Wayne, returning to the club-house, found Jean Morley, sitting by the fire, with Mrs. Craighill ministering to her. She had not yet recovered from her fright; her clothes were wet and her dark hair had shaken loose about her face. Mrs. Craighill appealed to Wayne for an account of what had happened, and her surprise was manifest when Wayne addressed the crumpled refugee quietly by name. “Mrs. Craighill, this is Miss Morley.” Whereat Mrs. Craighill’s “Oh!” expressed rather more than surprise. “Miss Morley is an acquaintance of mine; we met”--and he smiled at the girl--“at the parish house at Ironstead where she is one of Mr. Paddock’s assistants.” Jean rose, and aware that an explanation was necessary she offered it immediately, standing forlornly on the hearth. “I had gone for a walk in the country; I have been in the habit of taking an afternoon once a week, and it was so fine at noon that I ventured on a longer excursion than usual. I took the train to Rosedale Heights, and struck off across the fields. I turned back when it began to snow, but lost my way and it was not till then that I saw that someone had followed me.” “The man who followed you was my chauffeur; is there any reason why he should be annoying you?” demanded Wayne. “No, there is no reason; but I know him. I have known him a long time. I’m sure he didn’t mean to trouble me--he wouldn’t do that. I was foolish to run, but the dark was coming on and I was not sure of the way in the snow. I ran up on the veranda more for shelter and to get my bearings than in fear--I really was not afraid!” Her hearers were struck by the fact that she seemed anxious to minimize the incident. She turned toward the door saying: “I need not trouble you further; I can very easily walk to the station.” “Not a bit of it!” exclaimed Mrs. Craighill. “We were just ready to start and it will be perfectly easy to take you home. Is the machine ready, Wayne?” Mrs. Craighill was pointedly ignoring him in her attentions to the girl. She was holding her hat to the fire to dry; the caretaker’s wife, who had been sent for dry shoes and stockings, led Miss Morley to her own room to change. Mrs. Craighill had been a good deal shaken by the sudden invasion of the peaceful club fireside, but she had not lost her wits. The housekeeper had been drawn to the scene, not merely for aid, but to sustain and support the two culprits of the tea table, before the bedraggled girl who had interrupted the afternoon’s drama. The spell had been broken; the arrested embrace, the defeated kiss might not be recovered at once. Mrs. Craighill placed a chair between herself and Wayne and from this vantage point surveyed him with severity as she touched a loosened strand of hair into place. They were now on the most formal footing; and he smiled slightly before the bristling bayonets with which she demanded explanations. “Well, who is she?”