No. 13 Washington Square | Page 7

the library. When you've said that, you've earned the money.
Then just watch your chance until the somber lady isn't looking, and
continue with your original plan of leaving the house."
"Perhaps it will work," hesitated the cook. But with a gesture in which
there was no hesitation she slipped her minute's pay between the
buttons of her waist.
The young gentleman went lightly and swiftly up the stairs and through
the mahogany door that had been pointed out to him. Curiously he
looked about the spacious, dark-toned room of splendid dignity. He had
the ease of the man to whom the world is home, and seemed not one
whit abashed by the exclusive grandeur of the great chamber. With a
watchful eye on the door, he glanced at the rows and rows of volumes:
well-bred authors whom time had elevated to a place among literary
"old families." Also he examined some old Chinese ivory carvings with
a critical, valuating, meditative eye. Also in passing--and this he did
absently, as one might do from habit--he tried the knob of a big safe,
but it was locked.
The next moment there was a sound at the door. Instantly he was out of
sight behind the brown velvet hangings of a recessed French window.
Miss Gardner entered, saw upon the embarrassed edges of none of the
shrouded chairs a plump and short-breathed Susan. Surprised, she was
turning to leave when a cautious but clear whisper floated across the
room.
"Clara!"
She whirled about. At sight of the young gentleman, who had stepped
forth, she went pale, then red, then pale again.
"Eliot--Mr. Bradford!" she exclaimed. Then in a husky frightened

whisper: "How did you get in here?"
He sought to take one of her hands, but she put both behind her back.
At this repulse the young gentleman winced, then smiled gravely, then
pleasantly,--and then with a whimsical upward twist to his wide mouth.
"Via the cook," he answered, and told her the rest.
"Did any one else belonging to the house see you?"
"Besides you and my excellent old friend, the cook, no one."
"But don't you realize that this house is one of the most dangerous
places in the world for you?" she cried in a low voice. "Why, Judge
Harvey himself is expected here any minute!"
"Judge Harvey!" The equable young man gave a start. But the next
moment his poise came back.
"And after what I saw only to-day in the papers about Thomas
Preston--! Don't you know you are this moment standing on a
volcano?"
"Yes--but what of it?" he answered cheerfully. "It's the most diverting
indoor or outdoor sport I've ever indulged in--dodging eruptions.
Besides, in standing on this volcano I have the advantage of also
standing near you."
"Didn't I tell you I never wanted to see you again!" she flamed at him.
"How dared you come here?"
"I had to come, dear." His voice was pleading, yet imperturbably
pleasant. "You refused to answer the letters I wrote you begging you to
meet me somewhere to talk things over. I read that Mrs. De Peyster was
sailing to-night, and I knew that you were sailing with her. Surely you
understand, before she went, I had to see my wife."
"I refuse to recognize myself as such!" cried Miss Gardner.

"But, my dear, you married--"
"Yes, after knowing you just two days! Oh, you can be charming and
plausible, but that shows just how foolish a girl can be when she's a bit
tired and lonesome, and then gets a bit of a holiday."
"But, Clara, you really liked me!"
"That was because I didn't know who you were and what you were!"
"But, Clara," he went on easily--he could not help talking easily,
though his tone had the true ring of sincerity. There seemed to be no bit
of agressive self-assurance about this young gentleman; he seemed to
be just quietly, pleasantly, whimsically, unsubduably his natural self.
"But, Clara, you must remember that it was as sudden with me as with
you. I hardly thought about explaining. And then, I'll be frank, I was
afraid if I did tell, you wouldn't have me. I did side-step a bit, that's a
fact."
"You admit this, and yet you expect me to accept as my husband a man
who admits he is a crook!"
"My dear Clara," he protested gently, "I never admitted I was such an
undraped, uneuphonious, square-cornered word as that."
"Well, if a forger isn't a crook, then who is? The business of those
forged letters of Thomas Jefferson, do you think I can stand for that?"
The young man was in earnest, deadly earnest; yet he could not help his
wide mouth tilting slightly upward to the right. Plainly there was
something here that amused