“You don’t mean Margaret Duffield? You know her? Why, of course, she’s the very one. Do you mean her?” “And you know her too?” “Know her? I have been talking with her until an hour ago. You mystic child, of course you’d know Margaret. Come, let’s go to her and she’ll tell me about you--and I’ll get a chance to see her again to-night even--and perhaps, with you in charge, she’ll want to see me.” Freda was enchanted. Her feet were forgotten. Barbara was forgotten. The night, the delicious hour, the stranger who was chivalric and mysterious and knew Margaret Duffield,--all of it was rounding out a perfect adventure. She laughed in sheer delight. “Isn’t it marvelous?” she asked, “this meeting you--you knowing the only person I could go to, isn’t it curious and like a well-made dream?” He took her by the arm, holding her up a little as they crossed the cobbled street. “Life at its best is only a well-made dream,” he answered. In all her life Freda had never met any one who dared to talk like that. It was three o’clock but the light in Margaret’s apartment still burned. Little lines of it streamed out from the curtain edges. At sight of the light Gregory stopped. “Lucky it’s on the ground floor,” he said, “she can let us in without any of the others hearing us tramp by.” Freda hung back a little. “It’s rather an outrageous thing to do. I wonder if I should.” “Nonsense. Anyway, you’ve no choice. I’m bringing my refugee here myself.” They tiptoed into the little hallway and rang her bell--then went over by her door. It was characteristic of Margaret that she did not call, “Who’s there?” from behind the door. She opened her door a little and looked out. “It’s I,” said Gregory, softly, “and a distressed lady, whom you know. Can we come in?” The door opened wider and Margaret put out her hand as Freda shrunk back a little. “Why, Freda--where did you come from?” Margaret looked at Gregory, but he waited for Freda to tell her own story, perhaps not knowing how much she wanted to tell. In the light again, Freda had blushed scarlet and then turned pale, her cheeks wonderfully waxen and lustrous from the night air. Under her eyes there were circles of fatigue and her hair had clung to her head, damp from moisture. She looked at Margaret and seemed to remember that her adventure had begun in disaster. “I’m so sorry to bother you like this--I’m so sorry. But he said I’d better.” Again Margaret exchanged glances with Gregory. Gregory was looking at Margaret now as if he were conscious of the picture she made in the blue Grecian negligée which suited that slim, straight figure so well. But if she noticed his glance, she was impatient of it. “Of course it’s no question of bother--but what is it?” Freda had made no move to drop her cloak. She held it close around her as she stood against the inside of the door. She told them as much as she could. “I couldn’t go back.” The eyes of her hearers were angry.