h. She ran down to them.

The gardener took off his hat, but Pauline looked at him with such
piercing scrutiny that he hurried to resume his work. Harry, after a
brief affectionate greeting, turned to give some last instructions,
and, behind his back, Pauline stole another look at the magazine.

"It is; I am sure it is," she said half aloud.

Harry turned quickly. "What is, dear goddess of the garden?" he asked
cheerily.

Pauline closed the magazine abruptly.

"Oh! I--I was dreaming," she answered, with a little nervous laugh.

"You can't have a dream when you are one," he said, putting his arm
about her waist as they moved back towards the house.

"I have news," she exclaimed, remembering the wedding invitation.
"Sophie McCallan is to be married tonight--just like that--without
telling till the last minute."

"I read the letter in the library."

"Did you tell Farrell to have the car ready?"

"I will, dearest. But I am not sure that I can go."

"But you must go."

"I got a telegram this morning, and I must go into town."

"To New York! Oh, Hairy, I simply hate your old business. Haven't we
got enough money without trying to make all there is in the world?
Aren't we..."

"No, not to New York--just into Westbury, Miss Firebrand. I must use
the wire direct to the office."

"Absurd. Why don't you telephone your message?"

"Code messages, dear. They can't be talked."

"But you'll be back in time to go with me?"

"I'll do my best. I'm starting directly. There's Farrell with the
machine now."

"But Farrell must get my car ready."

"He will. Farrell isn't going with me."

Her threats and pretty pleadings followed him as he drove away. But
Harry did not drive towards Westbury farther than the first
crossroads. Instead, he swerved out across country towards Windywild,
the great McCallan estate. Only a vague purpose moved him. His
suspicions were groping. But he was forming dimly in his mind a plan
to keep Pauline away from the McCallan wedding. Premonition whispered
that even among the nuptial gayeties there might be danger.

On the crest of Winton's Hill, from which the road slopes down to
beautiful Windywild through parked forests, but from which the rambling
white villa, with its barns and garage can be seen in striking
bird's-eye view, Harry stopped his machine.

To his far vision there was no unusual stir about the McCallan house,
in spite of the wedding day. Owen's car was n