"Every one knows that, Mr. Van Pycke," said Miss Downing. He stared. "You have a paltry twelve thousand a year. Even the street sweepers get more than that." Her sarcasm was veiled by a polite smile. The bride laughed. He felt a sudden, inexplicable shame. "Well, Buzzy, I can't stop here talking to you all night. We're leaving, you know, by the 11.30. Thanks, dear boy, for the thought that brought you up to-night, I appreciate the honor." She extended her hand. "Good luck, my friend. Try further up the street." "Oh, I say, Laura," he protested. She saw the genuine hurt in his eyes. Instead of withdrawing the hand he had clasped, she suddenly gave his a warm pressure. Her mocking eyes grew sober and earnest. "You're too much of a real man, Buzzy, for that sort of thing," she said. "Don't do it. Marry for love, my dear friend, even if it means getting along on twelve thousand a year. I don't believe, Bosworth Van Pycke, that down in your heart you can see much that is glorious in the spending of a woman's money. You're cut out for better work than that." "I've just come to the same conclusion, Laura," he said firmly. "Good luck and God bless you. You'll be happy: De Foe doesn't need your money." She dashed off to give orders to the butler and the maids who were waiting in the library beyond. De Foe's entrance was the signal for another outburst of joyous badinage. He was a handsome, strong-featured man of rather serious mien. Bosworth at once shook hands with him, the others looking on curiously. "God bless you and--thank you, old chap," he said. De Foe was never to know why the young man thanked him, but the attentive Miss Downing understood and favored the speaker with a glance of profound concern. He turned to her as De Foe was claimed by the others. An expression of deep uneasiness had come into his eyes. "I wonder what keeps father so long," he said, so quaintly that she laughed aloud. Then both of them turned to watch the preparations for departure. The butler tossed the jewel boxes into a stout black bag; the detective took charge of it. Bellows peered from the front windows in quest of the motor cars; everybody chattered and gabbled while they were being bundled into their outer garments by the nimble attendants. One could only think of the anterooms in the Savoy or the Ritz. "Now get out, every one of you," cried the bride. "I insist on being the last to leave the house. It's for good luck." Bellows said something in a low voice to Mr. De Foe. Any one but Bellows would have betrayed concern. "No motors!" exclaimed Mr. De Foe. There was a sudden silence in the room. "The blizzard, sir," said Bellows, briefly. "But, hang it all, we must get to the station," cried the groom. "What the devil's the meaning of all this?"