He smoked as he paced the long veranda. In a dark corner at the lower end, sheltered from the mist by trailing arbutus, a group of three persons from the inexperienced, uncouth North, were drinking juleps served by an impassive but secretly disdainful servant bent with age and, you might say, habitual respect. Jenison did not notice them in his abstraction, but his ears would have burned if he could have heard the things the two women were saying about him to their male companion. As he passed the broad office door in one of his rounds it was opened and in the full glow of light from within appeared the tall, graceful figure of Roberta Grand. She remained there for a moment, looking out into the sombre night. Their eyes met as he passed. She was exceedingly fair to look upon, golden-haired and _spirituelle_, but he could see only the repulsive, hated features of Colonel Bob Grand, destroyer. When he returned to the group at the fireplace, half an hour later, she was sitting with the others, her back toward him as he approached. He was at once presented by the girl from Baltimore. Miss Grand looked up into his face with cool, indifferent eyes. "I have heard so much of you, Mr. Jenison," she said. Her voice was soft and pleasant. "We live in a very small world, Miss Grand," he said. "One's reputation reaches farther than he thinks." "It depends on the method by which it is carried," she responded enigmatically. He started. "I trust mine has been delivered by kindly messengers." "Both kindly and gentle," she said. "Some girl, I'll bet," remarked one of the young men. "Not so singular as that, Mr. Priest. The plural is 'girls,'" said Miss Grand. "I am relieved," said David. "It's much easier to understand the plural of girl. Girl in the first person singular is incomprehensible." "Do you really think so?" asked Miss Grand calmly. He bowed very low and said no more. It occurred to him in a flash that this fair girl knew more of him, in a way, than any one present. Later on, at the foot of the stairs, she came up with him. Without the slightest trace of embarrassment she remarked: "I think you knew my father, Mr. Jenison." He flushed in some confusion. "Your father is Colonel Robert Grand?" "Yes. It was he who told me your story, long ago. I have always been interested." David hesitated for an instant, then boldly put his question: "May I ask where Colonel Grand is at present? I hear you no longer live in Baltimore." It was a very direct attack, but he justified himself through the impression that she invited it. "We live in Washington, Mr. Jenison, my mother and I. My father's home is in New York. Some time, while we are here, I hope you won't mind telling me something of your experiences with the--the circus. My father often spoke of you. He said they called you--was it Jack Snipe?" David was taken aback. The girl's frankness amazed, unsettled him. "A name given me by one of the performers," he murmured.