om me.

The woman she stood beside was not "Edith," but Mrs. "Ted" Mason--the
wife of one of the best fellows I ever knew, and a stanch friend of
mine. Instantly my resolve was made. Mrs. "Ted's" loyalty should be
put to the supreme test. She should be my confessor, and, unless I was
mistaken, the counsel for my defense. I started on my way around the
hem of promenaders.

Twice I was delayed by the incursions of dancers, and when I reached
the side of my prospective ally she was alone. Out on the floor a
slender figure in lavender was smiling in the face of her partner--a
man I knew I was to dislike exceedingly when I should meet him.

Mrs. "Ted's" eyes grew big when I stood before her. And when she spoke
it was with the air of a tragedy queen. "Do I see aright? Is it you?
Or is it your wraith? Is this Page Winslow? And is this scene of
revelry--a dancing floor? Oh, Page, Page! In my old age to give me
this shock is cruel--unlike you--utterly cruel, I say!"

My face burned for the shame I could not conceal, but I was beyond the
point where any attack was to divert me. I explained--lies came so
readily now. I was present to-night by promise to Tony Rennert, I
said. Only by engaging to show myself at the dance had I been able to
persuade him to give me his company for a day's shooting. And Tony was
detained in the city, and I was here alone, unprotected, liable at any
moment to be seized with stage fright and to swoon. Such a thing would
be disgraceful and embarrassing as well to all my friends--in other
words, to herself. No, I corrected myself, that was not quite true.
There was _one_ other person present who might remember me--a Miss
Gans----

"Margery Gans!" Mrs. Ted's amazement left her speechless for a moment.
Then, while the first words of my confession stuck in my throat, she
burst out: "And you of all men! Why, she is just out of a convent
school! Tonight is her first! How on earth----?"

It was harder than ever now to say what I was trying to say, and she
gave me small opportunity. "Why? Why?" she resumed, and suddenly her
voice took on a gravity which her mischievous eyes belied. "My dear
Page, do you believe in the instrumentality of coincidence?"

My confusion was patent, and she went on. "Because, whatever you have
believed, you must believe in it from this night. Do you know what has
happened to Margery Gans?"

"What?" I gasped.

Mrs. "Ted" studied me from beneath lowered lids. "Oh!" she said, an