companions sang
and yelled and quarreled by turns, until at last the sleepy stage came
upon them, and this but for one thing was a relief. It had been no part
of his plan to be seen by any dweller in the Hastings' mansion that
night; but if this man was to be an utterly helpless log how could he
help it? However, he comforted himself with the thought that a servant
was probably in waiting, and that they could get him quickly and quietly
to his room. So when the carriage rolled up the avenue and halted before
the door, he sprang out, and once more rang the bell and awaited
admittance to Hastings' Hall. He had not long to wait; he heard the
night-latch click sharply, and a moment thereafter the door swung open,
and he confronted not a servant but Dora, looking nearly as white and
quite as grave as she had on the day of the ride.

"Dora!" he said, in his surprise and alarm. "Why, is it you? Where is
your father?"

"Papa is in his room. Is it Pliny, Mr. Mallery?"

"Yes," said Theodore, gently. "Don't be alarmed, Miss Hastings, he is
not injured; he--it is--"

Dora interrupted him.

"I understand but too well, Mr. Mallery. Is he unconscious--asleep, or
what?"

"Asleep," answered Theodore, briefly, feeling that words were worse than
useless.

"Then could you--could we _possibly_ get him to his room without the
knowledge of any one? If we _only could_."

"We will try," the brief reply breathing sympathy and pity in every
tone. "Have you a servant whom you can trust?"

Dora shook her head in distress.

"There isn't a servant up but John, and papa rang for him not five
minutes ago."

"Never mind then--I know the driver; he is trustworthy. Be prepared to
show us the way to his room, Miss Hastings."

Swift and quiet were their movements. The driver, one of the wisest of
his set, seemed to comprehend the situation by instinct, and trod the
halls and stairs as though his feet had been shod in velvet. He was a
strong man, too, and between them they carried the slight effeminate
form with ease and laid him upon the elegant bed in his elegant room, he
still sleeping the heavy drunken sleep which Dora had learned to know so
well.

She stood now in the hall with compressed lips and one hand pressing the
throbbing veins in her forehead, waiting while Theodore turned down and
shaded the gas, and arranged the sleeper's head in a more comfortable
position on the pillow. He had with a brief low-spoken sentence
dismissed his