"Then, in a flash of inspiration, unseen by the others, she did
the one thing that could save her." [Page 14]

THE
BISHOP'S PURSE

BY

CLEVELAND MOFFETT

AND

OLIVER HERFORD

ILLUSTRATED

TORONTO
THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED
PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Copyright, 1912, by CLEVELAND MOFFETT and
OLIVER HERFORD

Printed in the United States of America

TO OUR FRIENDS IN
LAKEWOOD, NEW JERSEY
WHERE THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. [Hester Storm Gives Her Name as Jenny Regan]
II. [Showing the Importance of a Golf Bag]
III. [Presenting Hiram Baxter]
IV. [A Shock for Betty]
V. [The Rev. Horatio Merle]
VI. [Hester of the Scarlet Cloak]
VII. [The New Secretary]
VIII. [A Face in the Glass]
IX. [A Flash of Memory]
X. [Horatio Discovers a Peppermint Tree]
XI. [Laughter in the Dark]
XII. [The Gray Lady]
XIII. [First Aid to the Injured]
XIV. [The Parable of the Cocoanut Pie]
XV. [The Four Pottles]
XVI. [The Desert Island]
XVII. [The Servant in the House]
XVIII. [Martin Luther]
XIX. [The Missing Page]
XX. [The Reverend Horatio Turns Detective]
XXI. [The Quarrel]
XXII. [A Problem in Virtuous Strategy]
XXIII. [A Scrap of Paper]
XXIV. [Delivering the Goods]
XXV. [The Locked Door]
XXVI. [Under the Rose]
XXVII. [Lionel and Kate]
XXVIII. [The Threat]
XXIX. [Enter Grimes]
XXX. [The Penitent]
XXXI. [Lionel to the Rescue]
XXXII. [The Storm]
XXXIII. ["Her Promise True"]
XXXIV. [The Five-Bar Gate]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

["Then, in a flash of inspiration, unseen by the others, she did the one thing that could save her."] ... Frontispiece

["It seemed to Hester that she had seen this man somewhere before."]

["'Betty!' he cried. 'Are you ill?'"]

["'No! You mustn't see him. Let me speak to you—alone.'"]

THE BISHOP'S PURSE

CHAPTER I
HESTER STORM GIVES HER NAME AS JENNY REGAN

A near-sighted German music teacher crossed his legs at an inopportune moment, and this trivial action led directly to the startling incidents of the following narrative, with their momentous effects upon several lives.

This singular occurrence took place on a railway train in England, a boat train with passengers from Paris, three of these, a strangely assorted trio, being brought together by fate within the respectable cushioned walls of a first-class carriage. On one side sat an English bishop, in formal black garments, talking with evident interest and a certain deference to a very pretty and smartly dressed American girl, whose fresh views and charming lack of reverence seemed to delight the rather heavy-minded but well-meaning prelate.

Small wonder that the ecclesiastical gaze was held in rapt attention, for Miss Betty Thompson (of New York and recently of Paris) was not only fair to look upon with her teasing blue eyes, her long curling lashes, her auburn hair shot through with golden lights and her adorable mouth upturned at the corners, but she added to these the fatal gift of unexpectedness. So the bishop looked and listened and marveled, while the tired lines faded from his face and he reflected that, after all, the ride from Dover to London was very short, amazingly short.

The other one of this trio, whose meeting here was to have such far-reaching consequences, was a quietly attired young woman, traveling alone, her black hair and warm ivory coloring seeming to indicate a Latin origin. She, too, was a girl of striking beauty, but there was something of sadness and yearning in the depths of her lustrous dark eyes. As if weary with the journey, she dozed from time to time or seemed to doze, her thick lashes lifting occasionally for a languid glance at her companions and then drooping again, while a faint, half-wistful smile played about her full red lips.

"An interesting face," whispered the bishop to his young friend. "A singularly interesting face. Wouldn't you say so, Miss Thompson?"

Betty studied the sleeping girl a moment and nodded thoughtfully. "A sort of wild beauty. I've been looking at her and wondering if—" She paused in perplexity.

"You think she is a fellow countrywoman?" suggested the bishop.

"I'm not sure, but—I think she's unhappy and—" as the stranger stirred uneasily, "did you ever see anything so deliciously green as these hedges?"

The dark-eyed girl was far away in her reveries, living over again fragments of her life that seemed to flash by in lurid memory pictures, just as this rushing English landscape flashed before her half-closed eyes.

Now ... the great halls of Monte Carlo, hushed groups around green-covered tables, worshiping groups, one would say, with tense, eager faces—and the clink of gold. Stupid people! Bound to lose their money anyway, so—what did it matter?

Now ... the blue of the moon-kissed Mediterranean and a sighing orchestra playing on the marble terrace. And that most ridiculously careless South American general with his gold cigarette case! Fancy having real rubies and emeralds set in a cigarette case! What did the man expect?

Now ... the pigeons at Mentone, circling in frightened sweep over the lazy gardens while a Russian countess suns herself by the beds of chrysanthemums. What a fool to carry all that jewelry in a handbag!

Now ... Paris, a nice enough town and they could have it. All very fine driving in the bois and sipping tea at the Continental, but American secret service men were nosing about and—it's a pity if a girl can't speak a friendly word to an old lady from Grand Rapids, Michigan, without getting called down for it. Time to move on, Hester Storm, especially as you have eight hundred dollars in good coin tucked away and the jewelry. So one ticket, please, to Manhattan Island, for a girl who is going home and—wants to look her sister Rosalie in the eyes and—is just a little sorry for certain things and—anyhow, she's going to keep straight, yes, straight for the rest of her natural life.

At this moment, by some perversity of chance, a phrase in the droning talk opposite caught Hester's ear and brought her to alert attention.

"Five thousand pounds, my dear: not a penny less," the bishop declared impressively.

The Storm girl tingled with sudden interest, yet managed to keep her eyes closed. Then, gradually and cautiously, she lifted her heavy lashes and peeped through them. The bishop was fussing with a handbag, searching for something, taking something out, a purse of brown leather, a fat purse with a heavy elastic band around it. And, in his bland, pompous way he was telling Miss Thompson about his recent and most successful visit to America in the interest of the Progressive Mothers' Society. The Americans had been so kind to him, so generous; their contributions, together with those of Americans in Paris, amounted to this splendid sum that he was now carrying back to London.

Five thousand pounds! And he explained the extraordinary combination of circumstances that had prevented him, at the last moment, just as he was leaving Paris, from depositing this money with his bankers.

Five thousand pounds! It was evidently wiser, unquestionably safer, to remove so large a sum from his careless handbag to the shelter of his ecclesiastical coat, the inside pocket—there! And straightway the transfer was effected with a benignant smile, while the stranger sized up the situation very much as a professional golf player would study a difficult shot.

