Monteith had an appointment with us, and was on his way here when your brother held him up to go on this crazy expedition. I understand—!”

Daryl’s voice suddenly interrupted the tirade on the wire.

“You understand wrongly, Miss Cass. My brother went along with Mr. Monteith to show him the way. He had nothing whatever to do with the errand. And now, if you will excuse me I will get some sleep. In the morning I will tell Mr. Monteith. Good night!” Daryl hung up the receiver with a decided little click, and Alan Monteith heard little soft scurrying slippers going up the stairs.

Alan Monteith lay still, and in a moment the telephone bell began to ring again. It rang and rang several times but he lay there in the darkness, with the flicker of the dying fire on the opposite wall and grinned. Every time the bell rang he grinned again. But no more slippered feet came down the stairs and finally the telephone rang no more.

So! This was a side of Demeter Cass he had not seen before.

Demeter Cass on his trail in this out-of-the-way place! How had she found him? He lay and considered it. His mind seemed to have awakened suddenly. He had not heard all she said, of course, but he had heard enough.

Demeter Cass! And that Harold person! What was he to Daryl?

Wyndringham Ledge and the house party! How far away it seemed! How much more desirable this warm, sweet room and the sheets that smelled of lavender and the row of stockings hanging downstairs, with his name pinned to one of them. “The Substitute Guest”! Would “Harold” come in the morning and spoil it all? And somehow he would have to face Demeter Cass over the telephone the next day! She would be sure to start on his track again. But there was one thing, she wouldn’t call early. He knew her well enough for that. She wouldn’t wake up after a bout such as they likely had tonight until eleven at the earliest, or maybe not until noon. He would have time to make a glib excuse for not trying to come over for the next two days. Or perhaps the storm would be excuse enough. The storm and his broken-down car. He would have the morning, at least, undisturbed, and after that the storm would still be his protection from an onslaught from the crowd. They couldn’t come over impassable roads of course.

He fell to thinking of what the morning would be like, those stockings hanging in a row around a bright warm fire! What could he put in those other stockings that companioned the one bearing his signature? He had gifts in his suitcase, extravagant glittering gifts, bought in a rather desultory way, in a sort of wholesale order to the salesman who waited upon him in one of the exclusive shops of the city. He had spent more money on them than he wanted to spend, but he felt he had to. One had to do as the rest did if one went to a party at Wyndringham Ledge. It was the expected thing. And most of the gifts he had bought were for people he did not know personally. A heterogeneous collection of costly trinkets, scarcely considered. Only a very few of the things had he really picked out himself, the rest had been the suggestion of the salesman. The ones he had selected had satisfied his own taste, and he had vaguely hoped there might be someone among the crowd who would appreciate them.