The voice stopped. Two men's figures confronted each other in an extremely narrow path. It was not too dark yet for each to be plainly recognisable to the other.

"Hallo--that you, Lockwood?"

"Hi there, Roger Barnes; what you doing here? Fishing?"

"Looking for something I've lost."

"Getting pretty dark to find it. Something valuable?"

"Rather. Think I'll give it up for to-night."

"Too bad. Nice night." Lockwood was hastening toward the end of the path which came out near Anthony's house. Barnes looked after him grimly.

"That voice of yours, young man," he thought, "handicaps me from the start. Now, if I could just warble my emotions that way----"

He turned and peered again at the white place by the tree. He moved stealthily toward it, and ascertained presently that it was not what it seemed. He rose to his feet and walked rapidly down the path to the Redding house. When he came in sight of it he saw that the kitchen windows were lighted and that a man stood with his arm on the sill of one of them.

Silhouetted against the light were the familiar outlines of Stevens Cathcart. As Barnes stood staring amazedly at this, a slender figure in white came to the window, and in the stillness he could hear the quiet voice:

"Please let me close the window, Mr. Cathcart. Thank you--no--and good-night."

"'Three Men in a Boat,' by Rachel Redding," murmured the doctor to himself, and slipped back to the willow path, from which he at length emerged to join the group upon the porch--which then, it may be observed, held for the first time that night its full complement of men.

Three big Chinese lanterns shed a softly pleasant light upon the porch and the lawn at its foot. Suzanne Gerard and Marie Dresser made a most attractive picture, one in a low chair, the other upon a pile of cushions on the step. Suzanne lightly picked a mandolin. Marie was singing softly:

"Down through the lane Come I again Seeking, my love, for you; Run to me, dear, Losing all fear, Love and my life will be true."

It was one of the songs of the summer--foolish words, seductive music--everybody hummed it half the time. Roger Barnes smiled to himself, remembering where he had heard it last.

"Come here and give account," commanded Suzanne the instant he appeared.

"Every unmarried man vanished the moment twilight fell. You are the last to show your face. I challenge you, one and all, to swear that you have not been within sight of a certain small brown house at the foot of the hill since supper."

Her voice was music; in her eyes was laughter. Marie sang on, pointing her words with smiles at one and another of the culprits.

From his seat on the threshold of the door, where his head rested against Juliet's knee as she sat behind him, Anthony laughed to himself. Then he turned his head and whispered to his wife: "Feel the claws through the velvet? Poor boys, they have my sympathy."

XVIII.--AN UNKNOWN QUANt.i.tY

"Rachel," said Juliet decisively, next morning, "to-night is the last of my house party, and I refuse to let you off. I'm asking ten or twelve more people out from town. You must spend this evening with my guests, or forfeit my friendship."

She was smiling as she said it, but her tone was not to be denied.

"If that is the alternative," Rachel answered, returning the smile with an affectionate look of a sort which neither Louis Lockwood nor Stevens Cathcart nor Dr. Roger Barnes had ever seen on her face--though they had dreamed of it--"of course I shall stay. But I'll tell you frankly I would rather not."

"Why not, Rachel?"

"I think you know why not, Mrs. Robeson," Rachel answered.

"Yes, I know why not," admitted Juliet. "Girls are queer things, Ray. They defeat their own ends all the time--lots of them. Suzanne and Marie are dear girls, with ever so many nice things about them, but they don't--they don't know enough not to pursue, chase, run down, the object of their desires. And, of course, the object, being run down panting, into a corner, dodges, evades, gets out and runs away. Rachel, dear, what are you going to wear to-night?"

"My best frock," said Rachel, smiling.

"Which is----"

"White."

"Cut out at the neck?"

"A little."

"Short in the sleeves?"

"To the elbows. It was my soph.o.m.ore evening dress."

"It will be all right, I know. Rachel, wear a white rose in those low black braids of yours--will you?"

"No, I think I won't," refused Rachel.

"Why not?"

Rachel did not answer. Into her cool cheek crept a tinge of rebellious, telltale colour.

Juliet studied her a minute in silence, then came up to her and laying both hands on her shoulders looked up into her eyes.

"You try to 'play fair,' don't you, dear?" she said heartily, "whatever the rest may do. And whatever they may do, Rachel Redding, don't you care.

It's not your fault that they are as jealous of you as girls can be and keep sweet outside. I'd be jealous of you myself if----" She paused, laughing.

"When you grow jealous," said Rachel, "it will be because you have grown blind. If anybody ever wore his heart on his sleeve--no, not there--but beating st.u.r.dily in the right place for one woman in the world it's----"

"Right you are," said Anthony Robeson, coming up behind them, "and I hope you may convince her of it. She has no confidence in her own powers."

Rachel stood looking at them a moment, her dark eyes very bright. "To see you two," she said slowly at length, "is to believe it all."

The evening promised to be a gay one. The men of the party had sent to town for many lanterns, flags and decorations of the sort, and had made the porch and lawn the setting for a brilliant scene. A dozen young people had been asked out, and came enthusiastically.

"We'll wind up with a flourish," said Anthony in his wife's ear as they descended the stairs together, "and then we'll send them all off to-morrow where they'll cease from troubling. I think it was the best plan in the world, but I'll be glad to prowl about my beloved home without observing Cathcart scowling at Lockwood, Roger Barnes evading Suzanne, or even my good boy Wayne with that eternal wonder on his face as to why his flat does not look like our Eden."

"Hush--and don't look too happy to-morrow, Tony. Oh, here comes Rachel.

Isn't she lovely?"

"Now, watch," murmured Anthony, his face full of amus.e.m.e.nt. "It's as good as the best comedy I ever saw. See Suzanne. She never looked toward Rachel, but don't tell me she wasn't aware of the very instant Rachel came upon the porch. I believe she read it in Roger Barnes's face. I'll wager ten to one his pulse isn't countable at the present instant."

"I don't blame him," Juliet answered, smiling at her guests. "She's my ideal of a girl who won't hold out a finger to the men."

"Yes, she's your sort," admitted Anthony. "I know what it is--poor fellows--I've been through it. Your cold shoulder used to warm up my heart hotter than any other girl's kindness. Look at the boys now. They can't jump and run away from the other girls, but they'd like to. And they're all deadly anxious for fear the others will get the start. Say, Julie, you ought not to have asked those new youngsters down from town. They'll catch it, sure as fate; they're at the susceptible age. I see five of them now, all staring at Rachel."