I thought of the Doddridge Knapp that she did not know, and a pang of pity and sorrow wrenched my heart. She saw the look, and misinterpreted it. “You do not think, do you,” she said softly, “that I don't appreciate your part in it? Indeed I do.” I took her hand, and she let it lie a moment before she drew it away. “I think I am more than repaid,” I said. “Oh, yes,” said she, changing her tone to one of complete indifference. “Papa said he had made you a director.” “Yes,” I said, taking my cue from her manner. “I have the happiness to share the honor with three other dummies. Your father makes the fifth.” “How absurd!” laughed Luella. “Do you want to provoke me?” “Oh, of course, I mean that your father does the thinking, and--” “And you punch the head he points out to you, I suppose,” said Luella sarcastically. “Exactly,” I said. “And--” “Don't mind me, Henry,” interrupted the voice of Mrs. Knapp. “But I must,” said I, giving her greeting. “What service do you require?” “Tell me what you have been doing.” “I have just been telling Miss Luella.” “And what, may I ask?” “I was explaining this morning's troubles.” “Oh, I heard a little of them from Mr. Knapp. Have you had any more of your adventures at Borton's and other dreadful places?” I glanced at Luella. She was leaning forward, her chin resting on her hand, and her eyes were fixed on me with close attention. “I should like to hear of them, too,” she said. I considered a moment, and then, as I could see no reason for keeping silent, I gave a somewhat abridged account of my Livermore trip, omitting reference to the strange vagaries of the Doddridge Knapp who traveled by night. I had reason to be flattered by the attention of my audience. Both women leaned forward with wide-open eyes, and followed every word with eager interest. “That was a dreadful danger you escaped,” said Mrs. Knapp with a shudder. “I am thankful, indeed, to see you with us with no greater hurt.” Luella said nothing, but the look she gave me set my heart dancing in a way that all Mrs. Knapp's praise could not. “I do hope this dreadful business will end soon,” said Mrs. Knapp. “Do you think this might be the last of it?” “No,” said I, remembering the note I had received from the Unknown on my return, “there's much more to be done.” “I hope you are ready for it,” said Mrs. Knapp, with a troubled look upon her face. “As ready as I ever shall be, I suppose,” I replied. “If the guardian angel who has pulled me through this far will hold on to his job, I'll do my part.” Mrs. Knapp raised a melancholy smile, but it disappeared at once, and she seemed to muse in silence, with no very pleasant thought on her mind. Twice or thrice I thought she wished to speak to me, but if so she changed her mind. I ventured a few observations that were intended to be jocose, but she answered in the monosyllables of preoccupation, and I turned to Luella.