A few days after their return from Montana Pauline sat reading by the library window. They had come late to the country this Summer and the park of Castle Marvin had had time to leave and bloom into utter splendor. It was like a flowery kingdom in the Land of Faery, and as her eyes were lifted listlessly now and then from the printed page, they roamed over the garden which lay like some vast and radiant Oriental rug in Nature's palace hall. The distant forest was the palace wall, tapestried in green; its dome, a sky of tender blue; its lamp, the morning sun; its Prince, her Harry standing in the garden.
"He should always stand in the garden," thought Pauline tenderly. "The flowers are such a splendid foil for him."
She shut her eyes in sheer satiety of beauty. Not even the shabby man mopping his hot forehead as he came along the road, marred the picture. She was a little surprised to see him, a moment later, talking in an easy way with Harry but there was no false pride in her lover—brother and all men were his friends until they proved themselves his enemies. All except Owen.
The shabby man, holding his hat between his nervous hands, was evidently an applicant for work. Harry pointed to the flower beds and the rose trees with a nod of inquiry. The man assented vaguely. And they came on up the path together, making their way towards the servants' quarters over the garage. Harry paused at the window:
"I have hired a new gardener, who does not know his own name," he said as they passed on.
Pauline turned back to the pages of the Cosmopolitan. A picture in an article on the motor races caught her eye and held it for some reason that she did not at first understand. It was a picture of a man in auto-racer's costume, with a helmet tight upon his head and the keen features and daring eyes peculiar to those who live by peril. She had started to read the caption when she was interrupted by Bemis bringing her letters. With a little flutter of pleasure, womanlike, she began to read the letters from their postmarks before opening them. She hit upon one that brought a little peal of laughter from her, and she opened it eagerly and read:
"Walter and I want you and Harry to be with us at the wedding. Don't faint. We decided only yesterday, and it's going to be very quiet, with just the few people whom we can reach with informal notes like this. You can motor over in an hour. Tell Harry our lions arrived last Thursday from Germany, and after the wedding the keeper will exhibit them. If Harry won't come to see me married, he'll come to see the lions.
"Yours in a flurry, Sophie McAllan."
Pauline laughed again. It was like her unconventional chum, Sophie, to arrange her wedding with the same startling haste that had marked all the breathless events of her life. The lions she mentioned were typical of her original ideas. She had suddenly announced to her parents one day that she was tired of domestic animals and was going to keep lions instead. And her amused and amazed father had not only been forced to yield, but to keep his eye out all over Europe, Asia and Africa for new bargains in well bred lions ever since.
It was also typical of Sophie that she had selected from among all the dashing wooers; at her heels, Walter Trumwell, simple and sedate, who was horrified by her pranks and shocked by her use of slang, but who adored her with the devotion of a frightened puppy. Their engagement had been long announced. It was only in its high-handed abruptness that the wedding was a surprise.
Pauline dropped the letter on the table and hurried from the room to look for Harry.
He had head her first call and was coming in from the garage. Pausing at the door of the library, where he had last seen her, he narrowly avoided a collision with Owen, who was hurrying out. The look of covert guilt on the secretary's face aroused his latent suspicion. But Owen, quickly recovering himself, bowed, apologized and passed on.
Harry stepped into the library. He saw the open letter on the table, looked at the envelope and saw that, he was included in the address. He read the letter, and the old look of trouble came into his eyes as he turned to see if Owen were watching.
As he stepped into the hall he saw the secretary leaving the house. He stood in the doorway and watched Owen depart in his own machine, driven by his own chauffeur, a sullen young fellow whom the other employees held in aversion.
"He's up to something. I wonder what harm he could do at the McCallan wedding," muttered Harry, as he moved down the steps and out to where the new gardener was working. The man had been greatly improved as to cleanliness and clothes, but there was still the strange distant look in his eyes as he got up from a flower bed to speak to Harry.
Pauline, after circling the house in vain search of her brother, had returned to her unread letters and her magazine.
As she lifted the latter from the table, the picture of the man in racing costume again struck her eye, and this time she read the caption:
"Ralph Palmer, whose skull was fractured in the Vanderbilt Cup Race and who disappeared from a hospital six weeks ago."
She studied the face again. It seemed the living likeness of one whom she had seen dead. Suddenly her thoughts crystallized and she sprang up. She rushed again to the front door, carrying the magazine open and saw Harry and the gardener talking on the path. She ran down to them.
The gardener took off his hat, but Pauline looked at him with such piercing scrutiny that he hurried to resume his work. Harry, after a brief affectionate greeting, turned to give some last instructions, and, behind his back, Pauline stole another look at the magazine.
