Thoughts murky as the water at the foot of the hill came to Peter Pape. Could Jane Lauderdale be seeking the river for surcease from some disappointment or fear more direful than he had supposed? Why should she be, with youth, beauty and devotion all her own? And yet, why not? Others as young, fair and fondly desired had been depressed to such extent. His heart swelled with protective pity for her. His pulses beat from more than the speed with which he closed the distance between them to about twenty feet, that he might be ready for emergency. They had come to a building which broke the tenement line, a relic residence of by-gone days. With a sudden turn, the little old lady undertook the steps. So close was Pape that he pulled the Fedora over his eyes lest she recognize him. But he need not have feared. She did not look back. Her attention was focused ahead upon some one who sat on the small Colonial-type stoop—some one who had been waiting for her. “Home, dear, at last!” Pape overheard the greeting in a deep, rich voice. “I couldn’t imagine what was keeping you. I almost risked starting out in search of you. Did you——” He heard no more. But he saw more than he wished. The some one arose, a tall, strong, masculine outline against the flickering gas light from inside the hall; clasped an arm about her shoulders; lowered a fine-cut profile, crowned by a mass of lightish hair, to her kiss. The pair entered the house together and closed the door. Sans preface, the volunteer escort reached the crux of his conclusions. He had seen his “Nellie” home, yes. And the anticipated romance had come at evening’s end—romance with another man! CHAPTER XII—WHAT A WELCOME! At exactly ten of the clock next morning Peter Stansbury Pape, Esquire, garbed in the form prescribed by the chart on the wall of his Astor suite, was admitted for the second time to the Sturgis brownstone. He had awakened with the idea. His mind, which last night had felt shell-shocked out of its normal functions by that “home-at-last-dear” bomb, must have worked it out while he slept. The telephone, Jasper of the jowls and a certain exuberant “young lady of to-day”—all seemed to approve it. Even Aunt Helene, who received him, wore a manner that went with her _ante-meridian_ negligée, pliable and gracious as its material of rose-hued Georgette.