sporting interest in it."

"You mean to tell me that you're going off a-gipsying without any
definite plans?"

"Gipsying?" he laughed. "Well, that may perhaps describe it. I don't
know; I have no plans. That's the charm of it. When one grows tired,
that is the restful part of it--to simply start, having no plans; just
to leave, and drift away haphazard. One is always bound to arrive
somewhere, William."

He had been pacing backward and forward, the burning cigarette balanced
between his fingers, turning his handsome head from time to time to
answer Portlaw's ill-tempered questions. Now he halted, dark eyes roving
about the room. They fell and lingered on a card-table where some empty
glasses decorated the green baize top.

"Bridge?" he queried.

"Unfortunately," growled Portlaw.

"Who?"

"Mrs. Malcourt and I versus your--ah--talented family."

"Mrs. Malcourt doesn't gamble."

"Tressilvain and I did."

"Were you badly stung, dear friend?"

Portlaw muttered.

Malcourt lifted his expressive eyebrows.

"Why didn't you try my talented relative again to-night?"

"Mrs. Malcourt had enough," said Portlaw briefly; then mumbled something
injuriously unintelligible.

"I think I'll go over to the house and see if my gifted brother-in-law
has retired," said Malcourt, adding carelessly, "I suppose Mrs. Malcourt
is asleep."

"It wouldn't surprise me," replied Portlaw. And Malcourt was free to
interpret the remark as he chose.

He went away thoughtfully, crossing the lawn in the rainy darkness, and
came to the garden where his own dogs barked at him--a small thing to
depress a man, but it did; and it was safer for the dogs, perhaps, that
they sniffed recognition before they came too near with their growls and
barking. But he opened the gate, disdaining to speak to them, and when
they knew him, it was a pack of very humble, wet, and penitent hounds
that came wagging up alongside. He let them wag unnoticed.

Lights burned in his house, one in Shiela's apartments, several in the
west wing where the Tressilvains were housed. A servant, locking up for
the night, came across the dripping veranda to admit him; and he went
upstairs and knocked at his wife's door.

Shiela's maid opened, hesitated; and a moment later Shiela appeared,
fully dressed, a book in her hand. It was one of Hamil's architectural
volumes.

"Well, Shiela," he said lightly; "I got in to-night and rather expected
to see somebody; but nobody waited