juries received. Such a mind as hers was not lacking
in refined methods of inflicting punishment. It would be proved to
him, in bitter retribution, that Marice Hading could not be trifled
with and neglected--_forgotten for a game of cards_!

In the meantime, she eased her anger a little by snubbing Tryon, when
he came to claim a waltz she had given him early in the week. Looking
at him with cool and lovely disdain as she leaned on the arm of the
great politician who still lingered with her, she disclaimed all
recollection of any such engagement.

"You should be careful not to make such mistakes, Mr. Tryon," she said
haughtily.

"_Soit_! The mistake is mine as well as the loss," he murmured
gracefully, knowing very well what was his real crime. "But prophets
must be prepared for losses. In olden days they have even been known
to lose their heads for prophesying too truly." And on that he made a
bow, and returned to Gay, whom he had left in their sitting-out place,
which was his car. She had danced but little all the evening and
seemed lost in dark thoughts.

"Tired?" he asked, leaning on the door beside her.

"No; but I'm sick of this dance," she said fiercely. "Take me for a
spin, Dick."

"Right. But the roads are pretty bad in the dark, you know."

Gay pondered a moment.

"The Selukine road isn't bad"--she paused a moment, then slowly added,
"and the road to Glendora."

It was Tryon's turn to ponder. The road to the Glendora was the worst
in the country, but it didn't take him long to read the riddle.

"Come on, then!" he said abruptly. "Shall I get your cloak?"

"No; let me wear your things, Dick." She took up a big motor-coat and
deer-stalker from the driving-seat and slipped into them. The
rose-pink gown disappeared and was lost under the darkness of tweed,
and the cap covered her bright hair. She sat well back in the shadows
of the tonneau.

Tryon set the car going, climbed moodily into the lonely driving-seat,
and steered away into the darkness just as the music stopped and a
crowd of dancers came pouring out of the ballroom.

The Glendora lay west of the town, and the road to it ran past the
club. As luck would have it, a man coming from the latter place, and
pushing a bicycle before him, almost collided with them, causing Tryon
to pull up short.

"Is that you, Emma Guthrie?" he called irritably.

"Yep!" came the gloomy answer.

"Seen anything of Lundi?"

"Nope!" on a deeper