"Good!" responded Jack. "I was afraid your tableau scheme had failed and Dorothy remained at home." "Not at all. They jumped at the idea," laughed Rutley, "and on my suggestion Mrs. Harris begged for Dorothy's presence at the 'Fete'." "Fate!" corrected Jack. "Too pointed," calmly remarked Rutley. "Well, the tableau was a great success, 'Hebe' attended by 'Circe' and 'Cupid'." "Dorothy as 'Circe' posed splendidly; she is the pet of the guests"--and, lowering his voice, Rutley continued gravely: "I have persuaded her indulgent mother to let the child remain up and enjoy her honors a little longer; she may be out and around now at any moment." "She wears a white dress and with a light brown sash about her waist. Long golden hair--oh, you know her." "I shall keep a sharp lookout and take her the first opportunity." "Skip!" suddenly cautioned Rutley. "Somebody's coming. Keep in the deep shadow." "Trust me." And as Jack turned to move away he said to himself, "Tonight there'll be things doing, for the devil is at work and hell's a-brewing." Rutley watched Jack vanish in the gloom, then muttered to himself, "Why this fear? Out with it and to my purpose." Some readers would call it fate, others would probably have construed it as accidental, while yet again others of a more scientific turn of mind would have reasoned it a result of that strange magnetic attraction whereby two minds, simultaneously engaged in deep absorbing thought on the same subject, are mysteriously drawn toward each other. That John Thorpe was alone at that moment descending the steps of the piazza, was proof of the phenomenon, there could be no question, and that he was deeply thinking of a subject very near and dear to him was also evident, for he paused on one of the steps and clapped his hand to his forehead as though to draw out some evil thing that lay leaden within. Once he shivered as if shaken with a cold of the shadow of some indefinable disaster about to overwhelm him, and then he passed on down the steps muttering to himself in an abstracted manner, "Doubt; terrible, torturing doubt; I cannot endure it!" "Welcome, Mr. Thorpe," came from Rutley in the mild regularly moderated voice of a man content with his surroundings. "It only needs the quiet tones of a gifted conversationalist to make this beautiful spot supremely pleasant. All honor to Mrs. Harris and her companion." Mrs. Harris, accompanied by Virginia, had just then appeared from around the east side of the house--"Ah, my lord, your absence from the ballroom occasions much inquiry," said Mrs. Harris. "Mrs. Harris will confer a favor by satisfying the inquirers with the excuse that his lordship is enjoying a smoke with a friend. Does my lord approve the answer?" replied John Thorpe, eyeing Rutley furtively. "Most decidedly!" he affirmed.