had been going about the yard with contractors most of
the afternoon. But Graham made his escape safely. It was two hours later
when his father, getting into the limousine, noticed the absence of the
boy's red car, and asked the gateman how long it had been gone.

"Since about four o'clock, Mr. Spencer."

Suddenly Clayton felt a reaction from the activities of the day. He
sank back in the deeply padded seat, and felt tired and--in some odd
fashion--lonely. He would have liked to talk to Graham on the way
up-town, if only to crystallize his own thoughts. He would have liked to
be going home to review with Natalie the day's events, the fine spirit
of his men, the small difficulties. But Natalie hated the mention of the
mill.

He thought it probable, too, that they were dining out. Yes, he
remembered. They were dining at the Chris Valentines. Well, that was
better than it might have been. They were not dull, anyhow. His mind
wandered to the Valentine house, small, not too well-ordered, frequently
noisy, but always gay and extremely smart.

He thought of Audrey, and her curious friendship with Natalie. Audrey
the careless, with her dark lazy charm, her deep and rather husky
contralto, her astonishing little French songs, which she sang with
nonchalant grace, and her crowds of boyish admirers whom she alternately
petted and bullied--surely she and Natalie had little enough in common.

Yet, in the last year or so, he had been continually coming across them
together--at the club, at luncheon in the women's dining room, at his
own house, Natalie always perfectly and expensively dressed, Audrey in
the casual garments which somehow her wearing made effective.

He smiled a little. Certain of Audrey's impertinences came to his mind.
She was an amusing young woman. He had an idea that she was always in
debt, and that the fact concerned her very little. He fancied that few
things concerned her very deeply, including Chris. But she knew about
food. Her dinners were as casual as her house, as to service, but
they were worth eating. She claimed to pay for them out of her bridge
winnings, and, indeed, her invitation for to-night had been frankness
itself.

"I'm going to have a party, Clay," she had said. "I've made two killings
at bridge, and somebody has shipped Chris some ducks. If you'll send me
some cigarets like the last, I'll make it Tuesday."

He had sent the cigarets, and this was Tuesday.

The pleasant rolling of the