d been slightly jarred at the magnitude of the break
he had made--but that was all over now.

"My mistake, old scout," he chuckled softly. "You saved the day--what
are you glowering about?"

"Clod!" gasped Anthony.

"Clod your necktie!" Johnson Boller said airily. "Well, did you ever see
the like of it? Did you ever see anything like the little squeezicks,
Anthony! She's back, bless her little heart! She couldn't stand it."

"Umph!" said his host.

"And so I'm let out of it!" Mr. Boller chuckled on. "We'll just scoot
along to the little dove-cote, old vinegar-face, and see how she looks
after all this time. I can get my things later on. Well--I'm sorry to
leave you with the problem on your hands, you know."

"Don't let it disturb you!" Anthony snapped.

"But at that, you know, fate's doing the kind, just thing by snatching
me out," Mr. Boller concluded earnestly and virtuously. "It wasn't my
muddle in the first place, and somehow I feel that you haven't acted
just on the level with me about any of it."

Anthony's mouth opened to protest. Yet he did not protest. Instead, he
jumped, just as one jumps at the unexpected explosion of a
fire-cracker--for down the corridor a scream, shrill and sharp, echoed
suddenly.

And after the scream came a long, choking gasp, so that even Wilkins
appeared in the doorway and Johnson Boller darted forward to learn what
had overtaken his only darling. He was spared the trouble of going down
the corridor, however. Even as he darted forward, Beatrice had rejoined
them; and having looked at her just once Johnson Boller stood in his
tracks, rooted to the floor!

Because Beatrice, the lovely, the loving, Beatrice of the melting eyes
and the high color, had left them. The lady in the doorway was white as
the driven snow and breathing in a queer, strangling way; and whatever
her eyes may have expressed, melting love for Johnson Boller was not
included.

For this unpleasant condition the hat in her hand seemed largely
responsible. It was a pretty little hat, expensively simple, but it was
the hat of a lady!

And, looking from it to Johnson Boller, Beatrice finally managed:

"This--this! This hat!"

Johnson Boller moved not even a muscle.

"Who is the woman?" Beatrice cried vibrantly. "_Who is she?_"

And still neither Anthony nor Johnson Boller seemed able to canter up to
the situation and carry it of with a blithe laugh. Anthony was making
queer mouths; Johnson Boller was doin