"It is; I am sure it is," she said half aloud.
Harry turned quickly. "What is, dear goddess of the garden?" he asked cheerily.
Pauline closed the magazine abruptly.
"Oh! I—I was dreaming," she answered, with a little nervous laugh.
"You can't have a dream when you are one," he said, putting his arm about her waist as they moved back towards the house.
"I have news," she exclaimed, remembering the wedding invitation. "Sophie McCallan is to be married tonight—just like that—without telling till the last minute."
"I read the letter in the library."
"Did you tell Farrell to have the car ready?"
"I will, dearest. But I am not sure that I can go."
"But you must go."
"I got a telegram this morning, and I must go into town."
"To New York! Oh, Hairy, I simply hate your old business. Haven't we got enough money without trying to make all there is in the world? Aren't we…"
"No, not to New York—just into Westbury, Miss Firebrand. I must use the wire direct to the office."
"Absurd. Why don't you telephone your message?"
"Code messages, dear. They can't be talked."
"But you'll be back in time to go with me?"
"I'll do my best. I'm starting directly. There's Farrell with the machine now."
"But Farrell must get my car ready."
"He will. Farrell isn't going with me."
Her threats and pretty pleadings followed him as he drove away. But Harry did not drive towards Westbury farther than the first crossroads. Instead, he swerved out across country towards Windywild, the great McCallan estate. Only a vague purpose moved him. His suspicions were groping. But he was forming dimly in his mind a plan to keep Pauline away from the McCallan wedding. Premonition whispered that even among the nuptial gayeties there might be danger.
On the crest of Winton's Hill, from which the road slopes down to beautiful Windywild through parked forests, but from which the rambling white villa, with its barns and garage can be seen in striking bird's-eye view, Harry stopped his machine.
To his far vision there was no unusual stir about the McCallan house, in spite of the wedding day. Owen's car was not at the gate nor in the yard, and he certainly would not have sent it to the garage if he were making a business visit to the manager of the estate.
With a hateful sense of spying on the innocent and the sincere dread of being met there by anyone—even by Owen—he was about to turn around, go back and agree to take Pauline to the wedding, when the movement of a figure through the distant garage yard made him stiffen to attention and strain his gaze.
In an instant he had whipped his binoculars from under the seat of the runabout and was staring through them at the establishment below. A few moments afterwards he carefully replaced the glasses, and drove away.
Owen had left the Marvin place in haste, seemingly intent upon a direct and important errand, but if any one had seen where the car stopped an hour later, both the haste and the errand would still have been unexplained.
They were in the loneliest stretch of woods a half mile beyond the McCallan house when Owen leaned forward and said to his driver: "You may stop here."
"Yes, sir," answered the young man with a respect that he showed to no one else. He drew the machine to the roadside and then asked: "Am I to go with you or stay here?"
"Stay here," answered Owen. "But don't sit there lolling in the seat. We have broken down—you understand—and you will keep us broken down and keep on mending the machine until I return."
Owen, who was not averse to physical effort when his dearest object was at stake, walked the half mile to Windywild rapidly. Unlike Harry's, Owen's plans were definite and fixed.
He strode through the front gate but took his way immediately to the stable in front of which two grooms were currying a restless horse.
"Hello, Simon," said Owen. "My car has broken down up the road here. I wonder if you can help me out."
"I guess so," said the groom, not very cheerfully.
"We got plenty to do today as it is, Mr. Owen, with the weddin' party on an' them gol blamed lions to look after."
"Who talka da lions?" cried a grim voice, and, turning, Owen pretended to see for the first time a short, heavy set man of the gypsy type, seated on a box at the stable door smoking a cigarette and evidently regarding all the world as the object of his personal hate.
"Why, who is that man?" asked Owen of the groom in a tone of condescending interest. "Where have I seen him before?"
"If ye ever saw him before, ye wouldn't want to see him again," declared the groom. "He's Garcia, Miss Sophie's new lion tamer, but we ain't had time to tame him yet. He's wild."
The answer to this taunt was a rush from Garcia, who, uttering an unintelligible roar that might have done credit to one of his lions, sprang towards the groom. The latter took quick refuge behind the horse.
The man's fury made Owen step aside, too, but he looked on with an appreciative smile. As Garcia came back, growling, to his seat on the box, the secretary stepped up to him and held out his hand.
"Is it really you?" he said, the patronage in his voice offsetting the familiarity of his manner.
