change our clothes."

As the car started Deering whirled upon Hood and shook him violently by the collar.

"I'm sick of all this rot! I can't stand any more, I tell you. I'm going to quit right here!"

Hood drew his arm round him affectionately.

"My dear son, have I failed you at any point? Have you ever in your life had any adventures to compare with those you've had with me? Stop whining and trust all to Hood!"

Deering sank back into his corner with a growl of suppressed rage.

When they reached the farmhouse Hood drew out a key and opened the front door with a proprietorial air.

"Whose place is this? I want to know what I'm getting in for," Deering demanded wrathfully.

"Mine, dearest Tuck! Mine, and the taxes paid. I use it as a rest-house for weary and jaded crooks, if that will ease your mind!"

Cassowary struck matches and lighted candles, disclosing a half-furnished room in great disorder. Old clothing, paper bags that had contained food, a violin, and books in good bindings littered a table in the middle of the floor, and articles of clothing were heaped in confusion on a time-battered settle. The odor of stale pipe smoke hung upon the air. Under an empty bottle on the mantel Hood found a scrap of paper which he scanned for a moment and then tore into pieces.

"Just a scratch from good old Fogarty; he's been taking the rest-cure here between jobs. Skipped yesterday; same chap that left his mark for me on that barn. One of the royal good fellows, Fogarty; does his work neatly—never carries a gun or pots a cop; knows he can climb out of any jail that ever was made, and that, son, gives any man a joyful sense of ease and security. The Tombs might hold him, but he avoids large cities; knows his limitations like a true man of genius. Rare bird; thrifty doesn't describe him; he's just plain stingy; sells stolen postage-stamps at par; the only living yegg that can put that over! By George, I wouldn't be surprised if he couldn't sell 'em at a premium!"

As he talked he rummaged among the old clothes, chose a mud-splashed pair of trousers, and bade Deering put them on, adding an even more disreputable coat and hat. Cassowary helped himself to a change of raiment, and Hood selected what seemed to be the worst of the lot.

"Three suspicious characters will be noted by the constabulary of West Dempster within two hours!" cried Hood, hopping out of his dress trousers. "Into the calaboose we shall go, my dear Tuck! Never say that I haven't a thought for your peace and happiness. It will give me joy unfeigned to bring you face to face with your delightful parent. Cassowary, my son, I'm going to hide those bills of yours in the lining of my coat for safety. If they found ten thousand plunks on me, they'd never let us go!"

"Hood!" cried Deering in a voice moist with tears, "for God's sake what fool thing are you up to now?"

"I tell you we're going to jail!" Hood answered jubilantly. "You've dined in good company with the most charming of girls at your side; you've had a taste of the prosperous life; and now it's fitting that we should touch the other extreme. The moment we step out of this shack we're criminals, crooks, gallows meat;" he rolled this last term under his tongue unctuously. "This will top all our other adventures. Here's hoping Fogarty may have preceded us. The old boy likes to get pinched occasionally just for the fun of it."

He was already blowing out the candles, and, seizing his stick, led the way back to the highway, with Deering and Cassowary at his heels. The car had been run into an old barn, which had evidently served Hood before. Within twenty-four hours they would be touring again, he announced. The change from his dress clothes to ill-fitting rags had evidently wrought a change of mood. Between whiffs at his pipe he sought consolation in Wagner, chanting bars of "In fernem Land."

Cassowary, who had adjusted himself to this new situation without question, whispered in Deering's ear: "Don't kick; he's got something up his sleeve. And he'll get you out of it; remember that! I've been in jail with him before."

Deering drew away impatiently. He was in no humor to welcome confidences from Torrence, alias Cassowary, whom his sister met clandestinely and kissed—the kiss rankled! And yet it was nothing against Cassowary that he had been following Hood about like an infatuated fool. Deering knew himself to be equally culpable on that score, and he was even now trudging after the hypnotic vagabond with a country calaboose as their common goal. The chauffeur's interview with Constance had evidently cheered him mightily, and he joined his voice to Hood's in a very fair rendering of "Ben Bolt." Deering swore under his breath, angry at Hood, and furious that he had so little control of a destiny that seemed urging him on to destruction.



