“Frank wants you,” he answered, and stepped out blindly into the night. He groped his way across the terrace, and from the terrace went on to the lawn. Overhead the stars looked down and studded the lake with innumerable lights. The night insects were singing. The fireflies glimmered in the shrubbery. The perfume from the syringa thicket was heavy on the still air. Ordinarily these things did not appeal strongly to Mr. Carteret; but to-night they thrilled him. A few steps across the grass and he stopped and looked back. The house was silent. From the library windows the lamplight streamed out upon the terrace lawn. He turned away again and stood listening to the night things--the measured chorus of the frogs in the distant marsh, the whippoorwill that was calling in the darkness on the point. Then he resumed his progress across the lawns. Suddenly he came upon a figure in the darkness, and started. “Has that fellow gone?” It was Whittlesea’s voice. “Yes,” said Mr. Carteret. “Then I must go back,” said the lawyer. “Carteret,” he went on, “this is wretched business. One would think that, in a spot like this, on such a night, people ought to be happy.” “You are right,” said Mr. Carteret. “Whittlesea,” he added, “come along but don’t speak.” He slipped his arm through the lawyer’s and guided their steps back toward the terrace. They mounted it and stealthily approached the library window. From the darkness they could see into the lighted room, and not be seen. The lawyer gave a low exclamation, and drew his arm away. Evanston and his wife were sitting side by side upon the couch. His arm was about her, and his face was bent close to hers. They made no sound, but her body shook a little, and trembled as if she were weeping silently. The two men parted in the darkness, Mr. Carteret retreating back across the terrace. [Illustration: Evanston and his wife were sitting side by side upon the couch] The fireflies still were glimmering in the syringa-bushes, the night voices still were chorusing, but Mr. Carteret was unaware of them. He looked vaguely into the heavens. The Milky Way glimmered from horizon to horizon. “‘Has the singing nightingale a thought of the grainfields?’” he began to murmur. “‘If I love you, oh, my beloved, what are poverty or riches?’” It was the verse upon the cushion. He stumbled over a croquet ball in the darkness and brought his eyes down from the heavens. “Carteret, you’re an ass,” he muttered. He fumbled for his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose. Then wandered on across the lawn till he came to the path that led to the stables, where his motor was waiting. Here he stopped and looked back at the house. The lamplight was still streaming from the library windows, and the silence, save for the night things, was still unbroken. For perhaps a minute he stood and gazed; then he turned and went down the pathway. THE MATTER OF A MASHIE V THE MATTER OF A MASHIE