may
never suspect any one is in it. Matilda, it's the only way!"

"Yes--but, ma'am, how am I to explain your sudden disappearance?"

"Say that your sister became homesick," said Mrs. De Peyster with
mounting hope, "and decided suddenly, in the middle of the night, to
return at once to her home in Syracuse."

"That may satisfy all but Mr. Pyecroft, ma'am. But Mr. Pyecroft won't
believe it."

"Mr. Pyecroft will have to believe whatever he likes. It's the only
way, and we're going to do it. And do it at once! Matilda, go down and
see if they're all asleep yet, particularly Mr. Pyecroft."

Matilda took off her shoes and in her stocking-feet went scouting
forth; and stocking-footed presently returned, with the news that all
seemed asleep, particularly Mr. Pyecroft.

Five minutes later, in Matilda's dress, and likewise in stocking-feet,
Mrs. De Peyster stepped out of her second maid's room. Breathless, she
listened. Not a sound. Then, Matilda at her heels, she began to creep
down the stairway--slowly--slowly--putting each foot down with the
softness of a closing lip--pausing with straining ears on every tread.
With up-pressing feet she glided by the door within which Mr. Pyecroft
lay in untroubled sleep, then started by the room that homed Jack and
Mary, creeping with the footsteps of a disembodied spirit, fearful
every second lest some door might spring open and wild alarms ring
out.

But she got safely by. Then, more rapidly, yet still as noiseless as
a shadow's shadow, she crept on down--down--until she came to her own
door. Here the attending Matilda silently vanished. With velvet
touch Mrs. De Peyster slipped her key into the lock, stepped inside,
noiselessly closed and locked the door behind her.

Then she sank into a chair, and breathed. Just breathed ... back
once more in the spacious suite wherein nine days ago--or was it nine
thousand years?--inspiration had flowered within her and her great
idea had been born.

CHAPTER XIX

A PLEASANT HERMITAGE

When she awoke, it was with a sweet, languorous sense of perfect
comfort. Heavy-lidded, she glanced about her. Ah! Once more she was
in her own wide, gracious bed--of a different caste, of an entirely
different race, from the second maid's paving-stone pallet, from
that folding, punitive contrivance from whose output of anguish
Mrs. Gilbert managed to extract a profit. Also she was in sweet,
ingratiating linen--the first fresh personal linen that had