hurried disentanglement was in her ears, the voice of
Wyeth sounded remotely from the rear of the house. It seemed to come
from far back in the library, removed from them by the length of the
double drawing-rooms--a comfortable, smooth, high-pitched voice--lazy,
drawling--

"Oh, _Linford!_"

_Linford!_ The name seemed to sink into the stillness of the great
house, leaving no ripple behind. Before an answer to the call could
come, she had opened the great door and pulled it sharply to behind her.

Outside, she lingered a moment as if in serenely absent contemplation of
the street, with the air of one who sought to recall her next
engagement. Then, gathering up her skirts, she went leisurely down the
steps and passed unhurriedly from the view of those dismayed eyes that
she felt upon her from the Wyeth window.

On the avenue she turned north and was presently alone in a shaded aisle
of the park--that park whose very trees and shrubs seem to have taken on
a hard, knowing look from having been so long made the recipients of
cynical confidences. They seemed to understand perfectly what had
happened, to echo Wyeth's high-pitched, friendly drawl, with an added
touch of mockery that was all their own--"Oh--Linford!"

CHAPTER XVII

FOR THE SAKE OF NANCY

It was toward six o'clock when she ascended the steps of the rectory.
Bernal, coming from the opposite direction, met her at the door. Back of
his glance, as they came together, was an intimation of hidden things,
and at sight of him she was smitten by an electric flash of wonder. The
voice of Wyeth, that friendly, untroubled voice, she now remembered had
called to no specific Linford. In the paralysis of embarrassment that
had seized her in that darkened hallway, she had failed to recall that
there were at least two Linfords in existence. In an instant her inner
world, wrought into something like order in the past two hours, was
again chaos.

"Why, Nance--you look like night, when there are no stars--what is it?"
He scanned her with an assumption of jesting earnestness, palpably meant
to conceal some deeper emotion. She put a detaining hand on his arm as
he was about to turn the key in the lock.

"Bernal, I haven't time to be indirect, or beat about, or anything--so
forgive the abruptness--were you at Mrs. Wyeth's this afternoon?"

His ear caught the unusual note in her voice, and he was at once
concerned with this rather than with her question.

"Why, wh