had been a memory
that remained distinct through years in New York and Russia; a memory
which his imagination had quickened into life. Of Hamilton's spectacular
successes his world of banking and finance had given him cognizance, but
only such interest as one accedes to matters of impersonal news.

So a curiosity had arisen in his mind to see this young woman to whom he
had once played the fairy prince, and since he was a whimsical man, that
curiosity had woven and twisted itself into a dream. A dream long
entertained may become something more than a dream. Perhaps it may be a
menace. About their meeting tonight had been so much of the fortuitous
that he might regard the whole affair as one operated from the knees of
the gods--and disclaim responsibility.

The house windows had darkened one by one by the time his tramp ended
again at Haverly Lodge. The moon was near the western timber fringe of
the mountains, but Mary Burton, still wide-eyed and wakeful, had slipped
out of her room to the balcony by her window.

The stone coping where she sat was partly black with shadow and partly
platinum gray with the last of the moonlight. Her hair, falling in two
heavy braids, caught the glistening light and her lips were parted in a
smile. "It is strange," she told herself, "that once before he came
along--and waked me into a new self. His second coming is stranger
still. It would almost seem that there is no chance about it. It would
almost seem that it has been definitely planned." Then she laughed low
to herself. "And if that's true I have no responsibility in the matter
at all. Nothing I do about it is my fault--and I needn't be very angry
about his kissing me before he was introduced to me."

Then she saw a figure leave the shadow of the hedges and cross the
moonlit lawn with a confident stride. Mary Burton leaned a little
forward, resting on her hands, and her lips remained parted.

"He seems just about as shameless about the whole affair as I am," she
reflected, and when he was directly below she accosted him in a careful
voice: "Halt, Restless Stranger. Does a disturbed conscience send you
out to wander in the night mists?"

Jefferson Edwardes obeyed the command and raised his eyes to the
commanding voice. "Perhaps," he announced in a guarded tone, "it is, in
a fashion, dread of the wrath to come--though my conscience is clear.
But you"--in his half-whisper she caught an eager note of hope--"why
aren't you asleep?" S