ith a kick.

Lydia laughed as the two young girls in the tonneau turned to nod to her
in mock despair; then she came running back up-stairs, holding her skirt
free from her hurrying little feet.

"Well?" she inquired, as Mortimer turned back from the window to
confront her.

"Nothing doing, little girl," he said with a sombre smile.

She looked at him, slowly divesting herself of her light leather-trimmed
coat.

"I missed him," said Mortimer.

She flung the coat over a chair, stood a moment, her fingers busy with
her hair-pegs, then sat down on the couch, taking Tinto into her lap.
She was very pretty, dark, slim, marvellously graceful in her every
movement.

"I missed him," repeated Mortimer.

"Can't you see him to-morrow?" she asked.

"I suppose so," said Mortimer slowly. "Oh, Lord! how I hate this
business!"

"Hasn't he misused your confidence? Hasn't he taken your money?" she
asked. "It may be unpleasant for you to make him unbelt, but you're a
coward if you don't!"

"Easy! easy, now!" muttered Mortimer; "I'm going to shake it out of him.
I said I would, and I will."

"I should hope so; it's yours."

"Certainly it's mine. I wish I'd held fast now. I never supposed Plank
would take hold. It was that drivelling old Belwether who scared me
stiff! The minute I saw him scurrying to cover like a singed cat I was
fool enough to climb the first tree. I've had my lesson, little girl."

"I hope you'll give Howard his. Somebody ought to," she said quietly.

Then gathering up her hat and coat she went into her own apartments.
Mortimer picked up a cheap magazine, looked over the portraits of
the actresses, then, hunching up into a comfortable position, settled
himself to read the theatrical comment.

Later, Lydia not appearing, and his own valet arriving to turn on
the electricity, bring him his White Rock and Irish and the Evening
Telegraph, he hoisted his legs into another chair and sprawled there
luxuriously over his paper until it was time to dress.

About half past eight they dined in a white and pink dining-room
furnished in dull gray walnut, and served by a stealthy, white-haired,
pink-skinned butler, chiefly remarkable because it seemed utterly
impossible to get a glimpse of his eyes. Nobody could tell whether there
was anything the matter with them or not--and whether they were only
very deep set or were weak, like an albino's, or were slightly crossed,
the guests of the house never knew. Lydia he