Not that Hester had any personal interest in this fat brown leather pocketbook or any designs upon it. No, no! She was done with that sort of thing, quite done with it, but from the detached standpoint of a former expert she could not help reflecting that here was an opportunity, a most unusual opportunity, if one could just see the right way of handling it.

Then she thought of the very large sum involved. Five thousand pounds! Twenty-five thousand dollars! How small it made her poor little eight hundred seem! Twenty-five thousand dollars! A fortune—all one could ever need! And there it was for the taking. There in the loosely hung black coat of an absent-minded bishop! Dear, dear, if this wonderful chance had only come sooner—before she made her good resolutions!

However, she had made them and would hold to them. She had given her promise to Rosalie, her promise true, and come what might she was going to keep straight. The bishop's purse was perfectly safe so far as she was concerned. Besides, with only three of them in the carriage, she couldn't get the purse if she wanted to. There must be other passengers, two or three others, so that the coppers would have some one besides her to put the blame on when the big squeal came. There must be at least two other passengers.

As Hester reached this purely academic conclusion the train drew up at a small station and the guard ushered in a near-sighted German music teacher, followed by a friend, who proved to be a trombone player, a very irascible person, and these two straightway fell into a heated discussion of the poisonous and non-poisonous qualities of mushrooms.

The dark-eyed dreamer smiled at the coincidence of their arrival, but remained unshaken in her resolve to leave the bishop's purse alone and all other purses likewise. Too well she remembered that little affair at the Élysêe Palace Hotel. Ugh! When Grimes fixed his cold gray eyes on her! Grimes from Scotland Yard, who happened to be in Paris on a case. Stupid man, who couldn't understand how easily a girl might mistake another woman's cloak for her own! What if it was of costly Russian sable? What did that prove? It was most annoying, and, having wriggled out of this misadventure, Hester did not propose ever again to risk another one.

Besides, it would take more than these two chattering musicians to help her. There must be a mob to shove and jostle. His nobs in the knee breeches must be standing up and somebody must push him against her or trip him up, so that in the scuffle she could sneak the leather. And now, suddenly, as Hester was fortifying herself in this prudent and virtuous decision, there came one of those trifling happenings that change the course of lives and empires—the near-sighted German music teacher crossed his legs. Whereupon the Bishop of Bunchester, who was just starting for the door, as the train drew into Chatham Junction, stumbled over the extended member and was thrown with some violence into Hester's corner, more precisely into Hester's lap, losing his glasses in transit, and was only rescued from this embarrassing position and brought again to a dignified perpendicular after much confusion with assistance and profuse apologies from the two Germans, which apologies the bishop gallantly passed on to the young woman upon whom he had so abruptly descended.

At Chatham Junction there was a stop of ten minutes, during which time the bishop and Miss Thompson walked briskly up and down the platform, but Hester kept her place by the window, looking out with the same odd little smile and wistful glance that had so interested Betty and her venerable friend. When these two returned to their seats the German musicians were gone and as the train resumed its journey to London, the fateful three were once more alone in the carriage.

The bishop and his young friend were now in gay spirits, laughing over something which Betty, apparently, had been describing with delicious drollery. In the self-absorption of their camaraderie, in their utter indifference to Hester's presence, they seemed to her brooding mind, to exclude her as completely from their social atmosphere as if she were a servant. And for some strange reason, the psychic meaning of which she was to understand later, the girl found herself hurt and irritated by this attitude of unconscious superiority.

The Storm girl stirred uneasily. Her wistful smile hardened into a bitter twist of the lips and through half-shut, envious eyes she studied this other American girl, this fortunate being whose every gesture, every tone of voice and every exquisite detail of costume bore witness to the background of culture and wealth that had always been hers. Why should this piece of pink-and-white prettiness be given all the good gifts, money, social position, friends, while she, Hester Storm, had none of these and never would have? It was all unfair! This whole scheme of life was a—it was a crooked game, where the cards were stacked against some people all their lives. What would this spoiled darling over there, with her clothes and her swell ways—what would she have done if she'd been born in a rotten tenement and—had a sick sister that she loved—a sister she'd die for—like Rosalie? Would she have done any better? Would she?

In the midst of her self-justification, Hester's attention was arrested by a sudden eager interest shown by Miss Thompson in the bishop's talk, which now concerned a man named Hiram Baxter, Betty's guardian, who had, it appeared, crossed on the steamer with the bishop the week before.

"Such a picturesque character, Miss Thompson; so generous and—er—self-reliant and—er——"

"Careful now," warned Betty playfully. "You know Mr. Baxter is very dear to me. Father and he were partners and—he's been like a father to me."

"I know, my child. I only said he was a picturesque character."

"But you were thinking of his slips in grammar and his funny little ways of talking—I just love them."

There was a thrill of almost passionate loyalty in Betty's voice. The bishop, glancing at her eager, flushed face, thought that he had never seen anything lovelier than this ardent championship of Hiram Baxter's foibles.

"I assure you, my dear," he said, hastening to correct her suspicion that he was making fun of Hiram, "I honor Mr. Baxter for the rare qualities of mind and heart that have made him the great man that he is, for the splendid traits that have lifted him to fortune and success from—shall I say so humble a beginning?"

Betty's beautiful eyes kindled with a glow of fondness. "Did he tell you about that? Isn't it splendid the way he fought his way to the top?" Then she added, with a teasing glance, "You see, Guardy has managed his life on the American plan."

"Which abounds in surprises, Miss Thompson, as you may discover."

Betty turned quickly. "What do you mean by that? Did Guardy tell you something?"

The bishop smiled mysteriously. "Mr. Baxter told me a number of things. We walked the deck for hours. We smoked together in the evenings, and—really, I never enjoyed a voyage more."

"Yes, but what did he tell you? Please?" She leaned forward eagerly. "Does it—does it concern me?"

"In a way, but—it's more the general idea. A most extraordinary, a most amusing idea. 'Mr. Baxter,' I said to him when he told me, 'upon my soul, I never met a man like you.'"

"But what was it? Please tell me."

"And Baxter said to me"—the prelate's ample body shook with suppressed merriment—"'Bish,' he said—you know he always calls me 'Bish'—I wish I could remember the speech he made, it was so—so deliciously American. 'Bish,' he said, with that slow drawl of his, 'I'll bet ye four dollars and a quarter'—now what was the rest of it?"

"Never mind the rest of it," interrupted Betty. "Tell me what Guardy's idea is. I must know."

