Vague and indistinct as was that fleeting vision in the moonlight, West felt no doubt as to the identity of his visitor--the woman was Natalie Coolidge. His one glimpse of her vanishing figure assured him of this fact, and he drew back instantly, unwilling to follow. Where she had gone he neither knew, nor cared. She had come to his room secretly, supposing him asleep, and this surprising knowledge dominated his mind. What could such an act mean? This was certainly a home of respectability, of wealth. The guests being entertained were evidence of that; yet this secret entrance into his private apartment at such an hour suggested theft, or even some more desperate crime. There was mystery here, at least, a mystery beyond his power of discernment. However, this recognition rather hardened him to his task, than otherwise. He had been forced into the strange environment, and now meant to penetrate its every secret. This time he locked the outer door carefully, and lay down on the bed, wondering if there would be any further developments. As he attempted to think, he was listening eagerly for the slightest sound of movement in the hall. There were none; the transom stood partially open, but no noise reached his ears from the outside; clearly enough the night prowler, assured that he was still awake, had decided to make no further effort. Doubtless she believed her escape had been unseen, or, at least, that she had remained unrecognized in the gloom, and would now resort to some entirely different method for achieving her end, whatever it could be. He could only wait, and watch for the next move. Perhaps the morning would bring full explanation. With this conception in his mind, his head sought the pillow, and he lapsed into unconsciousness. The long training of army service caused West to awaken early, while the house was yet quiet, but with the dawn already red in the East. He crossed to the window, and looked out. It was a beautiful morning, the green lawn yet sparkling with dew; the estate was evidently a fine one, quite extensive and carefully attended to. To the right of the tennis court was a well arranged flower garden, criss-crossed by white paths, an ornate summer-house in its centre, completely concealed by vines. Beyond this, conspicuous against the green back-ground, West caught the flutter of a white skirt, realizing instantly that, early as the hour was, Natalie Coolidge was already up and about. He wondered if her presence might not be an invitation for him? Perhaps she had deliberately chosen this early hour, before the others awoke, to explain her strange conduct of the previous evening? At least, here was an opportunity to see and talk with her alone.