“Not this kind. You were right about Isburn. He didn't mean what he said about giving you a half-interest in the agency.” “I'm not disappointed. I didn't think he did. Why should he pay me for returning what I took from him as a professional joke?” “Well I fixed it up with him, and he will sail for Europe with his niece as soon as we can take charge.” “We? Why, what _do_ you mean, Mr. Sawyer?” “I mean that I've engaged to pay Mr. Isburn one hundred thousand dollars for his agency, a one-half interest to become mine and the other half to be transferred to my wife as soon as I am married, which will be soon.” “Then you will be my employer,” and Mary's blue eyes were opened as wide as they could be. “Within a week, I shall be Mr. Isburn. I shall not use my own name.” His manner changed instantly. “This morning I met an old college friend. He was doing the historical points of old Boston with his father and his father's friend, a Rev. Mr. Dysart of Yonkers, New York.” Miss Dana started, and exclaimed, involuntarily, “Mr. Dysart--not Mr. Octavius Dysart?” “Yes, that was the name. Why, do you know him? I'll be honest, I know you do.” “My mother was born in Yonkers, and Mr. Dysart was the clergyman who officiated at my father's wedding. He used to call on us whenever he came to Boston. But how did he know that you knew me?” “He said he was going to Fernborough to see your father, and I availed myself of the opportunity to mention my acquaintance with you. He wished you could come and see him.” “Where is he? Of course I will go.” “He is staying with Mr. Larned, my college mate's father, who lives in Jamaica Plain, but he will not be there until this evening. He's attending a religious conference this afternoon and goes to Fernborough early to-morrow.” “Then I can't see him.” “Why not? I'm going out this evening--small party invited--entirely informal--half my auto is at your service.” “Will you get me back to the hotel before the doors are closed? I shall pack up to-morrow.” “I promise,” said Quincy. “I will come for you at seven sharp.” Punctually at seven, a closed auto stopped before the “Cawthorne” and Quincy alighted. Mary stepped from the elevator, wearing a new spring costume and a marvellous aggregation of flowers upon her hat, walked to the door without looking at Mr. Cass, and before he could frame one of his employer's tenacious points and follow her, she had been handed into the auto and whirled swiftly away. “Is Alexander driving?” she asked. “No. He's asleep--up too late last night. We have a strange _chauffeur_. I selected him for that reason.” “Why, what do you mean?” “I didn't wish anybody to know where we had gone.” “Why not, pray?” “I mean, what we'd gone for.” “Nonsense. Why, a friendly call--what more?” “Are your gloves on?” “No, I didn't have time. I'll put them on now.” “No hurry--plenty of time. You are agitated. Allow me to feel your pulse.” “You are funny to-night, Quincy.”