The bishop hesitated while Betty pouted her pretty lips and played petulantly with the strap of her golf bag that stood near. "I suppose he's going to scold me for being extravagant. Is that it?"

The bishop was about to reply when he started in sudden alarm, and, clapping his hand to his coat pocket, exclaimed: "Bless my soul! My purse!"

"Your purse? Why—what?"

The prelate made no answer, but rising quickly, he searched through his garments with grave concern, then, looking at Betty in dismay, he said slowly: "It's gone. I put it in this pocket—you saw me put it there, my dear, and—it's gone."

For some moments neither spoke. Then, by a common impulse, they turned and looked at the stranger whose innocent dark eyes met them with friendly interest and concern.

"I beg your pardon," said the bishop awkwardly. "You haven't by any chance seen a—a purse of mine?"

"A purse," repeated Hester sweetly.

"I may have dropped it," he explained, searching the carriage floor in perplexity. Then he squinted upward at the luggage racks as if expecting to find the purse there.

"You couldn't have dropped it," said Betty. "I saw you put it in your pocket; your inside pocket. It's most extraordinary."

"It's an extremely serious matter," fumed the bishop, and glancing out of the window he saw that they were running into a station.

"I'm sorry," Hester said in a low, sympathetic voice. "Hadn't you better call the guard?"

At this moment Betty sprang up with a cry of understanding. "I have it! Those two Germans! Don't you remember, Bishop, when they jostled against you? You remember?" she turned to Hester.

"Yes, I remember," nodded the dark-eyed girl.

"I wonder—" reflected the prelate.

"There's no doubt of it," pursued Betty. "That's how pickpockets work—two or three together."

As the train stopped the guard was summoned, and for some minutes there was greater excitement in the little station of Farmingdale than had been known there for years. The Bishop of Bunchester robbed of five thousand pounds! Robbed in a railway carriage in broad daylight! The news spread like wildfire, and presently the station master, the guard and the one officer on duty, were in low-voiced conclave at the carriage door, while wondering groups gathered on the platform. Five thousand pounds!

A careful search of the carriage having revealed nothing, it was decided that the three travelers must alight with their luggage so that the robbery could be further investigated while the train proceeded to London.

"I'll have to ask you to come this way, young lady," said the officer presently, to Hester. "Don't get excited. I'm not saying you took it, but you were in the carriage and—we've got to be on the safe side. How about her, your lordship?" He looked at Betty.

The bishop drew himself up to his full official dignity. "This is Miss Thompson, my friend, who is traveling with me."

"Oh! Beg pardon, miss. We have to know these things." He touched his hat apologetically to Betty. Then turning to the Storm girl: "Now then, it will only take a few minutes"; but his whispered instructions to the station master's wife were that the search must be thorough. The station master's wife nodded grimly and beckoned the girl to follow her into a private room, which Hester did with such an air of simple innocence, showing neither fear nor bravado, that she made a most favorable impression.

"I'm sure she had nothing to do with it," declared Betty. And the bishop agreed that it must have been the Germans.

"We have telegraphed the Chatham police to arrest them, your lordship," said the officer.

A little later the station master's wife reappeared, with mollified visage, and reported that she had searched Hester with the greatest care and had found no sign of the purse nor anything that was in the least suspicious. Furthermore, the girl's frank, honest manner had convinced her that she was innocent.

"Of course she is!" cried Betty, taking the stranger's two hands in hers with quick sympathy. "I knew you didn't take it."

Hester's eyes filled with tears at this proof of confidence. She hesitated a moment as if scarcely able to speak, and then: "Thank you, thank you," she murmured.

It was now decided that the Bishop of Bunchester must return at once to Chatham for the purpose of identifying the suspected Germans. There was a train going back shortly.

"You will pardon me, my dear Miss Thompson, for not escorting you to London, as I promised Mr. Baxter, but you see the seriousness, the urgency——"

"Don't think of me. I'll get to London all right. Thank you for your kindness, and I do hope you'll find the purse." Betty gave the bishop her slim gloved hand, and as he looked into her lovely face, so genuinely sympathetic, he could not help reflecting that in his whole episcopal experience he had never met a more charming, a more fascinating young woman than Betty Thompson. Thus it came about that Betty, on a later train, made the last half hour of her journey to London without the bishop's companionship; but not alone, for she insisted that Hester go with her and sit beside her. To this the station authorities consented, after carefully recording the girl's name (she gave it as Jenny Regan of New York City) and other essential facts concerning her. The purse was certainly not on the girl's person nor in her luggage, and, all things considered, there was no justification for holding an American citizen against whom there appeared to be not a shadow of evidence.

So once more it happened that these two young women, so sharply contrasted in character and in physical beauty, sat together in a first-class railway carriage, quite by themselves this time. There was something about Hester Storm (alias Jenny Regan) that interested Betty strangely, something different. She felt that here was a girl worth studying, and she wished to make amends, if possible, for that humiliating search.

They talked of various things. Betty tactful, sympathetic, vaguely puzzled. Hester equally tactful, equally sympathetic and keenly on her guard, for the truth is that the Storm girl's good resolutions had not been proof against an untoward combination of circumstances; and when the Bishop of Bunchester was rudely tumbled against her, she had yielded to temptation, and with one swift, skillful movement had withdrawn the purse from the episcopal pocket; in other words, Hester Storm had stolen the five thousand pounds!

CHAPTER II
SHOWING THE IMPORTANCE OF A GOLF BAG

It must now be revealed (since this is a straightforward tale) that the stolen five thousand pounds was all this time snugly reposing in a most unlikely hiding place which Hester, with quick resourcefulness, had hit upon when she saw the guard approaching. At that moment the purse was hidden in her dress, but she knew she could not keep it there; a search would certainly be made, and—where could she hide it? What could she do with it?

The guard turned the handle of the carriage door and there came for Hester a moment of sickening despair as she realized her desperate peril; then, in a flash of inspiration, unseen by the others, she did the one thing that could save her: she dropped the bishop's purse into the open mouth of Betty Thompson's golf bag.

Now the bottom of a golf bag is about the last spot on earth where anyone would expect to find a missing purse; yet, as devotees of this sport will agree, a more admirable place of concealment could scarcely be imagined. Far down in a jumble of heavy clubs the purse lies unseen by the keenest eye and beyond reach of the longest arm. To search the bottom of a golf bag would involve taking out all the clubs and turning the bag upside down, but who would do that? Who would go exploring for stolen treasure in so battered and so innocently open a receptacle?

All of which, in the first emergency, favored Hester, but now, with the danger past, made it difficult for her to carry out her plan. How was she to get the purse? There it was, almost within reach of her fingers, yet tantalizingly out of reach. It was maddening to think that, with so great a prize so nearly won; she might still lose everything simply because a stupid, flimsy barrier of canvas and leather stood in her way.