"If it looks like me, it is me," snarled the Gypsy. "Him—over there," he cried, pointing to the groom, "he donta looka like his own face if I get him."
"Come, old friend," said Owen in a low voice. "Don't you remember me? Don't you remember the Zoological Garden in Brussels and the lion that bent a cage so easily one day that it killed Herr Bruner, of Berlin."
The last words spoken almost in a whisper, had an electrical effect upon the lion tamer. He fairly writhed in his seat and cowered away from Owen as from one who held a knife over his head.
It was at this moment that Harry, looking from the hill, put away his binoculars and turned his car around.
"Come, let's see the lions, may I?" asked Owen, cheerily ignoring the man's terror, secretly enjoying it.
Without a word Garcia led the way into the stables.
The lions, six in number, were quartered in box stalls rebuilt with heavy steel bars. They had been quiet, but the sight of a stranger set them wild and their roaring thundered through the building.
Garcia led Owen to farthest cage and stopped abruptly.
"You after me?" he inquired, his nerve partially recovered.
"Yes, but to help you, not to harm you, old friend."
"You lie, I theenk. You tella the police of the leetle accident inBresseli—no?"
"No, indeed; you are too useful a man to lose, Garcia. Besides, I need you again."
The gypsy held up his hands in refusal. "No," he whispered. "I hava one dead man's face here always." He pointed to his eyes. "I cry it away; I go all over da world. I not forget. He not forget. He folla me."
Owen laughed. "Come, come," he said, "you are foolish. You had nothing to do with that affair, except to loosen one little bar ever so little. (Garcia groaned.) And it would be just as easy to leave say a cage door open tonight while they're having the wedding."
"You mean—?"
"I mean only a little joke. Nobody will be hurt, I feel sure. Of course, if any one should be, you could not be blamed. Come, I want a quick answer. If you won't do it, of course—you don't want anything said about Brussels, do you, old friend?"
The man uttered another cry.
Owen drew money from his pocket. The man seized it greedily. If he was to do the blackest of deeds, there was nothing in his conscience to prevent him from profiting.
"Tonight—during the wedding, remember," said Owen. "I will give you the signal. And, mind, you brute, if you don't do it, you know what I'll do to you."
A few moments later he was out chatting cheerily with the grooms. "I'm not going to ask you to help me with the car, Simon," he said. "You're too crowded today, I see. I'll send Farrell up to the Hodgins House and wait for him. Good-day."
He swung off down the road, greatly at peace with all the world. He did not even rebuke his chauffeur when he caught him loafing on the grass.
Harry and the household chauffeur, Farrell, were talking together outside the garage and Harry was handing a $10 bill to Farrell, who grinned broadly as he pocketed it. Owen saw nothing in this to cause him apprehension. Harry was always generous with the employees. It was well for Owen's plan that he should go to the wedding in so pleasant a mood.
Pauline looked up from her book as Harry entered the library.
"I'm so happy," she cried. "You are a darling boy to come home so soon."
He accepted her rewarding kiss gratefully.
"Yes, I think it's all right," he said, "though there are some serious matters in hand at the office."
The butler appeared at the door. "Farrell asks if he may have a word with you, Sir."
"Farrell? Why, yes; let him come here."
The chauffeur, cap in hand, stepped into the room.
"Guess I got to take the big car to New York, Sir. I haven't got the parts to fix it, and I can't get them nowhere but in New York."
"Very well; that's all right, Farrell."
"But be back surely by four o'clock, Farrell," warned Pauline. "You are the only driver I have."
"Oh, I'll get back all right, Miss."
But immediately after uttering these words in a tone of perfect respect, Farrell committed an astonishing offense against the laws that separate servitor and employer. He caught the shimmer of a wink upon Harry's eye, and he had the audacity to return it.
Three minutes afterwards Farrell did a stranger thing. Going direct from the house to the telephone in the garage, he took up the receiver and called up the house. Owen, passing by, stopped spellbound, at the door, to hear these mandatory words spoken by the chauffeur to Harry Marvin, whose answering voice could actually be heard by Owen through the open window of the library.
"Mr. Marvin, you are needed at your office. Come at once," phonedFarrell.
He was grinning again as he came out of the garage, got into a machine and drove away. Owen gazed after him with puzzled, lowering brows.
Harry had just hung up the receiver of the telephone and had turned toPauline with feigned disappointment.
"My office is calling me," he said. "I'm needed there at once. I shan't be able to go to the wedding."
The sight of the happiness fading from her flowerlike face filled him with shame. It was the first time in his life that he had lied to her and he was half sorry now that he had done so. But he must go through with it now, and if there was apology in the kisses he pressed on her reproachful eyes it was not confessed.