IX

At one o'clock West Dempster lay dark and silent before them. As they crossed a bridge into the town Hood began to move cautiously.

"Remember that we give up without a struggle: there's too much at stake to risk a bullet now, and these country lumpkins shoot first, and hand you their cards afterward."

He dived into an alley, and emerged midway of a block where a number of barrels under a shed awning advertised a grocery.

"Admirable!" whispered Hood, throwing his arms about his comrades. "We will now arouse the watch."

With this he kicked a barrel into the gutter, and jumped back like a mischievous boy into the shelter of the alley. Footsteps were heard in a moment, far down the street.

"These country cops are sometimes shrewd, but often the silly children of convention like the rest of us. West Dempster has an evil reputation in the underworld. The pinching of joy-riders is purely incidental; they run in anybody they catch after the curfew sounds from the coffin factory."

A window overhead opened with a bang, and a blast from a police whistle pierced the air shrilly. Deering started to run, but Hood upset him with a thrust of his foot. Two men were already creeping up behind them in the alley; the owner of the grocery stole out of the front door in a long nightgown and began howling dismally for help.

"Throw up your hands, boys; it's no use!" cried Hood in mock despair.

Then the man in the nightgown, after menacing Hood with a pistol, stuck the barrel of it into Deering's mouth, opened inopportunely to protest his innocence. The policemen threw themselves upon Hood and Cassowary, toppled them over, and flashed electric lamps in their faces.

"More o' them yeggs," announced one of the officers with satisfaction as he snapped a pair of handcuffs on Cassowary's wrists. "Don't you fellows try any monkey-shines or we'll plug you full o' lead. Trot along now."

The gentleman in the night-robe wished to detain the party for a recital of his own prowess in giving warning of the attempted burglary. The police were disposed to make light of his assistance, while Hood hung back to support the grocer's cause, a generosity on his part that was received ill-temperedly by the officers of the law. They bade the grocer report to the magistrate Monday morning, and they parted, but only after Hood had shaken the crestfallen grocer warmly by the hand, warning him with the greatest solicitude against further exposure to the night air. Two other policemen appeared; the whole force was doing them honor, Hood declared proudly. He lifted his voice in song, but the lyrical impulse was hushed by a prod from a revolver. He continued to talk, however, assuring his captors of his heartiest admiration for their efficiency. He meant to recommend them for positions in the secret service—men of their genius were wasted upon a country town.



When they reached the town hall a melancholy jailer roused himself and conducted them to the lockup in the rear of the building. Careful search revealed nothing but a mass of crumpled clippings and a pipe and tobacco in Hood's pockets.

"Guess they dropped their tools somewhere," muttered one of the officers.

"My dear boy," explained Hood, "the gentleman in the nightie, whom I take to be a citizen and merchant of standing in your metropolis, may be able to assist you in finding them. We left our safe-blowing apparatus in a chicken-coop in his back yard."

They were entered on the blotter as R. Hood, F. Tuck, and Cass O'Weary—the last Hood spelled with the utmost care for the scowling turnkey—and charged with attempt to commit burglary and arson.

Hood grumbled; he had hoped it would be murder or piracy on the high seas; burglary and arson were so commonplace, he remarked with a sigh.

The door closed upon them with an echoing clang, and they found themselves in a large coop, bare save for several benches ranged along the walls. Two of these were occupied by prisoners, one of whom, a short, thick-set man, snored vociferously. Hood noted his presence with interest.

"Fogarty!" he whispered with a triumphant wave of his hand.

A tall man who had chosen a cot as remote as possible from his fellow prisoner sat up and, seeing the newcomers, stalked majestically to the door and yelled dismally for the keeper, who lounged indifferently to the cage, puffing a cigar.

