gement. She looked eagerly
up and down the platform for Gladys Leighton, but there was no sign of
her.

"Perhaps she never got my telegram," she said in perplexity. She asked
the stationmaster if there had been a lady waiting for the train; but
he had seen nobody.

The man with whom she had travelled down from London stood patiently
beside her.

"Shall we drive on?" he suggested. "We may meet your friend on the
road."

They went out to the big car; there was a smart man in livery to drive
them. Christine and her companion sat together in the back seat. They
drove slowly the first half-mile, but there was no sign of Gladys
anywhere. Christine felt depressed. She had counted on Gladys; she
had been so sure that she would not fail her; she began to wonder if
Jimmy had sent that wire; she hated herself for the thought, but her
whole belief and idea of him had got hopelessly inverted during the
past days.

They seemed to reach Upton House very quickly.

"You are evidently expected," her companion said; "judging by the look
of the house."

The front door stood open; the wide gate to the drive was fastened
back. As the car stopped the housekeeper came to the door; she looked
interestedly at Christine, and with faint amazement at her companion.
For the first time Christine felt embarrassed: she wondered if perhaps
she had been foolish to accept this man's offer of an escort. When
they were inside the house she turned to him timidly.

"Will you tell me your name? It--it seems so funny not to know your
name. Mine is Christine Wyatt--Challoner, I mean," she added with a
flush of embarrassment.

"My name is Kettering--Alfred Kettering." He smiled down at her. "The
name Challoner is very familiar to me," he said. "My greatest friend
is a man named Challoner."

Christine caught her breath.

"Not--Jimmy?" she asked.

"No--Horace. He has a young brother named Jimmy, though--a
disrespectful young scamp, who always called Horace 'the Great
Horatio.' You don't happen to know them, I suppose?"

Christine had flushed scarlet.

"He is my husband," she said in a whisper.

"Your--husband!" Kettering stared at her with amazed eyes, then
suddenly he held our his hand. "That makes us quite old friends, then,
doesn't it?" he said with change of voice. "I have known Horace
Challoner all my life; as a matter of fact, I was with him all last
summer in Australia. I have been home myself only a few weeks."

C