"I am going to the wedding just the same," declared Pauline.
"Of course, you are," he agreed heartily. "Farrell will be back with the car by five o'clock."
"But who will chaperon me?" she objected, woman-like, to her own decision. "It would look absurd to take Margaret, and Owen isn't invited."
"You will not need a chaperon going over—provided Farrell gets back," he said as he took his hat from the table.
"You mean you don't believe Farrell will get back!" she exclaimed. "You are treating me like a child. You don't want me to go to the wedding just because you can't go."
"Now, don't, don't," he pleaded, as she started to leave the room. "I don't mean anything of the kind. I mean Farrell is the only man who can drive the large car or the roadster safely. There is no reason in the world why he shouldn't get back."
"And how am I to come home?" she demanded, turning again toward him.
"I will call for you in the runabout on my way from New York. Perhaps even I shall be able to arrive in time to greet the happy pair," he added cheerfully. "You'll make my excuses."
Owen, who was listening at the door, had just time, to glide away before Harry hurried out.
The young master of the house had driven far toward the station before the secretary returned to the library.
This time he entered and pretended to be hunting for a magazine.Pauline's disconsolate face gave him the excuse he desired.
"Why, Miss Marvin, has anything happened?" he asked in a tone of concern.
"Oh, everything has gone wrong," she cried, almost in tears.
"What do you mean?"
"Harry is called to the city just when we are invited to Sophie McCallan's wedding, and Farrell has taken the limousine for some silly repairs. They'll not get back; I know they'll not. They never do."
"But, Miss Marvin?"
"Oh, don't try to apologize for him. He cares more for his old business than he does for me. He makes automobiles himself, and yet I can't have enough for my own personal use. I'm sorry I forgave him," she flared.
"You are right, Miss Marvin; it is an outrage."
She looked at Owen in astonishment. It was the first time she had ever heard him venture a critical word against Harry.
"I think it is your fault," she declared. "You are the one who should see that I have cars and drivers—everything I want."
"But you know the machines have not come from the town house, MissMarvin. They will be here tomorrow."
"Well, Owen, it isn't for you to say that what my brother does is an outrage. He does everything for the best."
"Miss Marvin, Harry is lying to you," he said quietly. "He and your chauffeur have formed a plot against you. Your car will not be back this afternoon at all."
She sprang to her feet, furious.
"Owen, be still! How do you dare to say such things?"
Raymond Owen had found his great moment, His enemy had set his own trap and Owen would see that he should not escape easily. The opportunity to break forever the bond of faith and affection between Harry and Pauline had come. His voice rose as he poured out his revelations and denunciations.
Pauline was leaving the room, when he thrust himself before her.
"You must hear me. I know what I say is true. It hurts me as deeply as it will hurt you, but you must hear it. I believe I have discovered —by the merest accident—the cause of all your perils. The plots against you have been arranged at home."
"You are mad. I will not listen to you. Let me pass."
"Not until you have heard," he declared firmly.
"I was passing the door of the garage only a few moments ago," he went on in a rapid whisper. "I saw Farrell at the telephone. He called the private house number—the number of this phone on the table. You and Mr. Marvin were sitting here. I was so surprised that I stopped and listened to Farrell's words. I could see Mr. Marvin listening at the phone here. Farrell said: 'Mr. Marvin, you are needed at your office. Come at once.' Then he hung up the receiver and came out, laughing. He got into the limousine and drove off towards the city. If he could drive the limousine to the city, could he not drive it to the McCallan's for you?"
Pauline put her hands to her ears with a protesting cry.
"It isn't true," she whispered. "It is only a scheme of Farrell's to get an afternoon off."
"It is a scheme of Harry's to keep you from the wedding—for what purpose only he knows. It is one of many schemes that have held your life in constant peril. I saw their plan arranged. I saw your brother hand money to Farrell at the door of the garage and they parted, laughing."
Pauline's mind whirled. "I won't believe it! I can't; I can't!" she cried. Doubt and fear and fury mingled in her breast. Weeping tumultuously, she rushed past Owen and up to her own room.
Two hours later, the struggle over, she called Margaret, who bathed her hot temples and dressed her for the wedding.