The Storm girl concentrated all her faculties on this new problem, and thrilled with the exhilaration of a brilliant coup almost accomplished. There was no more question of scruples or regrets. She had made the break and must see the thing through. A rather neat piece of work so far, but the hardest part remained. The crisis would come when the train reached London. Good old Charing Cross Station!

As she studied the situation, searching desperately for some master move, Hester talked to Betty, letting the conversation drift as the latter pleased and keeping sweetly to her attitude of virtue injured but resigned; also showing the most touching, almost tearful, gratitude (not all assumed) for Betty's kindness. Glibly she spun a hard-luck story of loneliness and friendlessness and the disappointing result of her efforts to be a nursery governess. Betty was deeply interested, very sorry, and finally offered her protegé five pounds, which Hester at first refused, but finally, rather shamefacedly, accepted, thinking it more in character to do so. She would certainly send back that five pounds and fifty with it, once she had gotten safely away with the five thousand.

Yes, but that was the point. How was she going to do it? How could she get the purse? If she could only think of something. She must think of something. There was not a moment to lose. Even now they were roaring into London city, and—suddenly the inspiration came—it was a chance, the only chance, and Hester took it.

Rising from their seats they gathered up their belongings. The dark-eyed girl slipped over her shoulders a brilliant red cloak, the red being of so striking a shade that Betty remembered it afterward. Then very simply and naturally Hester turned to her benefactress. "Let me help you with your things. I have only this little bundle. There!" and without more ado she took the golf bag.

"Thanks!" smiled Betty. "You must come to see me while you are in England. I'll give you my card. Well, here we are!"

With grinding wheels the train drew up in Charing Cross station, and amid a great slamming of doors the passengers swarmed out and made their way briskly down the long platform. Betty went first, explaining to her friend that, in all probability, no one would meet her, owing to their change of train, yet searching in the crowd for some familiar face. Hester searched faces, too, for she knew that word of the robbery must have been telegraphed ahead to London, and as they passed through narrow gates in the iron barrier that separated the tracks from the station proper her heart was pounding furiously, although her face showed only a sweet and trusting smile. No one stopped them here, and with a sigh of relief Hester followed on, trying to quiet the rattle of the golf clubs and gradually lagging behind her eager friend.

Now, just before them, rose the circle of a wide newsstand, beyond which were two exits, one on either side of the station. Betty was moving toward the left-hand exit and here, in a second, Hester saw her opportunity. Sheltered by the newsstand, she had only to steer quickly toward the right-hand exit and then, before Betty could even suspect that she was missing, make her getaway into the myriad streets of London. It was too easy and the girl was already gloating over the trick as finally turned when her heart froze within her, for there at the corner of the newsstand were the cold gray eyes she knew so well fixed pitilessly on her. Grimes of Scotland Yard!

It was a critical moment for Hester. Had she weakened by the quiver of an eyelash, had she started ever so slightly, the detective would have taken her there and then, for he remembered her well and the suspicious circumstances of that sable cloak episode. But she, schooled in self-control, swept on serenely without a sign of recognition. Grimes turned and followed her.

"Caught with the goods," muttered the girl, and faint with fear but unfaltering, she swung back to the left in Betty's wake, for here now was her only hope of safety. Grimes was close behind.

As they reached the street, Betty nodded for a taxicab and gave her things to a chauffeur, who came forward eagerly. Then, seating herself on the cushions, she turned pleasantly to Hester.

"It was good of you to carry that heavy bag. I'll take it in here—that's right. Remember I'm at the Savoy for a day or two with Mr. Hiram Baxter. And here is our address in Surrey. There." And, smiling most cordially, she gave Hester her card.

"Hiram Baxter! The American millionaire!" reflected Grimes, puzzled, but still confident.

"You'll come to see me, won't you?" called the fair young woman as the taxicab rolled away.

"Yes," answered Hester, her dark eyes glowing on the ravished golf bag. "I'll come."

Then, with quiet self-possession, she turned and her eyes met Grimes.

"Ah, little one!" he chuckled, roughly familiar.

"How dare you speak to me!" she protested with such an air of well-bred anger that he drew back, hesitating.

"Excuse me, but—haven't I seen you before?" he stammered.

Hester swept him with a scornful glance. "I thought an American lady was safe from insult in the streets of London," she said, and before he had recovered from his astonishment she had entered a waiting hansom and was gone.

CHAPTER III
PRESENTING HIRAM BAXTER

Hiram Baxter, whose hidden purposes were responsible for Betty's sudden and momentous journey to London, was, in this year of the first flying machine, one of the few really interesting self-made men to be found in New York City, where such sturdy and picturesque types are rapidly disappearing. At fifty-five Baxter was a big, grizzled fellow, with a pair of straight shoulders, a friendly smile and a way of using the English language that was absolutely and delightfully his own.

"This grammar business ain't much of a trick," he would declare, with his slow characteristic drawl. "I could swing it any time I wanted to, but where's the sense o' wearin' high collars and patent leather boots if yer neck and yer feet ain't comf'table in 'em? Suppose I say to you, 'I like them peaches'? You say those peaches. I say, no, them peaches. You say it's wrong. I say it don't make a hang o' difference, it don't hurt you an' it don't hurt me an' it don't hurt the peaches."

Baxter invariably dressed in simple black garments, including a wide-brimmed soft black hat, that gave him in repose, with his ruddy, rugged visage, somewhat the look of an English bishop, as had been more than once remarked by his episcopal friend of Bunchester.

"It ain't because I like it that I wear black," Hiram sometimes explained, "and it ain't because I'm sad. The fact is black's the only safe color fer me if I want a happy home. Why, if I ever let myself go on colored vests an' striped pants, an' fancy neckties, my wife'd start fer a divorce the next mornin'. Yes, sir."

When Hiram laughed his blue eyes twinkled at you under shaggy black brows and his strong teeth gleamed at you beneath his white mustache; then, perhaps, he resembled a bluff German statesman. But as soon as he spoke you knew he was American through and through, and, somehow, you thought none the less of him for his quaint lapses in speech. Not all the rules of prosody and syntax could alter the fact that Hiram Baxter was a figure of compelling power, a strongly original and lovable man, who inspired immediate confidence in his wonderful resourcefulness.

It was during his recent voyage on the Lusitania, in the course of a brisk walk on the upper deck, that Baxter took the Bishop of Bunchester into his confidence regarding certain serious personal matters. Hiram's friendship with the bishop was of long standing, for the American some twenty-eight years before, at the outset of his varied career, had married an English lady, a distant connection of the prelate's, and it had long been the Baxters' custom to divide their year between a comfortable home in Washington Square, New York, and a country place in Surrey, about two hours out of London, where Mrs. Baxter entertained numerous relatives and friends with lavish hospitality.

