This, to one only two years emanc.i.p.ated from family rule, had a familiar sound. Instinctively I resented it.

"Aren't you forgetting," I asked, gently, "that Miss Morris is really a woman of the world? It isn't as if she were merely a school-girl, you know, with immature judgment."

Mrs. Morris sighed. "You don't understand," she murmured. "You may feel differently when you talk to my son. I see that we must be very frank with you."

With an effort she talked of other things for a few moments, until G.o.dfrey joined us. His face brightened as he entered, and darkened when his mother told him briefly what had occurred. Without preface, he went at the heart of the tangle, in as direct and professional a manner as if he were giving me an a.s.signment in the _Searchlight_ office.

"It all means just this, Miss Iverson," he said. "Grace has fallen in love with an utterly worthless fellow. He has no family, no position; but those things don't matter so much. Perhaps she has, as she says, enough of them for two. What does matter is that he comes of bad stock--rotten stock--that he's a bounder and worse."

That surprised me, and I showed it.

"Oh, he has some qualities, I admit," added Morris. "The most important one is a fine tenor voice. He is a professional singer. That interested Grace in the beginning. Now she is obsessed by him. She has lost her head. Evidently he's in town to-night--you heard my mother say that envelope was addressed in his handwriting. They're together somewhere, and Heaven only knows what they're hatching up."

I resented that at first. Then it disturbed me. Perhaps they _were_ hatching up something.

"I'm sorry to bore you with all this," Mr. Morris apologized, "but Grace seems to have dragged you into it. She and Dillon--that's the fellow's name--have been trying to bring us 'round to their marriage.

Lately they've about given up hope of that. Now I believe Grace is capable of eloping with him. Of course, as you say, we can't control her, but I've been looking up his record, and it's mighty bad. If I could show her proofs of what I know is true, she would throw him over. With a little more time I can get them. I expect them this week.

But if in the mean time--to-night--"

He broke off suddenly, stood up, and began to stride about the room.

I rose. "I haven't any idea what she intends to do," I told him, truthfully. "And I can't tell you where she is. But I'll do what I can. I'll try to find her, and tell her what you say." I turned to his mother. "Good night," I said. "I'll go at once."

They looked at each other, then at me. There was something fine in the way their heads went up, in the quiet dignity with which they both bade me good-by. It was plain that they were hurt, that they had little hope that I could do anything; but they would not continue to humiliate themselves by confidences or appeals to one who stood outside the circle of anxiety which fate had drawn around them.

Arrived at the Lafayette, I went patiently from room to room of the big French restaurant, glancing in at each door for the couple I sought. It was not long before I found them. They were in a corner in one of the smallest of the side rooms--one which held only four or five tables. Grace Morris's back was toward me as I entered the room, but her escort faced me, and I had a moment in which to look him over.

He was a thin, reedy person, about thirty years old, in immaculate evening dress, with a lock of dry hair falling over a pale and narrow brow, and with hollow, hectic eyes that burned into those of his companion as he leaned over the table, facing her. They were talking in very low tones, and so earnestly that neither noticed me until I drew out a third chair at the table and quietly dropped into it. Both started violently. The man stared; Miss Morris caught my arm.

"What happened?" she asked, quickly. "Mother didn't get that letter?"

"No," I said. "No one saw it. It's burned."

She relaxed in her chair, with a laugh of relief.

"Speaking of angels," she quoted. "I was telling Herbert about you only a few moments ago." Her manner changed. "Miss Iverson," she said, more formally, "may I present Mr. Dillon?"

The reedy gentleman rose and bowed. She allowed him the barest interval for this ceremony before she continued.

"Herbert, listen to me," she said, emphatically. "If Miss Iverson will stand by us, I'll do it."

The young man's sallow face lit up. He had nice teeth and a pleasant smile. He had, also, the additional charm of a really beautiful speaking-voice. Already I began to understand why Miss Morris liked him.

"By Jove, that's great!" he cried. "Miss Iverson, Heaven has sent you.

You've accomplished in ten seconds what I've failed to do in three hours." He turned to Miss Morris. "You explain," he said, "while I pay the bill and get the car ready. I'm not going to give you a chance to change your mind!"

He disappeared, and Miss Morris remarked, casually: "We're going to be married to-night, with you as maid of honor. Herbert gave me all the plans in his letter, and I came down fully determined to carry them out; but I've been hanging back. It's frightfully dismal to trot off and be married all by one's self--"

I stopped her, and hurriedly described what had occurred at the Berkeley. She listened thoughtfully.

"The poor dears," she murmured. "They can't get over the notion that I'm still in leading-strings. They'll feel better after it's all over, whereas if mother knew it was really coming off to-night she'd have a succession of heart attacks between now and morning, and G.o.dfrey would spend the night pursuing us. We're going to Jersey for the ceremony--to a little country minister I've known since I was a child.

Herbert will drive the car, and we'll put you into the chauffeur's fur coat."

It took me a long time to convince her that I would not play the important role she had a.s.signed to me on the evening's program. At last, however, she seemed impressed by my seriousness, and by the emphasis I laid on the repet.i.tion of her brother's words. She rose, resumed her usual languidly insolent air, and led the way from the room. In the main hall, near the door, we found Mr. Dillon struggling into a heavy coat while he gave orders to a stout youth who seemed to be his chauffeur. Miss Morris drew Dillon to one side, and for a few moments the two talked together. Then they came toward me, smiling.

