on his arm. When Faxon had gone
and was out of earshot, Good released his hold and sat down. Baker stood
staring stonily at the figure disappearing in the hydrangeas. His wife,
looking very frail and pitiful, had collapsed on the bench, her face
buried in her arms. There was complete silence, save for her slow,
painful sobbing.

"Well--" began Good hesitatingly. The other man turned sharply at the
sound, his face a curious compound of wrath and weariness.

"Right on the job, aren't you?" he said, quietly enough, though his
manner was coldly insulting. And when Good made no reply, he added, with
a brutal sneer, "You ought to make a hit with this. Scandal in high
life--with all the details. I suppose it'll be what you call a 'scoop,'
won't it?"

"You think I'm that sort, do you?"

"Why shouldn't you? It's your business. I suppose you'd like my
photograph and a signed statement?"

"Let it go at that," sighed Good. "That's my business. But to-night I'm
off duty. I'm one of your fellow guests. I'm playing gentleman. Give me
credit for being a good actor. I'll stay in the part."

"Have you anything else to say?" The question was put icily.

"Oh, cut the tragedy," said Good with a wave of his long hand. "I'm told
you're a scrapper, my friend. Well, you're not going to show the yellow
now, are you? It looks to me as if you had a first-class scrap on your
hands now. What are you going to do--snivel--or get sore--or lie
down--or ... what?"

When Baker made no answer, Good rose and stood looking thoughtfully at
the pair, almost obliterated in the shadows, only the high-lights
showing.

"I guess I'll go now," he said quietly. "This doesn't seem to be my
party."

Then he laughed cheerfully. "Lucky my being here, wasn't it? You were
staging great drama when I came in."

He turned from the doorway and looked back. A smile crept over his
craggy features, tender, a little wistful. With a shrug he straightened
his shoulders, and he was whistling as he walked away, his jerky
movements casting grotesque shadows on the grass.

III

Judith did not press her search for Good very rapidly. The night, with
the soft and pungent haze of Indian summer filling the air, and the
drowsy moon bathing the gardens in argent mystery, cast their spell
about her, and she lingered frequently. The crickets chirped like mad,
snatches of distant music came faintly to her ears, and the gentle
fragrance of the flowers filled her nostrils. It wa