ard Mr. Wingfield say that a true artist would make copy out of his
grandmother."

Ballard scowled. It was quite credible that the Lester Wingfields were
lost to all sense of the common decencies, but that Elsa Craigmiles
should be in love with the sheik of the caddish tribe was quite beyond
belief.

"I'll choke him off for you," he said; and his tone took its colour from
the contemptuous under-thought. "But I'm afraid I've already made a mess
of it. To tell the truth, I suggested to Miss Van Bryck at dinner that
our camp might be a good hunting-ground for Wingfield."

"_You said that to Dosia?_" There was something like suppressed horror
in the low-spoken query.

"Not knowing any better, I did. She was speaking of Wingfield, and of
the literary barrenness of house-parties in general. I mentioned the
camp as an alternative--told her to bring him down, and I'd--Good
heavens! what have I done?"

Even in the softened light of the electric globes he saw that her face
had become a pallid mask of terror; that she was swaying in the hammock.
He was beside her instantly; and when she hid her face in her hands, his
arm went about her for her comforting--this, though Wingfield was
chatting amiably with Mrs. Van Bryck no more than three chairs away.

"Don't!" he begged. "I'll get out of it some way--lie out of it, fight
out of it, if needful. I didn't know it meant anything to you. If I
had--Elsa, dear, I love you; you've known it from the first. You can
make believe with other men as you please, but in the end I shall claim
you. Now tell me what it is that you want me to do."

Impulsively she caught at the caressing hand on her shoulder, kissed it,
and pushed him away with resolute strength.

"You must never forget yourself again, dear friend--or make me forget,"
she said steadily. "And you must help me as you can. There is
trouble--deeper trouble than you know or suspect. I tried to keep you
out of it--away from it; and now you are here in Arcadia, to make it
worse, infinitely worse. You have seen me laugh and talk with the
others, playing the part of the woman you know. Yet there is never a
waking moment when the burden of anxiety is lifted."

He mistook her meaning.

"You needn't be anxious about Wingfield's material hunt," he interposed.
"If Miss Dosia takes him to the camp, I'll see to it that he doesn't
hear any of the ghost stories."

"That is only one of the anxieties," she went on hurriedly. "The
greatest o