Harry Marvin, in town, tried his best to make good use of the time he had stolen. But the thought of his well-meant chicanery was heavy on his mind and it was not unmixed with apprehension. After all, Pauline might find a way to go to the wedding. Might he not, instead of having averted a danger, simply have absented himself from the scene of danger when he was most needed? His nervousness increased. He found himself incapable of work, and at three o'clock, to the surprise of his clerks, who had thought his unexpected visit must mean an important conference of directors, he called a taxicab and started for Westbury. But he had no intention of going to Castle Marvin unless it was necessary. He meant to telephone from Westbury and learn whether or not Pauline had gone to the wedding. If she had not, he would remain away until late.
A few minutes before four o'clock, Farrell, with his pretty wife whom he had called to share his plot and his holiday, drove up to a rural telegraph office. They were both laughing as Farrell handed this message to the operator:
Miss Pauline Marvin, Castle Marvin, Westbury. Blow-out. Can't get back this evening. George Farre
"You—don't want to say what kind of a blow-out it is, do you?" grinned the operator, glancing out of the window at the spic and span machine.
"If you don't see everything you look at, you'll save your eyesight," replied Farrell cheerfully.
At the next town he telephoned to the Marvin office in New York. He came out of the booth with a worried look.
"The boss has left in a taxi for home," he said. "Wonder what that means. Guess we better sort of travel along towards Westbury. He might need me."
They changed their course and had driven for some time at an easy rate through the smiling country when the sound of a machine coming up speedily behind caused Farrell to look around. The passenger in the open cab waved his hand and Farrell, saluting, slowed down. The cars stopped, side by side. Harry raised his hat to the young woman.
"You're not going home, are you, Farrell?" he said.
"I heard you'd left the office and I thought something might have happened, and I'd be near enough so you could get me quick."
"Nothing has happened. I'll get along nicely with this cab. You'd better keep a good distance and not come home until tomorrow morning."
"Very well, sir. That suits us fine." Farrell grinned.
The taxi started on and Farrell turned off at the next crossroad.
"He's a great boss, but a queer one," he said to his wife. "It's a queer family all around. I wonder what's being cooked up now."
As the time of Farrell's expected return drew near Pauline's despair and anger increased with every moment. When four o'clock struck she arose and walked nervously out to the garage to ask if any word had been received from Farrell. She found Owen there.
As she turned toward him, after her futile questioning, Pauline's grief suddenly mounted to anger.
"It is after four, and Farrell has not returned," she exclaimed.
She had come out to the yard in the exquisite white gown that she was to wear to the wedding, a flashing jewel at her white throat, her hair done regally high. Now, in her anger, she was a picture of fury made beautiful.
Her outburst was interrupted by a messenger boy with a telegram. She opened the message with nervous fingers.
"Blow out. Can't get back this evening," she read.
She tore the message into pieces, dropped them and, stamped upon them with her white slippers.
"It's true, it's true!" she cried, turning desperately to Owen.
"I am terribly, hopelessly sorry—but I knew that it was true," he said solemnly.
At this moment along the drive came the new gardener wheeling a barrow of fresh mold, his rake and hoe lying across it. "Palmer!" Pauline cried.
The man let fall the barrow as if he had been cut with a whip lash. He looked up and for an instant his dazed eyes seemed to brighten. Then he picked up the barrow as if no one had spoken and went on.
Pauline followed him.
"Bring out the roadster," she called over her shoulder, and, as she stopped beside the gardener. The garage men, bewildered, but used to the kindly vagaries of their pretty employer, sent the machine down driveway.
"Can you drive an automobile, Palmer?" asked Pauline.
This time the man's eyes did not brighten. He looked at her respectfully, but dully. She drew him to the car and repeated the question. He only grinned foolishly and kept on shaking his head.
"Wait," she said, and, running back to the house, reappeared directly wearing her hat and flowing white wrap. "Come, Palmer, you must drive me to the wedding," she declared.
She made him get into the car and take the wheel. As she got in beside him, his hands fumbled aimlessly with the lever.
"Palmer! Palmer!" she dinned his forgotten name into his ears. "Don't you remember the race, the road, the flying cars, the speed, the speed! Don't you remember the man who was in the lead—the man the crowd cheered for? That was you, Palmer, the greatest of all the drivers."
She leaned forward in the seat, arms outstretched as if holding a tugging wheel, eyes set straight ahead, slippered feet threading imaginary levers, graceful body swerving.
He watched her, frowning. A vague purpose seemed to animate the hand groping with the levers.
"Wake up, Palmer! It's time for the race—the Vanderbilt Cup. Kirby and Michaels have started. There's Wharton coming to the line. Don't you see the crowds? Can't you hear them cheering? Palmer! Palmer! * * * Yes, we're coming! * * * Palmer is coming back. * * * Way there!"
