anner so high strung that it wasn't far from being flighty. As
though to avoid conversation, she seated herself at the piano and played
her most brilliant pieces.

"I think you might tell me," said Mary, in the first lull.

"I told you long ago. Men are fools! But if he thinks he can bully me--!"

"Who?"

"Wally!" Mary's exclamation of surprise was drowned in the ballet from
Coppelia. "I don't allow any man to worry me!" said Helen over her
shoulder.

"But, Helen--don't you think it's just possible--that you've been
worrying him?"

A crashing series of chords was her only answer. In the middle of a run
Helen topped and swung around on the bench.

"Talking about worrying people," she said. "What's the matter with Burdon
down at the office lately? What have you been doing to him?"

"Helen! What a thing to say!"

"Well, that's how it started, if you want to know! I was trying to cheer
him up a little ... and Wally thought he saw more than he did...."

For a feverish minute she resumed Delibes' dance, but couldn't finish it.
She rose, half stumbling, blinded by her tears and Mary comforted her.

"Now, go and get your bag, dear," she said at last, "and I'll go home
with you, and stay all night if you like."

But Helen wouldn't have that.

"No," she said, "I'm going to stay here a few days. I told my maid where
she could find me--but I made her promise not to tell Wally till
morning--and I'm not going back till he comes for me."

"I wonder what he saw..." Mary kept thinking. "Poor Wally!" And then more
gently, "Poor Helen! ... It's just as I've always said."

Mary was a long time going to sleep that night, thinking of Helen, and
Wally and Burdon.

Yes, Helen was right about Burdon. Something was evidently worrying him.
For the last few days she had noticed how irritable he was, how drawn he
looked.

"I do believe he's in trouble of some sort," she sighed. "And he looks so
reckless, too. I'm glad that Wally did speak to Helen. He isn't safe."
And again the thought recurring, "I wonder what Wally saw...."

A sound from the lawn beneath her window stopped her. At first she
thought she was dreaming--but no, it was a mandolin being played on muted
strings. She stole to the window. In the shadow stood a figure and at the
first subdued note of his song, Mary knew who it was.

"Soft o'er the fountain
Ling'ring falls the southern moon--"

"If that isn't Wally all over," thought Mary. "He thinks Helen's here,