"This is an outrage!" roared the prisoner. "Locking me up with these felons—these common convicts! I demand counsel; I'm going to have a writ of habeas corpus! When I get out of here I'm going to go to the governor of your damned State and complain of this. All Connecticut shall know of it! All America shall hear of it! To be locked up with one safe-blower is enough, and now you've stuck three murderers into this rotten hole. I tell you I can give bail. I tell you——"

The jailer snarled and bade him be quiet. In the tone of a man who is careful of his words he threatened the direst punishment for any further expression of the gentleman's opinions. Whereupon the gentleman seized the bars and shook them violently, and then, as though satisfied that they were steel of the best quality, dropped his arms to his sides with a gesture of impotent despair.

"Father!"

In spite of Constance's assertion, confirmed by Cassowary, Deering had not believed that his father was in jail; but the outraged gentleman who had demanded the writ of habeas corpus was, beyond question, Samuel J. Deering, head of the banking-house of Deering, Gaylord & Co. Mr. Deering was striding toward his bench with the sulky droop of a premium batter who has struck out with the bases full.

Scorning to glance at the creature in rags who had flung himself in his path, Samuel J. Deering lunged at him fiercely with his right arm. Billy, ducking opportunely, saved his indignant parent from tumbling upon the floor by catching him in his arms. Feeling that he had been attacked by a ruffian, Mr. Deering yelled that he was being murdered.

"I'm Billy! For God's sake, be quiet!"

The senior Deering tottered to the wall.

"Billy! What are you in for?" he demanded finally.

"Burglary, arson, and little things like that," Billy answered with a jauntiness that surprised him as much as it pained his father, who continued to stare uncomprehendingly.

"You've been reading that damned book, too, have you?" he whispered hoarsely in his son's ear. "You've gone crazy like everybody else, have you?"

"I've been kidnapped, if that's what you mean," Billy answered with a meaningful glance over his shoulder, and then with a fine attempt at bravado: "I'm Friar Tuck, and that chap smoking a pipe is Robin Hood."

Ordinarily his father's sense of humor could be trusted to respond to an intelligent appeal. A slow grin had overspread Mr. Deering's face as Friar Tuck was mentioned, but when Billy added Robin Hood his father's countenance underwent changes indicative of hope, fear, and chagrin. Clinging to Billy's shoulder, he peered through the gloom of the cage toward Hood, who lay on a bench, his coat rolled up for a pillow, tranquilly smoking, with his eyes fixed upon the steel roof.

"Hood!" Mr. Deering walked slowly toward Hood's bench.

Hood sat up, took his pipe from his mouth, and nodded.

"Hood, this is my father," said Billy.

"A great pleasure, I'm sure," Hood responded courteously, extending his hand. "I suppose it was inevitable that we should meet sooner or later, Mr. Deering."

"You—you are Bob—Bob—Tyringham?" asked Deering anxiously.

"Right!" cried Hood in his usual assured manner. "And I will say for you that you have given me a good chase. I confess that I didn't think you capable of it; I swear I didn't! Tuck, I congratulate you; your father is one of the true brotherhood of the stars. He's been chasing me for a month and, by Jove, he's kept me guessing! But when I heard that he'd been jailed for speeding, with a prospect of spending Sunday in this hole, I decided that it was time to throw down the mask."

Lights began to dance in the remote recesses of Billy's mind. Hood was Robert Tyringham, for whom his father held as trustee two million dollars. Tyringham had not been heard of in years. The only son of a most practical father, he had been from youth a victim of the wanderlust, absenting himself from home for long periods. For ten years he had been on the list of the missing. That Hood should be this man was unbelievable. But the senior Deering seemed not to question his identity. He sat down with a deep sigh and then began to laugh.