He found the self-starter; the engine sounded. He found the clutch and gears. His eyes were shut. The car started slowly and he opened his eyes. Pauline sank back in the seat, laughing and clapping her hands, half hysterically.
"Bravo, Palmer!" she exulted.
The astonished workmen saw them glide through the outer gate. Raymond Owen from his window saw them and rubbed his hands pleasantly. Fate indeed seemed to be favoring his deadly work today!
The car swung into the highway.
"Drive faster," commanded Pauline.
The listless hands hardened on the wheel. She saw him bend over and fix his vision on the road. She thrilled at the miracle she had wrought.
More speed, and the wind blew her cape from her shoulders; the dust beat in her face. She merely tightened her veil and sat silent.
"Take the first turn to the right," she called in his ear as they neared the crossroad. He did not slacken the speed.
"It's a sharp turn; slow a little," she cautioned. He did not seem to hear her.
She placed her hand sharply on his arm. He drove past the crossroad, the speed to the last notch.
Pauline tried to stand up in the seat and seize the wheel. He thrust her back with one hand, not even looking at her. He was leaning far over the wheel now, his eyes blazing. She could see the beat of blood in his temple.
"Stop! Stop! You are on the wrong road. You will kill us both!" she screamed in his deaf ears. She tried again to wrest the wheel from him, but this time he held her fast after he had flung her back. She had raised up a Frankenstein for her own destruction. She was being driven by a madman.
As they took the curve outside Westbury village another car filled with men and women fairly grazed them. The women screamed and the men shouted wildly after them. But they flashed on.
Down the hill at Gangley's Mills the pace grew even greater. From the west prong of the road fork at the bottom a taxicab shot into view. There was a shout of warning, a rattle and creak as the taxi swerved, safe by inches.
On the skirts of Clayville a group of farmers and a constable were arguing a roadside dispute. Pauline could see dim figures leap into the road waving arms; she could hear them shouting. The figures jumped to either side as Palmer drove through the group.
They sprang back into the road, cursing and shaking their fists, only to be routed anew by the rush of the taxicab following.
The roadster straightened out on the ledge of Scrogg Hill. In spite of the curve and the precipice Palmer held his speed. His daring, his utter mastery, stirred a kind of admiration in Pauline and the death she saw looming stirred anew her courage. She wrenched her arm free from his grip. She stood up and swung her weight against the man, rasping for the wheel. The car swerved toward the cliff, but he jerked it back, striking at her brutally with his free hand. She fell in the seat, but returned, desperate, to the encounter. She caught the wheel. She tried to command it, but his strength drew the other way. The machine shot toward the abyss. There was a crackle as the wooden guide fence splintered under the wheels. There was a crash!
Harry, leaning from the taxicab behind, uttered a groan. The roadster had gone over the cliff.
Fifty feet down the rock-gnarled hillside they took Pauline from the clutch of the dead driver. His fall had broken hers and it was only from fear that she had fainted. Harry, pressing the taxi driver's flask to her lips, saw her eyes open and his cry was like a prayer of thanksgiving.
When Harry lifted Pauline to carry her to the taxicab, to his abasement he felt her hands press him away. He thought she had not yet recovered, that she believed herself still in the grasp of the madman. He set her on her feet and looked at her questioningly.
Without a word she turned from him and started up the road.
"Pauline!" he cried. "What do you mean? Don't you know me? It'sHarry."
She kept on without turning. He caught her by the arm. "Don't you know me, your brother?" he pleaded.
She turned, tremblingly. "You are not my brother," she blazed. "And I did not know you until today."
"You are hurt and ill, dearest. Come, let me take you home."
She walked on up the road.
"But where are you going?" he demanded.
"I am going to the wedding. You tried to keep me away by your base trick but you can't do it."
Now he understood. "I know; I know," he groaned. "It was the meanest and most useless thing. But I did not think it was safe for you to go to the wedding. I am sorry to the bottom of my heart."
"Goodbye," she said coldly, walking on.
"But you can't go like that," he exclaimed, pointing to her torn and draggled clothes, her unfastened hair.
"It is better to go to friends whom I can trust," she said coldly, and moved on.
As gently as he could he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the taxicab. Placing her in the seat he followed, and as the machine started began to pour out his repentance. She would not even answer, but sat with averted face, weeping and trembling.
At last she became quiet. He drew her tattered wrap closer about her shoulders and put his arm around her so that her head rested against his breast. A moment later, looking down, he was surprised to see that she was smiling like a tired child.
"That's right; praise her; pet her; make her think she's great, so she'll do it all over again."