"I tell ye, Bish," Hiram broke out abruptly, "it ain't by a man's successes that ye can size up his character. No, sir. It's by the mistakes he makes an' the way he faces 'em and gets out of 'em. Why, I know a doctor up in New Hampshire—homeliest feller I ever seen—he got rich makin' cough medicine out o' shingles."

"Bless my soul! Shingles!" the bishop exclaimed.

"Yes, sir; shingles. Good pine shingles. A whole lumber yard full of 'em. He got 'em in foreclosure proceedings—hadn't the first notion what to do with them shingles until he happened to think of cough medicine. That turned the trick. Ever heard of 'Peck's Peerless Pectoral'? It was his invention—stewed it out o' them shingles, every bottle of it; and say, Bish, it's great stuff. Which is what I call makin' the best of yer mistakes, for it ain't every country doctor could see his way to snatchin' victory out of a lot o' discredited pine shingles."

This bit of homely philosophy was received by the distinguished churchman with amused approval.

"Very true, my dear Baxter, but I don't see how this applies to you."

"I'll show ye," chortled Hiram. "Ever hear o' the feller that used to wear detachable cuffs and then went broke because he bought a shirt that had cuffs sewed on? No? It's a fact. Ye see he had to get a swell suit to match the shirt, and a swell fur overcoat to match the suit, and a swell automobile to match the fur overcoat, and the first thing he knew he was such a swell he blew up an' busted."

"What an extraordinary fancy!" exclaimed the bishop, laughing immoderately.

"Fancy nothing. It's a fact," declared Baxter. "And I want to tell you I've been a little that way myself. I've been tryin' to live up to the standards o' my wife an' my wife's relations. That's where I've made my mistake. Yes, sir. I'm only a rough feller, Bish, but—well, I married Eleanor and—you know what she is. Swell English family and—grand ideas, and—you understand. D'ye think I'm stuck on havin' a country place in England? Asbury Park 'd suit me a lot better, but Eleanor wanted it. She said it was the proper thing and—so I took Ipping House, with its ancestral towers and its dungeons and a lot o' blamed foolishness. Excuse me, Bish, but that's what it is. And as fer relatives—" he paused with a grim tightening of the lips.

"My dear Baxter," put in the prelate, "you surely do not regret the old-fashioned English hospitality that you and your excellent wife have been practicing?"

"Well," drawled Hiram, "if old-fashioned English hospitality consists in bein' worked in every conceivable way by a lot of impecunious third cousins that never did a day's work in their lives, then I say it's time old-fashioned English hospitality got inoculated with some new-fashioned American common sense. Why, with Lionel Fitz Brown, my wife's third cousin, and Kate Clendennin, the Countess Kate, and the two Merles and various others, my house is about as much like a home as a Narragansett hotel. Now take Merle."

"Horatio Merle?" interjected the bishop. "You don't mean——"

"Yes, I do," continued Baxter, "the Rev. Horatio Merle, my wife's second cousin once removed. As good a man as ever thumped a Bible—you know what I mean, Bish," Hiram added quickly, mistaking for a sign of disapproval the cough which the reverend auditor had substituted for a chuckle. "Yes, sir, for a downright, pure-hearted Christian you might go through the British Isles with a fine-tooth comb and not find another like Horatio Merle; but what good does that do him? He's lost five preachin' jobs in three years, and for the last six months the only flocks that have had the benefit of his pulpit oratory have been the birds and butterflies at Bainbridge Manor. I tell you, Bish, he missed his vocation. He ought to have been one of them nature sharps."

"I believe you are right," assented the bishop. "Horatio Merle would have made his mark as a naturalist. I never knew a man in whom the love of nature was more beautifully developed. He is a sort of modern St. Francis."

"Modern St. Francis," snorted Hiram. "I don't know who he was, but if he could beat Horatio Merle——"

he broke off with a broad grin. "Say, Bish, did ye hear how Horatio lost his last preachin' job?"

"Why, no. How was that?"

"Seems he was goin' to church one Sunday mornin', and passin' by the canal he saw some boys tryin' to drown a kitten. They'd just hitched a stone around its neck when Merle caught sight of 'em.

"'You young rascals,' he called out, but he was too late, and the next minute the poor little thing splashed into the water. Well, sir, that was too much for Horatio. He knew the church folks were waitin' for him, but he couldn't help it. He just waded into that canal, black clothes and all, and fished out the kitten. Then he went ahead with his religious duties while the water dripped down under his robes and the congregation made up their minds that he was plumb crazy."

"Poor Merle!" reflected the bishop. "And what became of the kitten?"

"Why, he's got him yet. A big black cat now. Martin Luther's his name, and wherever Merle goes there's Martin Luther taggin' after him like Mary's little lamb. Understand, Bish, I like Merle; I like to have him 'round. As far as that goes I like the rest of 'em, but——" Here his face clouded.

"My dear Baxter," said the bishop sympathetically, "I understand these little family annoyances, but after all you're a rich man and——"

"Yes," cut in Hiram, "I'm a rich man, and if I don't look out I'll wake up some fine morning and find myself"—here the fighting spirit flashed in Hiram's honest blue eyes, and with a swing of his powerful shoulders—"no, I won't, either," he added. "I'll beat those Wall Street devils yet; I'll beat 'em at their own game."

Then Baxter, in strict confidence, explained to the bishop the nature of the difficulties in which he innocently found himself, difficulties that put in jeopardy every dollar of his fortune and with it the happiness and welfare of his family.

The prelate followed this narrative with sympathetic interest and concern, and then listened with growing astonishment while Baxter outlined briefly his programme, which, after all, was based on a very simple idea, yet was so unusual that the average person would have at once rejected it as impossible.

Thus the bishop at once objected: "But, my good friend, this is out of the question, quite out of the question."

"Why is it?" persisted Hiram.

"For one thing your wife will never consent."

"Won't she? You wait and see."

"For another thing I feel obliged to say——"

"You feel obliged to say," chuckled Baxter, "that it's a crazy notion. Bet ye four dollars and a quarter that's what ye think. But listen to me, Bish. I've made my fortune doin' crazy things. Once I bought three thousand plug hats at auction in Chicago fer eight hundred dollars, an' I sold 'em at dollar apiece in Denver for a political parade. I've bought busted railroads and watched 'em come up to par. I've bought played-out oil wells an' made 'em spout gold. Why, I even bought an old church once with a haunted graveyard and got square on the marble in it, with all the land as velvet."

"Dear, dear, dear! A haunted graveyard?" murmured the bishop.