"If I hadn't found you by next Wednesday, I should have had to turn your property over to a dozen charitable institutions provided for by your father's will—and, by George, I've been fighting a temptation to steal it!" His arms clasped Billy's shoulder convulsively. "It's been horrible, ghastly! I've been afraid I might find you and afraid I wouldn't! I tell you it's been hell. I've spent thousands of dollars trying to find you, fearing one day you might turn up, and the next day afraid you wouldn't. And, you know, Tyringham, your father was my dearest friend; that's what made it all so horrible. I want you to know about it, Billy; I want you to know the worst about me; I'm not the man you thought me. When I started away with Constance and told you I was going to California I decided to make a last effort to find Tyringham. I read a damned novel that acted on me like a poison; that's why I've made a fool of myself in a thousand ways, thinking that by masquerading over the country I might catch Tyringham at his own game. And now you know what I might have been; you see what I was trying to be—a common thief, a betrayer of a sacred trust."

"Don't talk like that, father," began Billy, shaken by his father's humility. "I guess we're in the same hole, only I'm in deeper. I tried to rob you. I tried to steal some of that Tyringham money myself, but—but——"

Hood, wishing to leave the two alone for their further confidences, walked to the recumbent Fogarty, roused him with a dig in the ribs, and conferred with him in low tones.

"You took the stuff from my box, Billy?" Mr. Deering asked.

Billy waited apprehensively for what might follow. It was possible that his father had already robbed the Tyringham estate; the thought chilled him into dejection.

"I had stolen it. My God, I couldn't help it!" Deering groaned. "I left that waste paper in the box to fool myself, and put the real stuff in another place. I hoped—yes, that was it, I hoped—I'd never find Tyringham and I could keep those bonds. But all the time I kept looking for him. You see, Billy, I couldn't be as bad as I wanted to be; and yet——"

He drew his hand across his face as though to shut out the picture he saw of himself as a felon.

"Oh, you wouldn't have done it; you couldn't have done it!" cried Billy, anxious to mitigate his father's misery. "If you hadn't hidden the real bonds, I'd have been a thief! Ned Ranscomb was trying to corner Mizpah and needed my help. I put in all I had—that two hundred thousand you gave me my last birthday, and then he skipped. When I get hold of him——!"

"You put two hundred thousand in Mizpah?"

"I did, like a fool, and, of course, it's lost! Ned went daffy about a girl and dropped Mizpah—and my money!"

Mr. Deering was once more a business man. "What did Ranscomb buy at?" he asked curtly.

"Seven and a quarter."

"Then you needn't kick Ned! The Ranscombs put through their deal and Mizpah's gone to forty!"

Hood rejoined them, and they talked till daylight. He told them much of himself. The responsibility of a great fortune had not appealed to him; he had been honest in his preference for the vagabond life, but realized, now that he was well launched upon middle age, that it was only becoming and decent for him to alter his ways. Billy's liking for him, that had struggled so rebelliously against impatience and distrust, warmed to the heartiest admiration.

"Of course I knew you were married," the senior Deering remarked for Billy's enlightenment, "and now and then I got glimpses of you in your gypsy life. Your wife had a fortune of her own—she was one of Augustus Davis's daughters—so of course she hasn't suffered from your foolishness."

"My wife shared my tastes; there has never been the slightest trouble between us. Our daughter is just like us. But now Mrs. Tyringham thinks we ought to settle down and be respectable."

"I knew your wife and daughter had come home. I had got that far," Mr. Deering resumed. "And after I began to suspect that you and Hood were the same person I put my own daughter into your house on the Dempster road as a spy to watch for you."

"My wife wasn't fooled for a minute," Hood chuckled. "We were having our last fling before we settled down for the rest of our days. We all have the same weakness for a springtime lark: my wife, my daughter, and I."

Billy ran his hands through his hair. "Pierrette! Pierrette is your daughter!"

"Certainly," replied Hood; "and Columbine, the dearest woman in the world, is my wife, and Pantaloon my father-in-law. In my affair with you there was only one coincidence: everything else was planned. It was Pierrette, whose real name is Roberta—Bobby for short, when we're not playing a game of some sort—Bobby really did lift your suitcase by mistake. And it was stowed away in Cassowary's car when I came to your house intending to return it. But when I saw that you needed diversion I decided to give you a whirl. It was an easy matter for Cassowary to move the suitcase to the bungalow, where you found it. I steered you to the house on purpose to see how you and Bobby would hit it off. The result seems to have been satisfactory!"