Harry turned away wrathfully from the joyous greetings of Lucille andChauncey Hamlin to Pauline.
"Harry is quite right," said Lucille. "I ought to snub you entirely.It is disgraceful, it's wicked to be as brave as you are, Polly."
"Oh, I say, Lucy," pleaded her brother. "You'll have Miss Pauline all upset."
"She likes it," snapped Harry. "She's been upset out of everything from a balloon to a house afire, and now she's looking for new capsizable craft."
"Polly! You wouldn't try it again! You don't want any more thrills after this?" Lucille's astonishment was sincere.
Pauline cast a serpentine glance at Harry. "Am I to live quietly at home with a creature like him?" she inquired.
"Why don't you have me beheaded, O Great White Queen?"
"The braves are reserved for torture. Where are you people going so bright and early?" she added turning to Chauncey.
"Going to take you for a little morning spin. Car's perfectly safe."
"Yes, do come along, Polly," urged Lucille.
"What! In a safe car? Never!" exclaimed Harry. "It isn't done, you know—not in this family. Now, if you had a hot restless young comet hitched at the door, Chauncey."
Pauline laughed merrily. "No, I couldn't go this morning even behind a restless young comet." She glanced mischievously at Harry. "Duty before pleasure; have important business on hand. No, I can't tell even you, Lucille—you're not to be trusted. You'd be sure to tell Harry."
As the Hamlins drove off, Harry turned anxiously.
"You've not forgotten your promise? There is to be a long rest from wildness, isn't there—no more adventures?"
"Yes—a rest from wild ones. I am going to have a tame adventure now."
"Polly, Polly! What do you mean?"
"This," she answered, taking the morning paper from the table.Unfolding it, she showed him a headline:
World-Famous Horses of Late Millionaire Sportsman Under Hammer.
"Well?" questioned Harry.
"Don't you see?" she tantalized him.
"Not in the least."
"I am going to buy Firefly and ride him in the steeplechase handicap."
Harry's smile was almost despairing, but he answered quickly. "Oh, I see. You'll have me ride him and break my precious neck. I thought for a second you meant to ride yourself."
"That's just what I do mean. It will be gorgeously exciting—and perfectly safe."
"Safe?"
"Well, of course, I might be killed by a fall or something."
He laughed in spite of himself. "I shall not permit it," he said.
"You will not permit it?" she beamed. "Then I'll ask my guardian. I may ride Firefly in the steeplechase if I choose, mayn't I, Owen?" she asked brightly.
Pauline could never bear malice; already she had forgiven Owen, as well as Harry.
The secretary had just entered and was watching the two with a questioning eye.
"If we own Firefly, you may," he smiled back at her.
"I told you," she triumphed over Harry.
"But we don't own him," said Owen, puzzled.
"We shall this afternoon. The Lordnor stables are being sold. Please give me a great deal of money so that I can't be outbid."
"Does Miss Pauline really mean this?" asked the secretary.
"She does," Harry answered in a tone of disgust at what he thought now was only Owen's weakness. There seemed no chance of a plot against Pauline in this original scheme of her own.
"She rides wonderfully. I do not see why she should not," Owen condescended.
"You don't seem to see much of anything," declared Harry.
"But you'll take me to the auction?" coaxed Pauline.
"I'll have to—or you'll spend the whole estate on a Shetland pony."
Owen sauntered from the room, laughing. Bareheaded he walked quite across the garden and down into the wood-copse by the path gate.
A gypsy was leaning upon the gate and gazing nervously up and down the road. He turned at the sound of Owen's footsteps, and the eyes of the young chief, Michel Mario, gazed apprehensively into the smiling eyes of the secretary.
"How are you, Balthazar?" greeted Owen.
"Don't use that name to me," pleaded the gypsy. "You have work for me? I have come all the way back from Port Vincent to see you."
"It was kind of you," said Owen with the faintest tinge of sarcasm."Yes, I have important work for you. Have you ever doctored a horse,Balthazar?"
"Many times—but not with my beauty medicine," grinned the chief.
"I mean with a hypodermic needle. I mean a race horse-so that he might possibly fall in a race."
"And injure the rider?"
"Exactly."
"It is very easy—but very dangerous. I should want—"
"I know; I know," exclaimed Owen petulantly. "Here is the money."
Balthazar gloated over the yellow bills.
"And here is the weapon."
The Gypsy took the needle from the hand of the secretary and thrust it quickly into the inside pocket of his blouse. "Thank you, master. I will do what you say," said the Gypsy, making a move to go.
"Not quite so fast," commanded Owen. "You do not know the place or the time."