"Yes, sir; and I'll put this thing through the same as I did that, because it's a good idea. A big, sound, American idea. Now you just watch me."

CHAPTER IV
A SHOCK FOR BETTY

One immediate consequence of the golf-bag-purse-vanishing episode narrated above, was a delay of two hours in Betty Thompson's arrival in London, which delay meant that Hiram Baxter and his wife, having waited vainly at Charing Cross station for the expected traveler, had now returned, quite out of sorts, especially Mrs. Baxter, to their rooms at the Savoy Hotel.

"I think it's very inconsiderate of Betty to be so careless about her trains. You wired her, didn't you?" said the wife as she stood before a cheval glass preparatory to removing a new and very large green velvet picture hat, with gold-brown plumes and drooping brim. Beneath this effective covering her hair was discreetly shadowed, her eyes, if they were calculating, seemed only pensive, and the pouting of her mouth was transformed to an expression of winsome pleading—so much for the wizardry of a woman's hat.

As she stood before the mirror Mrs. Baxter's half-turned face wore that sidelong, disquieted look with which a woman always regards her newest hat, half pleasure of possession and half regret for that other hat, the one in the shop that she did not buy and whose fetching colors and enticing lines have ever since haunted her. A pleasing panel picture she made in the black framed oval of the cheval glass, a harmony in green and golden brown. Boldini might have painted that mirror picture of Eleanor Baxter. She was a harmony of insincerities, a woman who seemed to have youth and height and slenderness, but who really had none of these. This, however, was a secret between Mrs. Baxter and her looking-glass.

"I wired her all right," answered Hiram.

"It quite upsets my plans," complained Eleanor. "Of course I was glad to come to town yesterday, dear, to meet you when you arrived from the steamer, but it's most annoying to be kept in London now. All the relatives are expecting you, Hiram."

"Are, eh? How many of 'em?"

"Only Cousin Harriet and Cousin Horatio and Cousin Lionel and the countess. The dear baroness left yesterday. I'm sorry she couldn't stay to see you."

"Yes, it's a pity the dear baroness couldn't stay to see me," said Hiram dryly.

"I'm glad we won't miss the bazaar to-morrow afternoon," Eleanor rattled on; "the Progressive Mothers' bazaar. You know Cousin Horatio delivers the address, and I want you particularly to be there, Hiram."

Baxter nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose so." Then his face gradually broke into a smile. "Progressive Mothers! Say, can ye beat that? I always thought old-fashioned mothers were about right, but the Bish says——"

"Hiram! Please do be more careful of your language!" Eleanor's voice was petulant.

"Oh, I see! It ain't the thing to call old Bunchester, Bish. All right, dearie. What I started to say was that his Lordship o' Bunchester tells me we ain't begun to hear the last word yet in the matter o' raisin' children. He got five hundred out o' me—I mean dollars."

By this time Mrs. Baxter had composed herself in a comfortable arm-chair, and, having nothing else to do, was studying her husband critically.

"You look tired, Hiram," she decided.

"I'm tired, all right," he nodded.

"You look worried, too."

The big fellow reflected a moment and then said slowly: "Well, I admit I'll feel better when I see Independent Copper about twenty points higher."

Mrs. Baxter eyed him keenly. "Nothing has happened? Nothing is wrong?" she asked with growing alarm.

For a few moments Hiram sat silent, then closing his lips with decision, he answered kindly: "Eleanor, I guess ye'll have to know exactly how things are. Since we've been married, and that's a good many years, I've done my best to make ye happy. I've tried to give ye everything ye wanted. I never thought the time would come, dearie, when I'd have to ask ye to economize, but——"

He hesitated while she listened with widening, startled eyes.

"Hiram!" she gasped.

He bowed with a slow impressiveness that struck terror into her worldly soul. "I'm awful sorry, but the time has come."

"Economize!" repeated Eleanor in a daze. "It isn't possible."

Again Hiram nodded. "Yes, it is. I'm pretty well tied up with the obligations I've undertaken, and—dearie, we've got to economize."

"Oh, if you had only kept out of this copper speculation!" she lamented.

"I couldn't keep out. You knew I couldn't. Bryce Thompson was my partner, my friend, and—he's dead. I ain't goin' to have any slur on his memory. I've paid his debts, dollar fer dollar, and I'm carryin' his copper stock. Bryce made a mistake, but he meant well. He did it fer his daughter, Betty, and"—here Baxter's voice grew tender as he saw Eleanor's distress—"don't you worry, little woman, we'll come out o' this copper fight on top."

These comforting words seemed only to arouse a sharper resentment in Mrs. Baxter, who turned on her husband angrily. "Meantime, our whole household must be upset, and—we must economize. I suppose you're going to discharge some of the servants?"

Hiram answered with his most winning smile: "Say, ye guessed it the first time. We've got a dozen servants up at Ipping House, and I believe five could do the work just as well—or better."

"Absurd!"

"Bet ye seven dollars and a quarter five servants could do the work if we cut out some o' your relatives."

"You needn't say they're all my relatives. How about Betty Thompson? She's more extravagant than any of the others."

"Bet ye she'll be the first one to take her coat off and hustle—when she knows."

Eleanor's lips tightened for another indignant outburst, but, by a great effort, she controlled herself and spoke with her most irritating manner of lofty disapproval: "Hiram! I wish you wouldn't use that vulgar American word."

Baxter stroked his chin thoughtfully under his white mustache. "Think it's vulgar, eh? The English aristocracy think it's vulgar to hustle, but tell me where the English aristocracy would be if it wasn't for the dollars that American fellers like me have hustled for?"

At this juncture Eleanor's maid appeared with word that Miss Betty Thompson had arrived and had gone to her apartment, which, it appeared, did not please her. She wanted a sitting-room overlooking the Thames, whereas this one opened on a court-yard.

"Tell Miss Thompson I'll see her in a moment," said Mrs. Baxter. Then, when the maid had gone: "There! You see Mistress Betty must have the most expensive rooms in the hotel."

"Well, why not?" retorted Baxter. "She thinks she's a rich girl and can afford 'em." He sat looking thoughtfully at his big strong hands while Eleanor rose to go. "I hate to tell her, but—I s'pose I must."

"Of course you must tell her. You should have told her long ago."

"Perhaps. But—remember, Eleanor, not a word about her father's speculations." He spoke with sudden authority.

"I don't see why Betty Thompson shouldn't know the truth about her father. Why should she be spared any more than the rest of us?"

