I do not know how she knew. "John" was the only man-servant that the Jervaises employed in the house; butler, footman, valet and goodness knows what else. "Mrs. Sturton seems to be afraid of the night-air," Miss Tattersall remarked with a complacent giggle of self-congratulation on being too modern for such prejudices. "I simply love the night-air, don't you?" she continued. "I often go out for a stroll in the garden the last thing." I guessed her intention, but I was not going to compromise myself by strolling about the Jervaise domain at midnight with Grace Tattersall. "Do you? Yes," I agreed, as if I were bound to admire her originality. They are afraid of the night-air, my allegory went on, and having begun their retreat, they are now sending out their servant for help. I began to wonder if I were composing the plot of a grand opera? John's return convinced me that I was not to be disappointed in my expectation of drama. He came out from under the staircase through the red baize door which discreetly warned the stranger that beyond this danger signal lay the sacred mysteries of the Hall's service. And he came down to the central cluster of faintly irritated Sturtons and Jervaises, with an evident hesitation that marked the gravity of his message. Every one was watching that group under the electric-lighted chandelier--it was posed to hold the stage--but I fancy that most of the audience were solely interested in getting rid of the unhappy Sturtons. We could not hear what John said, but we inferred the general nature of the disaster from the response accorded to his news. The vicar merely clicked his tongue with a frown of grave disapproval, but his wife advertised the disaster for us by saying,-- "It's that man Carter, from the Oak, you know; not our own man. I've never liked Carter." "Quite hopelessly, eh?" Jervaise asked John, and John's perturbed shake of the head answered that question beyond any doubt. "In any case," Mrs. Sturton began, and I hazarded a guess that she was going to refuse to drive behind Carter in any stage of intoxication; but she decided to abandon that line and went on with a splendid imitation of cheerfulness, "However, there's nothing to be done, now, but walk. It's quite a fine night, fortunately." She looked at her husband for approval. "Oh! quite, quite," he said. "A beautiful night. Let us walk by all means." A general rustle of relief spread up the gallery of the staircase, and was followed at once by a fresh outburst of chatter. The waiting audience of would-be dancers had responded like one individual. It was as if their single over-soul had sighed its thankfulness and had then tried to cover the solecism. Their relief was short-lived. Mrs. Jervaise "couldn't think" of the Sturtons walking. They must have the motor. She insisted. Really nothing at all. Their chauffeur was sure to be up, still.