"Tell Wiggins to come back on the run; tell him the world's coming to an end any minute." "I'll be glad to get rid of him," snapped Orton, in the harried tone of a man whose third act has wilted in rehearsal. As I came perspiring out of the telephone-booth I found the suitors engaged in eager but subdued debate by the hearth. They could hardly have heard my bleatings over the telephone, but they were greatly concerned about something. Shallenberger, who was apparently the only one willing to approach me, followed me to the veranda. "Those fellows in there don't understand this. Dick told us all last night, after we had called at the house and been refused admittance, that Miss Cecilia was ill with diphtheria. I remember that it was Dick who rang the bell and gave our cards to the footman. It was quite singular, you know, our being turned away, unless something had been wrong." I bowed gravely. They had been turned away for the very simple reason that, after unearthing Adoniram Caldwell's effects in the secret rooms of her house, Miss Octavia had not cared to be troubled with suitors. The haughty Nebraskan had drawn upon his imagination for the rest. "And I understood you to say a moment ago that Miss Hollister's malady is not diphtheria, but chicken-pox?" Shallenberger persisted with almost laughable trepidation. "These gentlemen, I regret to say, go so far as to doubt your word." "That, Mr. Shallenberger, is their privilege. But it seems to me that when I merely tried to mitigate the terrible news imparted by Dick, you are rank ingrates for questioning my far less doubtful story. Anything between you gentlemen and Mr. Dick is, of course, none of my affair, for whether considered as a set, group or bunch I am done with the whole lot of you. Farewell!" I decided as I rode away that nothing was to be gained by going in search of Wiggins. Orton had purposely made his house difficult of access, and the roads in that neighborhood are many and devious. Orton had banished his guests that he might tinker his play in peace, and knowing his temper, I was sure that Wiggins and the rest of them would keep out of his way till the pangs of hunger drove them back. I had ridden half a mile toward Hopefield, when I espied a woman riding rapidly toward me, and as she drew nearer I identified her as Hezekiah, mounted on a horse I recognized as one of the best in Miss Octavia's stables. Hezekiah rode astride, as a woman should, her bicycle skirt serving well as a habit. She rode as a boy rides who loves freedom and quickened pulses and the rush of wind across his face. She was hatless, for which the sun and I were both grateful. The big bow at the back of her head turned the dial back to sixteen. [Illustration: I espied a woman riding rapidly toward me.]