"Because I say so," answered Baxter, with a glance from under his heavy brows that his wife had rarely seen. "It would make her unhappy and it wouldn't do any good." Then in a low tone and with sudden tenderness he added: "Ye know who Betty makes me think of, dearie? Of our little sunshine girl that's—that's gone. She's got the same eyes and—the same pretty ways, and—say, I wish ye'd send Betty in here, I want to talk to her."

Eleanor looked at her husband without replying, and something changed in her face—something beyond the wizardry of any picture hat to conceal. Then, quietly, she gathered up her things and left the room. And a few minutes later Betty Thompson appeared, a radiant vision of youth and sweetness that brought joy to old Baxter's heart.

"Why, Betty!" he exclaimed, stretching out both his hands, and she came to him quickly, her eyes shining with fondness.

"Dear Guardy! I'm so glad to see you," she murmured, as he held her in his strong arms and deepened the roses of her cheeks with two vigorous and affectionate smacks.

"Ain't too big fer an old fellow like me to kiss, are ye?"

Then he held her off at arm's length and admired her lovely, eager face, and her slender, lithe figure in its garb of Paris finery. "Well, well! Yer the real thing, ain't ye?"

Betty's eyes danced with pleasure. "Do you like this frock, Guardy?"

With wise nods of wondering approval Hiram studied Paquin's exquisitely suave creation of amethyst gray velvet, with its narrow trimming of black fox. Thrown carelessly over the girl's shoulders was a chiffon scarf of cobweb thinness, marvelously shaded from jonquil yellow to rosy pomegranate. And Betty's burnished brown hair melted glowingly into the purple lining of her white brimmed leghorn hat, with its knot of pale mauve pansies and its tossing topaz plume.

Hiram nodded in approval. "Like the frock and like the girl inside it. Sit down and tell me about things. How d'ye come to be so late? Miss yer train, or—what?"

"Why, we had an adventure," laughed Betty, "a most exciting adventure. Everything went well until we reached Chatham Junction. The bishop was perfectly lovely. He talked of all sorts of things, especially golf. I happened to have my golf bag with me and—you know, he's a great golfer."

"I know," said Baxter. "It gets me how many o' these brainy men like to waste time battin' them foolish little balls around a field. Guess I'll have to tackle it myself one o' these days. Well, what was the adventure?"

Betty's face grew serious, and she described, as clearly as she could, the bishop's misfortune on the train.

"Five thousand pounds!" exclaimed Hiram. "Well, well! Poor old Bish! Ain't that a shame?"

"There was a young woman in the carriage with us," went on Betty, "such an interesting face—rather foreign looking, and, when the bishop found that his purse was gone, he called the guard and the guard called the police and—they insisted on searching this young woman. I was so sorry. I knew she was innocent, and sure enough she was."

"How d'ye know she was innocent?"

"I could see it. She had large, dark eyes, so appealing and—she told me a most pathetic story afterward—and—why do you smile, Guardy?"

"I s'pose ye gave her all the money ye had with ye?" chuckled Baxter.

"I couldn't give her very much. I only had five pounds," answered the young American, her dignity somewhat ruffled.

"Hm! And ye gave her that?"

"Why, yes. I'm going to send her more. I take a great interest in that girl."

"Do, eh? Well, I wouldn't send her any more money. I wouldn't do it, Betty."

There was something in her guardian's tone that made Miss Thompson look at him in surprise and vague apprehension.

"Why not?" she asked.

"I guess you an' me'd better have a little talk, Betty," said Baxter kindly. "Ye remember I wrote ye a couple o' times about yer expenses in Paris and ye sent me back some pretty sharp opinions, the gist of it bein' that ye wanted to spend yer money accordin' to yer own ideas."

"Why shouldn't I? Father left me the money and I'm spending it in a way that he would approve of."

A sharp note sounded in her voice, but Hiram answered with unchanging gentleness. "I know, Betty, Bryce Thompson would have approved of your goin' to the South Pole to pick strawberries, if ye wanted to. He couldn't refuse ye a thing, he never did refuse ye; but I've been left your guardian, Betty, and it's my duty to tell ye that our present state o' finances don't justify givin' away five-pound notes to strange women ye meet on railway trains."

"I'd rather give my money to unfortunate girls who've never had a chance," retorted Betty with increasing spirit, "than—than to gamble it away in Wall Street!"

"Is that a little friendly jab at me?"

Betty tried vainly to control her emotion. "You've always been so good to me, Guardy, so considerate that I hate to say anything unkind, but I read the papers and—I understand more than you think about business."

"Do, eh? Such as—what?"

"I know there's a fight going on between two copper companies and—and you're in it, aren't you?"

Baxter smiled grimly. "I guess I'm in it, all right."

"And one company or the other may be ruined. Isn't that true?"

"Well," drawled her guardian, "I guess one comp'ny or the other's liable to find out that the thing they've been monkeyin' with ain't precisely a Sunday school picnic."

Betty's face was tense now with the earnestness of her convictions. "You may think me foolish, and perhaps I shouldn't say this, but Guardy, I don't approve of your using father's money like that."

"Don't, eh?" grunted Hiram, then rising from his chair, he walked back and forth with frowns and queer little nods of his massive head. Presently his face cleared and, stopping before Betty, he laid an affectionate hand on her shoulder.

"Child, it looks as if I'll have to explain a few things to you," he said, "that I didn't mean to talk about. You say ye don't approve of speculatin' in Wall Street. Neither do I. I got into this copper campaign because—well, it ain't exactly my fault and—anyhow, there are times when a man's got to fight fer his life. It's that way with me just now. As to usin' yer father's money——" He hesitated before the steady challenge of her waiting eyes. "Bryce Thompson and I were partners in business for twenty-five years. He was my best friend and—ye know I wouldn't breathe a word against his memory?"

"I know," said the girl. "Go on."

"Betty, yer father didn't leave any money." He spoke tenderly but firmly.

In a dull way she repeated the words. "He—he didn't leave any—money." Her voice trailed off into sickening silence.

"Ye know how generous yer father was and—he made unfortunate investments and—when his estate was settled up there wasn't anything left."

"Nothing left!" she murmured, then rousing herself as a new thought came. "But—all this money that you've been sending me?"

"I was glad to do it, Betty."

"It wasn't my money? I had no right to it? Oh!" She stared at him helplessly as the full realization broke upon her.

"I'd never have mentioned it, only——"

"You should have told me long ago. I'm so—sorry and ashamed."

"There, now! It's all right!" He took her two slim hands in his and patted them kindly.

"You've sent me thousands of dollars. I can never pay it back."

"Ye don't have to pay it back."

"But—why did you do it? Why?"

"I'll tell ye why," answered Hiram thoughtfully. "Because I loved yer father, that's one reason, and another is I—I've always loved you, Betty, ever since ye was little."

