"What's the matter with his card?"

"He has sent it up--here--at this time of day!"

"Hum. Western eccentricity, I suppose. He'll get over all that sort of thing in time."

Ethel was hopping heavily from one slippered foot to the other.

"He hasn't merely left it," she distractedly explained. "He's here--he's actually in the house."

"Well, he's not a burglar, Ethel."

"Don't talk so, Preston. I know he's not a burglar. But what does he want here at this hour?"

"I suppose he wants to see you."

"Now? _What_ can he want to see _me_ about at 11 A.M.?"

"If you really want to know, my dear, I think that the best way to satisfy your curiosity is to go down and ask him."

"How can I?" She spread wide her arms, the more clearly to bring to her husband's wandering attention the fact that she was not yet by any means dressed to receive callers. "Won't you go?" she pleaded.

"Why should I?" asked Newberry. "_I'm_ not in the least curious----This coffee is worse every morning. You really must have Mrs. Dawson discharge Jane."

Ethel uttered a mighty sob and fled. She sent word to Stainton that she would be down in five minutes to greet him. After half an hour, she entered the reception room. Not ten minutes later, she rushed again upon her husband, this time in the smoking room, that she called his "study."

"What on earth do you suppose he wants?" she cried.

Preston, with a face like a martyred saint's, put down his newspaper. He did not, however, take his cigarette from his mouth to reply.

"What who wants?"

Ethel wrung her hands.

"That awful man!" she said.

"Is it possible that you are referring to my friend, Mr.--er--Mr.

Stainton?"

"Of course I am, Preston."

"Oh! He's still here?"

"Why, yes. I've only just seen him."

"You made him wait rather long, my dear. I hope you are not keeping him waiting again."

"What else could I do?"

"How do I know?"

"Preston, do try to show a little interest. I say: what on earth do you suppose he wants?"

"If he was as bored by that performance at the Metropolitan as I was,"

said Newberry, yawning, "he wants a drink. Don't _you_ know what he wants?"

"He wants--he wants," Ethel dramatically brought it out, "to take Muriel for a ride in his motor."

Preston had been seated in an arm-chair without the slightest indication of disturbing himself either for his wife or the visitor. At this announcement by Mrs. Newberry he rose with what, for him, was alacrity.

"I'll call her myself," he said.

"But, Preston! Think of it!"

"That is just what I am doing, my dear--and I think confoundedly well of it, let me tell you."

"In his motor!" Mrs. Newberry repeated the phrase as if it were pregnant with evil.

"What's the matter with his motor?" snapped Preston. "It's a motor, you say, not a monoplane. Mr.--Mr. Stainton has money enough to buy a safe motor--as motors go."

"Oh, Preston, consider: Muriel--alone--morning! The child isn't even really out yet!"

At this, Newberry fronted his wife squarely. For perhaps the first time in his life, he suffered the pains of definite a.s.sertion.

"Now, understand, Ethel," he said, "let's cut out all this rot about Muriel. The girl is _not_ such a child and she is out: she's out of school, and that's all the outing she's going to get. In fact, it's high time she was in again."

"She can't go back to the convent, Preston."

"Mr. Stainton doesn't want to motor her back to the convent. No. But if we manage things with half a hand, she needn't be much longer at large.

Now, don't keep my friend Mr. Stansfield waiting any longer. I surmise that he has his machine with him?"

"He came in it. It's at the door. I couldn't see the make."

"No. Naturally. Well, his bringing it along shows him to be a man of expedition. It's what we might expect of a successful miner. And it is promising for other reasons, too. Get Muriel, take her down, hand her over to him with your blessing--but be sure you hand her over as your dearest treasure--and then come back here to me."

Saying this, Preston resumed the perusal of his newspaper.

Ethel left the room. When she returned, she had the air of seeing blood upon her hands.

"Well?" asked Preston.

"They're gone."

Preston folded the paper and laid it carefully upon the table that stood beside him. The mood of a.s.sertion still tore at his vitals.

"Now then," he began, "about this Mr. Stansfield----"

"Stainton," mildly corrected his wife as she took a seat opposite him and looked out over the now rapidly filling Madison Avenue.

"Stainton." Newberry accepted the amendment. "What's wrong with him?"