“Oh, of course! You have always been loyal to the Colonel. Nobody would question that.” “I couldn’t do anything for Gregory, the poor old ass, but I gave the girl a tip to-night to tell him to go ahead.” Wingfield, with his elbow on the table, stroked his beard. Walsh was really the most interesting person he knew. “Well, she’s a pretty girl, and I don’t blame you,” he remarked, leadingly. “All girls are pretty,” growled Walsh. “But she seemed sensible and she has fine teeth. By the way, I’m going to take the madam out driving to-morrow. I made a date with her to-night. You see, the Colonel won’t be home until the next morning and--well, you don’t get a snow like this every winter--no-siree!” Walsh poked the lemon peel in the bottom of his glass with a spoon while his announcement sank into Wingfield’s consciousness. “I must say that you have your nerve! Have you ever appeared in public with any woman since you came to town?” “Nope; but it is time I was beginning. I like Mrs. Craighill; she’s the wife of my old employer and I’m an old man and she’s a young woman. If I can’t take her driving behind the best roadster in Pennsylvania I should like to know why! Besides, if she’s driving with me she ain’t in any mischief. I guess I’m safe!” Their eyes met; it was perfectly clear to Wingfield that Walsh had asked Mrs. Craighill to drive with him merely to occupy her time and to impart to her a sense, thus delicately conveyed, of his espionage. “She’s not stupid; she knew why I asked her to go,” said Walsh, chewing his bit of lemon peel. “It made her hot. I was afraid for a minute that she would blow up; but she didn’t dare. She’s afraid of me.” Wingfield was trying a new medicated biscuit, which the Club kept for his benefit, and Walsh took one and ate it slowly. He seemed unusually well pleased with himself. “What do you think Wayne will do to us?” asked Wingfield. “Nothing; he’ll not say a word. The joke’s on him, and when he takes a second thought he’ll be much obliged to us.” “It was rather raw--our doing it. That Morley girl _is_ pretty, isn’t she--something really noble about her?” “Um! Too bad the art microbe’s in her system. She’s too good for that,” and having disposed of Miss Morley’s ambitions, Walsh rose and shook the trousers down on his fat legs and declared that it was time to go to bed. Wingfield lingered at the table speculating, over a fresh bottle of koumiss, as to the means by which Walsh had learned that Mrs. Craighill had abandoned the Boston trip. Above, in his own room, Walsh re-read the telegram which had brought this information, re-read it several times, in fact, and then tore it into many pieces which he flung into his grate fire. CHAPTER XXIII THE END OF A SLEIGH-RIDE