"Guardy!" she whispered tenderly. "But you must see that——"

"Wait, Betty! The bookkeepin' of life is a queer thing. Ye don't have to make the deservin' column and the lovin' column balance. When ye love ye don't give things because ye owe 'em; ye don't use a scale or a measurin' cup, ye just give and give, and ye can't give enough—because ye love."

The girl's eyes filled with tears; she tried to speak, but the words choked in her throat.

"It ain't only because yer a sweet, plucky girl that I've loved ye," he went on. "It's because ye make me think of——" there was a break in his voice. "Ye know, we had a little girl once and—we lost her. She was only three years old when she—went away. That ain't very old, is it? But, say, she had the cinches around our hearts all right! I can see her now, in her blue dress, with her little hands full o' flowers. She had eyes like yours, Betty, and a pretty way—like yours and——" the grim, old fellow stopped and wiped his eyes. "Well, I guess ye understand now why I'd do 'most anything in the world to make you happy."

"I've been so foolish, so extravagant," she murmured in distressed self-reproach.

"Not a bit! All I want ye to do is to ease up a few notches until——"

"And you've been hard pressed for money. Oh, if I could only help you! I will help you. I'll work. Yes, I mean it. I can earn money with my singing and—besides, I'm practical. I can use a typewriter—I could be your secretary, Guardy. I'm sure I could. Would you let me try? Please let me."

"Holy cats!" exclaimed Baxter. "Is there anything an American girl won't think of? I'm proud of ye, Betty, fer wantin' to do it, but it ain't necessary. You just stay with us like one of the family."

"No, no! There are too many staying with you like one of the family. I'm going to be your secretary, that is," her face fell, "unless you have one already?"

"I had one in New York, but I didn't bring her over because—the fact is, there was a leak in the office and—I fired her."

"Then you need some one to help you?" cried Betty eagerly. "And I do know about business—at least I can learn and—I can do what I'm told. Please, Guardy."

Betty's whole soul was in the words and, for many a day, Hiram Baxter remembered the loving radiance that illumined her face as she held out her hands in a sweet impulse to help.

"Yer a little thoroughbred, all right," he reflected. "And I could trust ye. That's a whole lot more'n I can say of the last one. Hm!"

He reflected a moment, and then, holding out his hand with a cheery smile: "Betty, yer my kind! Yer Bryce Thompson's daughter! There! I don't mind tellin' ye this fits in with a plan I had and—yes, ye can try it. Ye can be my secretary. Say, won't that shame the relatives?"

Thus they settled upon an arrangement that was destined to have important consequences.

This night they spent in town for the pleasure of a theatre, and the next morning Betty passed in a flutter of hurried preparations, for she suddenly realized that one of her Paquin gowns was not the most suitable garment for a serious-minded secretary to be wearing when she arrived at the scene of her duties. There was no reason why she should give Mrs. Baxter's relatives (who did not know her, thank heaven) the satisfaction of realizing, by any outward sign, how complete was the downfall of poor Betty Thompson. So she hurried into her plainest black frock, a very chic creation, nevertheless, and was waiting demurely in the taxicab when Hiram and his wife appeared.

And now, just as they were starting for the station, there came a long distance telephone message for Baxter, something important, the operator said.

"Who d'ye s'pose it was, Eleanor?" beamed Hiram a few moments later, as he hurried back. "Ye'll have to get a move on, friend," he warned the driver, as they shot away.

"The Baroness Dunwoodie?" guessed Mrs. Baxter.

"The Bishop of Bunchester?" guessed Betty.

"Wrong, both of ye." Then he turned to his wife with a happy smile. "Dearie, it's Bob."

"Bob!" exclaimed the mother.

"Bob Baxter, sure as guns!"

"But Bob is in New York? You left him there?"

"I left him there, but he didn't stay there. He jumped on the Lusitania the day after I sailed on the Olympic and they nearly beat us in. He came right across from Liverpool and he's up at Ipping House this minute. Wanted to know if he should come to town and I said we were on our way back and to wait where he was."

"My boy!" murmured Mrs. Baxter, and not all the picture hats in Piccadilly could give her the look of joy that her face wore now.

"Seems Bob found trouble in the office that he couldn't write about, so he just came over." The old fellow turned to Betty. "I told ye there was a leak in that New York office."

It was not until they were seated in the train that Eleanor was enlightened as to Miss Thompson's new purpose.

"Mr. Baxter's secretary? It's absurd!" she declared.

"Please don't say that, Mrs. Baxter," pleaded Betty. "I've only just found out about—Father and—I couldn't respect myself if I just did nothing and let Mr. Baxter support me."

"There's the American spirit for ye," approved Hiram.

The train rushed on and presently, as happens in railway journeys, the three lapsed into silence. Hiram thought of his business worries and of his plan for solving the problem of the relatives; Eleanor thought of her son, and Betty thought of various things. Poor child, she had enough to think of! What a sad awakening after all her bright dreams! She wondered who would live now in her lovely Paris apartment that would never be hers again. Who would stand of summer evenings, as she had stood so often, on the balcony outside her bedroom and watch the swallows circling over the chestnut trees on the Champs Élysêes? Perhaps she would never see Paris again!

Then she thought of Bob Baxter, the playmate of her childhood, whom she had not seen for years and years, not since she was a little thing with yellow braids down her back and freckles on her nose. A homely little thing, they always said. She wondered if Bob remembered her as a homely little thing. Perhaps he did not remember her at all.

She turned toward the fleeing landscape and, in the window, caught the reflection of her own lovely face. Miss Betty Thompson, if you please, a poor dependent, a drudging secretary! It was sickening, maddening; she could not bear it. And then, through the torture of her thoughts, came tripping brightly a whimsical fancy that brought back the laughter to her eyes. And the laughing eyes in the window seemed to say: "How could he possibly remember you?"

"Guardy," she asked softly, "would you do something for me?"

"Sure I would," said Hiram.

"Even if it seems silly—just to make me happy?"

Baxter nodded his big head slowly. "Try me, little girl."

"You said it would shame the relatives—what I am going to do?"

"It will—you bet it will—when they know."

"But I don't want them to know. That's the point. It isn't any snobbish reason. I'm not ashamed of working, but——" She threw all her feminine power into one swift, bewitching appeal. "Guardy, I don't want them to know that I am Betty Thompson. I don't want anyone to know it except you and Mrs. Baxter. Please let me have my way. Let me just be your new secretary, Miss—er—I'll take some other name."

"No, no, I won't stand fer any fake name. Take yer own name. I'll introduce ye as Miss Thompson, my new secretary. They'll never suspect that yer Betty Thompson."

"But some of the relatives will be sure to know you," objected Eleanor.