But Phil did not look like a candidate for “jollying up.” He turned to Sue. “To think that Miss Unger carried the money all around New York that afternoon in a hand-bag that anybody might have grabbed,” he said, “and then lost it at the polo match.” Mrs. Vander Laan had stopped to look up again. Sue was close by, suddenly pink with embarrassment for Genevieve, who was rattling the cups and saucers at the tea-table. “All around New York?” repeated Mrs. Vander Laan. “Why do you say that, Mr. Rawson? Genevieve hasn’t been to New York.” Genevieve whirled toward them now, anger flaming in her cheeks. “Oh, please, _please_ let the matter of the money drop!” she exclaimed. “If I’d staked it at bridge and lost it you’d have all thought it a good joke.” “Indeed _not_,” replied the little old lady, suddenly sitting up. “I think gambling----” But what she thought was left unsaid. For at that moment the drawing-room door was opened by a maid and Mr. Aubrey Valentine was announced. Phil went home in the wake of Sue’s pony. Once she glanced round at him as she galloped. His lips were set, his feet were braced, his cap was pulled far down. He circled his machine into the driveway leading up to Arbor Lodge with preciseness. They were out in the wicker chairs at the tennis-court before he spoke. Then he faced her squarely and blurted out one sentence: “Sue, she lied to me.” “Now, Phil,” began Sue, “didn’t you ask her something you had no right to ask? You met her two weeks ago--just two weeks. Since then you’ve claimed her time pretty steadily, haven’t you? She didn’t want to go out with you that day; she wanted to do something else.” “She lied to me,” repeated Phil. “She may have fibbed. Most women do that. You cornered her, probably.” “It wasn’t necessary to lie.” “She thought it was.” “Where _did_ she go?” His eyes narrowed. Sue shook her head smiling. “Have you any right to know, Phil? Now, think?” “No. But you remember Elizabeth Carlton’s nasty hint? I spoke of it. Is it possible----” He turned away impatiently. “Listen, Phil,” she begged. “I’ll ask Genevieve about it, and then tell you what she says. She’ll explain it all satisfactorily, I’m sure. The dear girl is so worried to-day, Phil, she’s likely to say almost anything. Seven hundred is a lot to lose.” “Oh, never mind asking her,” said Phil. “I suppose you’re right.” He chose a racquet and played until early twilight. Then, bareheaded and smiling once more, he went chugging away down the drive. Larry met him as he turned in at the gate of his own estate. The man was not in his wonted livery, but was outward bound along the drive, dressed in a Sixth Avenue copy of Phil’s newest Fifth Avenue lounge suit--a copy that had exaggerated scallops cut out of cuffs and pocket-flaps. “I’ve got news, sir,” he announced, holding up a hand. “News?--about what, Larry? Jump in.” The car came to a stop under the arc-light at the gate.