ed into the hall when I heard her, and she at once
joined me. We went into the living-room.

Her beautiful eyes were round with wonder, her sweet face filled with
concern; but before I entered into any explanations, I turned to her
and held out my arms.

"First," I whispered, "I want to know whether it is real."

She caught her breath sharply; the color came quickly to her cheeks, a
tender light to the blue eyes. She put her hands confidently into mine.

"What has happened to you?" she asked, standing away from me and
staring with perplexed solicitude at the testimony of Stodger's
barbarous surgery. I had forgotten all about the red-hot poker.

"A mere scratch--a nothing," I made light of it. "I 'll tell you all
about it when the time comes. There are too many other things to be
disposed of first."

"But--you have been wounded," she persisted, now thoroughly alarmed.
And so I had to tell her about the night's adventure, which I did, for
the most part shamefacedly enough.

It was a delight to watch the different expressions flit across her
lovely countenance, to see them mingle and blend and give way to
others--wonder, amazement, awe, horror, terror--I can't begin to name
them all. A score of times she interrupted me, but it was always a
welcome interruption.

"Stodger 's a trump," I concluded. "Think of him jumping up from a
sound sleep and throwing himself into the thick of the fray, without
one second's hesitation."

"Y-e-s," she agreed, but there was no enthusiasm in her tone. Then she
turned warmly upon me.

"I 'm thinking, though, that you 've been gifted with mighty little
sense, Knowles Swift, to have acted so recklessly. The very idea of a
sane man creeping through that dark hall and up those dark stairs, and
plunging into he knew not what!" She eyed me severely.

"But I did know," I protested meekly. "It was the _etagere_"

There was a solemn rebuke in the slow shaking of her head. "A man
swears so," she sighed, "when he does anything awkward, like that."

I remained discreetly silent.

However, she was too much exercised over my "wound"--as she persisted
in calling the scratch on my cheek--and the loss of the ruby to
encourage any levity. Honestly, at that moment I cared not a whit for
the ruby. Besides, there were consolations which I need not record.
It _was_ real--very, very real; and I was the happiest man in the world.

Genevieve was also curious to learn--and very naturall