Shortly after the episode of the Night Riders, he had happened to be driving in an adjoining county, when to his amazement a large automobile flashed by with Jacqueline at the wheel, speaking over her shoulder to a man who sat beside her. In the glimpse he had of them, Philip thought he recognized the man as Percival Channing. They were too absorbed in each other to notice him, hidden as he was in the depths of his buggy. Jacqueline's laugh floated back to him as they passed, a soft little laugh that brought a sudden frown to Philip's face. Her expert handling of the great car told its own story. "That won't do at all!" muttered Philip aloud. Then he took himself up sharply--"Why won't it do?" The man was James Thorpe's nephew, a gentleman, a person of some distinction; certainly a fit companion for Kate's children. Why should he feel uneasy? That Jacqueline had not mentioned the further acquaintance with him might be merely an oversight. After all, the girl must marry some day, though the thought of losing his little playfellow gave Philip a pang. "I see," he said casually at Storm that night, "that the author is still in our midst. I suppose he has called here, hasn't he?" He spoke to Kate, not glancing in the direction of Jacqueline. "Oh, yes. We found his cards one afternoon, with Mr. Farwell's," answered Kate. "I am sorry not to have seen him." "He will probably come again," said Jemima, rather importantly. "In fact I asked him to, the other night at Professor Jim's party." Jacqueline made a gleeful face at her sister's back, not unnoted by Philip. "So-o!" he said to himself gravely. "I shall have to make friends with this gentleman...." He was on his way to Holiday Hill the next afternoon, when at the very gate he met Jacqueline coming out. She laughed; rather consciously for Jacqueline. "I've been returning that call," she said. "So I see. Has Mrs. Farwell come, then?" "Mrs. Farwell? Oh, no. She never comes. Mr. Farwell isn't here either, just now," she said innocently. "So I dropped in to--to keep Mr. Channing company." She began to flush, realizing that she had betrayed herself. "We were practising his songs together. We--we often do." She stammered a little. "I see," he said again, lightly. It was not his policy to discourage confidences. "So Mr. Channing writes songs, as well as novels?" "Oh, wonderful ones, Phil! You'd love them. I do wish you could hear them." "I'd like to. Why not bring me the next time you come to practise?" She looked down; then her eyes met his frankly. "I'd rather not, Phil. He wouldn't like it. Geniuses are peculiar. You see, we sing better when we're not disturbed. You know how that is, don't you?"