Cassowary turned uneasily on his bench.

"And before we quit all this foolishness," Hood resumed with a glance at the chauffeur, "there's one thing I want to ask you, Mr. Deering, as a special favor. That chap lying over there is Tommy Torrence, whom you kicked off your door-step for daring to love your daughter. He's one of the best fellows in the world. Just because his father, the old senator, didn't quite hit it off with you in a railroad deal before Tommy was born is no reason why you should take it out on the boy. He started for the bad after you made a row over his attentions to your daughter, but he's been with me six months and he's as right and true a chap as ever lived. You've got to fix it up with him or I'll—I'll—well, I'll be pretty hard on your boy if he ever wants to break into my family!"

With this Hood rose and drew from his pocket a handful of newspaper clippings which he threw into the air and watched flutter to the floor.

"Those are some of your advertisements offering handsome rewards for news of me dead or alive. In collecting them I've had a mighty good time. Let's all go to sleep; to-morrow night the genial Fogarty will get us out of this. He's over there now sawing the first bar of that window!"



X

A year has passed and it is May again and the last day of that month of enchantment. There has been a house-party at the Deering place at Radford Hills. Constance came from Wyoming to spend May with her father, bringing with her, of course, her husband, sometime known as Cassowary, who has been elected to the legislature of his State and, may, it is reported, be governor one of these days. The Tyringhams are there, and this includes Robert Tyringham, alias R. Hood, and his wife (whose authorship of "The Madness of May," has not yet been acknowledged) and also her father, Augustus Davis, who continues to find recreation in frequent attacks upon any inoffensive piano that gets in his way. Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ranscomb, too, have shared Mr. Deering's hospitality. Marriage has not interrupted Mrs. Ranscomb's career as an artist, though she has dropped illustrating, and is specializing in children's portraits with distinguished success.

The senior Deering, wholly at peace with his conscience, does not work as hard as he used to before his taste of adventurous life gained in the pursuit of Hood. He is very proud of his daughter-in-law, whose brown eyes bring constant cheer and happiness to his table. If she does not hang moons in trees any more, she is still quite capable of doing so, and has no idea of permitting her husband to wear himself out in the banking-house. They are going to keep some time every year for play, she declares, to the very end of their lives.

Hood had been devoting himself assiduously to mastering the details of his business affairs, living as other men do, keeping regular office hours in a tall building with an outlook toward the sea, and taking his recreation on the golf-links every other afternoon.

"Mamma has been nervous all this month about papa," Roberta (known otherwise as Pierrette or Bobby) was saying as she and Billy slowly paced the veranda. "But now May is over and he hasn't shown any disposition to run away. I suppose he's really cured." There was a tinge of regret in her last words.

"Yes," Billy replied carelessly. "He hasn't mentioned his old roving days lately. I think he's even sensitive about having them referred to."

"But even if he should want to go, mamma wouldn't break her heart about it. She feels that it's really something fine in him: his love of the out-of-doors, and adventures, and knowing all sorts and conditions of men. And he has really helped lots of people, just as he helped you. And he always had so much fun when we all played gypsy, or he went off alone and came back with no end of good stories. I'm just a little sorry——"

They paused, clasping hands and looking off at the starry canopy. Suddenly from the side of the house a man walked slowly, hesitatingly. He stopped, turned, glanced at the veranda, and then, sniffing the air, walked rapidly toward the gate, swinging a stick, his face lifted to the stars.

Bobby's hand clasped Billy's more tightly as they watched in silence.

"It's papa; he's taking to the road again!" she murmured.

"But he'll come back; it won't be for long this time. I haven't the heart to stop him!"

"No," she said softly, "it would be cruel to do that."

The lamps at the gate shone upon Robert Tyringham as he paused and then, with a characteristic flourish of his stick, turned westward and strode away into the night.

THE END