"All right," said the prospective bridegroom, with much cheerfulness.

"Since she insists, we'll take Miss Iverson home first."

He gave me a cap that lay in the tonneau, helped Miss Morris and me into fur coats, settled us comfortably in the back seat, folded heavy rugs over our knees with great care, sprang into the driver's place, and took the wheel. In another moment the car leaped forward, turned a corner at an appallingly sharp angle, and went racing along a dark side-street at a speed that made the lamp-posts slip by us like wraiths. The wind sang past our ears. Miss Morris put her lips close to my face and laughed exultantly.

"You're going, after all, you see," she triumphed. "Herbert and I aren't easy to stop when we've set our hearts on anything. Here--what are you doing? Don't be an idiot!"

She caught me as I tried to throw off the rugs. I had some mad idea of jumping out, of stopping the car, even if I paid for it by serious injury; but her strong grip held me fast.

"I thought you had more sense," she panted. "There, that's right. Sit still."

I sat still, trying to think. This mad escapade would not only cost me my position on the _Searchlight_, where G.o.dfrey Morris was growing daily in power, but, what was infinitely worse, it would cost me his interest and friendship. More than any one else, in my two years on the newspaper, he had been helpful, sympathetic, and understanding.

And this was my return to him. What would he think of me? What must I think of myself?

We were across the ferry now. Dillon stopped the car and got out to light the lamps. During the interval Miss Morris held me by a seemingly affectionate, but uncomfortably tight, pressure of an arm through mine. I made no effort to get away. Whatever happened, I had now decided I must see the thing through. There was always a chance that in some way, _any_ way, I could prevent the marriage.

The great car sped on again, through a fog that, thin at first, finally pressed against us like a moist gray net. Though we could see hardly a dozen yards ahead of us, Dillon did not slacken his alarming speed. From time to time we knew, by the wan glimmer of street lamps through the mist, that we were sweeping through some town. Gradually the roads grew rougher. Occasionally we made sharp turns, Dillon stopping often to consult with Miss Morris, who at first had seemed to know the way, but who now made suggestions with growing uncertainty.

Plainly, we had left the highway and were on country roads. The fog lifted a trifle, and rain began to fall--lightly at first, then in a cold, steady downpour. The car jolted over the ruts in the road, tipped at a dangerous angle once or twice, but struggled on.

In varying degrees our tempers began to feel the effect of the cold, the roughness, and the long-continued strain. Miss Morris and I sat silent. At his wheel Dillon had begun to swear, at first under his breath, then more audibly, in irritable, muttered words, and finally openly and fluently, when he realized that we had lost our way.

Suddenly he stopped the car with a jerk that almost threw us out of our seats.

"What dashed place is this?" he demanded, turning for the first time to face us. "Thought you knew the way, Grace?"

With an obvious effort to ignore his manner, Miss Morris peered unhappily into the gray mist around us. "I don't recognize it at all,"

she confessed, at last. "We must have taken the wrong turn somewhere.

I'm afraid we're lost."

Our escort swore again. His self-control, sufficient when all was going smoothly, had quite deserted him. I stared at him, trying to realize that this was the charming young man I had met at the Lafayette less than three hours ago.

"This is an infernal mess," he exclaimed at last. "We're in some sort of marsh! The mud's a foot deep!"

He continued to pull and tug and twist and swear, while the car responded with eager throbs of its willing heart, but with lagging wheels. At last, however, we were through the worst of the marsh and out into a wider roadway, and just as we began to go more smoothly there was a sudden, loud report. The car swerved. A series of oaths poured from Dillon's lips as he stopped the car and got out in the mud to inspect the damage.

"Cast a shoe, dash her," he snarled. "And on a road a million miles from any place. Of all the fool performances this trip was the worst.

Why didn't you watch where you were going, Grace? You said you knew the way. You knew I didn't know it."

His last words had degenerated into an actual whine. Looking at him, as he stood in the mud, staring vacantly at us, I had a feeling that, absurd and impossible as it seemed, in another minute the young man would burst into tears! His nerves were in tatters; all self-control, all self-respect, was gone.

Miss Morris did not answer. She merely sat still and looked at him, at first in a white, flaming anger that was the more impressive because so quiet, later in an odd, puzzled fashion, as if some solution of the problem he presented had begun to dawn upon her. He meantime took off his fur coat and evening coat, rolled up his sleeves, and got ready for his uncongenial task of putting on a new tire. I took the big electric bull's-eye he handed me, and directed its light upon his work. By the time the new tire was on, his light evening shoes were unrecognizable, his clothes were covered with mud, his face was flushed with exertion and anger, and the few words he spoke came out with a whine of exhausted vitality. At last he stopped work, straightened up, reached into the car, and fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat. Then he walked around to the side of the car farthest from us, and bent forward as if to inspect something there. I started to follow him, but he checked me.

"Stay where you are," he said, curtly. "Don't need you."

A moment later he came back to us, opened the door, and motioned us into the tonneau. In the short interval his whole manner had changed.