"The Jericho track next Saturday," answered the Gypsy promptly. "What is the horse?"
"Firefly. It will be bought at the Jericho stables this afternoon.You will be there to see it and to remember it. Goodbye now."
"Goodbye master—and many thanks."
Michael Caliban, wealthiest of sportsmen, attended the auction of the Lordnor stables, and seemed bent on adding the entire string of splendid horses to his own far-famed monarchs of the track.
The only time during the afternoon that he met with defeat was when the famous steeplechaser Firefly was brought out.
"Five hundred dollars," said Caliban curtly.
"Six hundred," said the musical voice of a girl and the crowd turned to look.
Caliban smiled condescendingly. "A thousand," he said.
"There, you see you can't do it. The horse isn't worth any more," cautioned Harry.
"Fifteen hundred dollars," cried Pauline.
"Does she mean that, or is this only a joke?" demanded Caliban, turning to the auctioneer.
"The lady's word is good enough for me. Going at fifteen hundred— going, going—"
"Two thousand dollars. I guess that'll stop any jokes around here," grinned Caliban.
"Three thousand," said Pauline so quickly that even Harry gasped, cut short in mid-protest.
Caliban turned away and strode disgustedly out of the crowd amid hoots of laughter.
"He is worth it; why he is worth any price," cried Pauline as the smiling groom led Firefly up to her.
The magnificent animal thrust its nose instantly between her outstretched arms, and as she patted him delightedly the crowd rippled with spontaneous applause.
Harry joined her on the way to see Firefly put in his stall. He gave the caretaker instructions, and laughingly dragged Pauline away from her new pet.
As they entered their machine, Raymond Owen came from behind the stable.
Engrossed in the business complications growing out of the European conflict, Harry had quite forgotten Firefly and the steeplechase when the day of the great Jericho handicap arrived.
He was in the library reading a letter when there burst upon his sight through the open doorway a vision that took his breath away.
Pauline, in full jockey uniform, white and blue and yellow, was pirouetting on her gleaming black boots before him.
"Polly!" he cried, unable to grasp the meaning of the prank. "Have you cut off your hair?" he added in alarm.
"No; here it is," she laughed, snapping off her visored cap and revealing masses of hair.
"Oh, don't do it," he begged. "Look! Here's a letter from the McCallans asking us to their house party in the Adirondacks. We're expected tomorrow. Let's go there instead."
He handed her the letter. Without glancing at it she flicked it into the air with her riding crop and danced out of her room..
"So I surrender again," he murmured, laughing in spite of himself.
Riding out toward the starting line, Pauline swerved her course a little to avoid the gaze of the gentlemen riders who eyed her curiously. She heard a call from an automobile beside the track and rode, over to where Harry and Owen were seated in the car.
Their lifted hats as, she bent to shake hands with them caused the crowd to stare in astonishment. Pauline, blushing furiously, sped Firefly to the line.
"That horse works queer," commented Harry, as she rode away.
"Do you think so?" asked Owen.
"Yes, it's on edge, but its legs are shaky. I wonder…"
But the riders were ready. The signal sounded. The crowd's cheer rose in the names of their various favorites. Field-glasses were unbuckled.
"By jolly, Firefly took the first jump in the lead," cried Harry, a thrill of admiration lightening the worry in his heart.
"He's all right," said Owen.
Over the wide green the horses began to string out, with Firefly ahead.
"She's going to win it; I believe she is," exclaimed Harry excitedly as he and Owen stood in the automobile. "No—no; he wobbled at the fourth jump. He's losing ground."
But Firefly seemed suddenly to grip his strength as one horse passed him. He pulled himself together under Pauline's urging. He regained the lead.
They came down splendidly toward the homestretch. The bodies of the powerful beasts rose one by one over the last hedge.
"They're over! They've won—or, heaven help her! They're down!"
Leading at the last jump, the drugged heart of the great horse had conquered his courage. As he stumbled heavily, Pauline shot over his head and lay helpless in the path of the other riders.
Harry, dashing madly toward the track, but hopelessly far from her, had to turn away his head as the crashing hoofs passed her. When he looked again, attendants were carrying her swiftly to the clubhouse. He sped toward it, Owen following.
Harry tore his way through the excited crowd to the side of Pauline. A doctor was administering restoratives. Pauline opened her eyes and looked about her bewildered. She saw Harry's anxious face and smiled penitently.
"I've—learned a lesson this time," she whispered.
"It is nothing serious—her shoulder bruised a little," said the doctor.
"Thank Heaven!" breathed Raymond Owen with well feigned emotion.