ionably, as ever, in a way that
suggested a young millionaire, rather than a fifteen-dollar-a-week
clerk. At this moment, his face was clouded, and he drummed the arm of
his chair with nervous fingers. Then he shifted uneasily under my
gaze, which was, perhaps, more earnest than I realised.

"You said you had a message for me, sir," he reminded me.

"Yes," I said. "Have you ever been out this way before?"

"Yes, I have been out this way a number of times."

"You know this place, then?"

"I have heard it mentioned, but I have never been here before."

"Do you know whose place that is next door to us?"

"Yes," and his voice sank to a lower key. "It belongs to Worthington
Vaughan."

"And you know him?"

"At one time, I knew him quite well, sir," and his voice was still
lower.

"No doubt," I went on, more and more interested, "you also knew his
very fascinating daughter."

A wave of colour crimsoned his face.

"Why are you asking me these questions, Mr. Lester?" he demanded.

"Because," I said, "the message I have is from that young lady, and
is for a man named Frederic Swain."

He was on his feet, staring at me, and all the blood was gone from his
cheeks.

"A message!" he cried. "From her! From Marjorie! What is it, Mr.
Lester? For God's sake...."

"Here it is," I said, and handed him the letter.

He seized it, took one look at the address, then turned away to the
window and ripped the envelope open. He unfolded the sheet of paper it
contained, and as his eyes ran along it, his face grew whiter still.
At last he raised his eyes and stared at me with the look of a man who
felt the world tottering about him.

CHAPTER V

A CALL FOR HELP

"For heaven's sake, Swain," I said, "sit down and pull yourself
together."

But he did not seem to hear me. Instead he read the letter through
again, then he turned toward me.

"How did you get this, Mr. Lester?" he asked.

"I found it lying under the trees. It had been thrown over the wall."

"But how did you know it was thrown over by Miss Vaughan?"

"That was an easy guess," I said, sparring feebly. "Who else would
attempt to conduct a surreptitious correspondence with a handsome
young man?"

But he did not smile; the look of intensity in his eyes deepened.

"Come, Mr. Lester," he protested, "don't play with me. I have a right
to know the truth."

"What right?" I queried.

He paused an instant, as though nerving himself to speak, as though
a