he Pelican Hotel, but when Austen Vane walked
in that evening between the Gaylords, father and son, many a hungry guest
laid down his knife and fork and stared. Was the younger Vane (known to
be anti-railroad) to take up the Gaylords' war against his own father?
All the indications were that way, and a rumour flew from table to
table-leaping space, as rumours will--that the Gaylords had sent to
Ripton for Austen. There was but one table in the room the occupants of
which appeared not to take any interest in the event, or even to grasp
that an event had occurred. The Railroad Table was oblivious.

After supper Mr. Tooting found Austen in the rotunda, and drew him
mysteriously aside.

"Say, Aust, the Honourable Hilary wants to see you to-night," he
whispered.

"Did he send you with the message?" Austen demanded.

"That's right," said Mr. Tooting. "I guess you know what's up."

Austen did not answer. At the foot of the stairway was the tall form of
Hilary Vane himself, and Austen crossed the rotunda.

"Do you want to see me, Judge?" he asked.

The Honourable Hilary faced about quickly.

"Yes, if you've got any spare time."

"I'll go to your room at half-past nine to-night, if that's convenient."

"All right," said the Honourable Hilary, starting up the stairs.

Austen turned, and found Mr. Hamilton Tooting at his elbow.

CHAPTER XII

Mr. REDBROOK'S PARTY

The storm was over, and the bare trees, when the moon shone between the
hurrying clouds, cast lacelike shadows on the white velvet surface of the
snow as Austen forged his way up the hill to the Widow Peasley's in
keeping with his promise to Mr. Redbrook. Across the street he paused
outside the picket-fence to gaze at the yellow bars of light between the
slats of the windows of the Duncan house. It was hard to realize that she
was there, within a stone's throw of where he was to sleep; but the
strange, half-startled expression in her eyes that afternoon and the
smile--which had in it a curious quality he could not analyze--were so
vivid in his consciousness as to give him pain. The incident, as he stood
there ankle-deep in the snow, seemed to him another inexplicable and
uselessly cruel caprice of fate.

As he pictured her in the dining room behind Mr. Crewe's silver and cut
glass and flowers, it was undoubtedly natural that he should wonder
whether she were thinking of him in the Widow Peasley's lamp-lit cottage,
and he smiled at the contrast. Aft