"Ted, by the Lord Harry, I believe you’ve hit it!" said Gunther excitedly. "I say—" "What?" "Let’s go up to your rooms—there may be a letter from Mrs. Kildair." Full of eagerness they went to Beecher’s rooms—only to return empty-handed and disappointed. Then they hurried to the club and searched the letter-boxes without success. Disappointed and impatient they went in to a late lunch. "What are you going to do about that check of Miss Charters’?" said Gunther in an aggressive tone. "Take it round to her," said Beecher, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. "Mail it." "Why?" "Gratitude and a pretty woman are a dangerous combination," said Gunther gruffly; "especially for something soft like you." "You damned, impertinent cuss," said Beecher acridly. "Fact. Better let me call a messenger boy and send it around." But in the pleased state of mind in which he was, Beecher had not the slightest intention of surrendering the delightful opportunity which the visit promised. Likewise, he was indignant at hearing from Gunther the same implications which amused him from the lips of a fascinating woman like Emma Fornez. "You’ve got a fine idea of me," he answered hotly. "I have." "According to you, I oughtn’t to be allowed to roam the streets without a keeper." "Exactly expressed." "Don’t alarm yourself," said Beecher in a lofty, superior tone, and, believing every word, he added, "I’m quite able to take care of myself. I know how to amuse myself—and I know it is amusing myself, thank you. You think I don’t know anything about women—well, I know better than some people how to keep my head straight." "So you’re going around?" said Gunther with a grin. "I am." "I thought you said you had never met any one who could make you so angry?" "Come and get me at five o’clock," said Beecher, with a trifling wave of his hand. "I begin to have my doubts," said Gunther slowly, with the air of one steeling himself against a great calamity. Beecher had no such anticipation as he went lightly out of the club and took his way up the Avenue. For the last day he had thought much more of the possible feelings of Nan Charters toward his own receptive person than of analyzing the impregnability of his own position. He had not telephoned, desiring to effect a little surprise. But as he neared his destination he remembered that she might possibly be out. "In that case I’ll leave a little note—just a line with the check—as though it were a casual affair," he said to himself. But Miss Charters was in. An automobile was at the curb which he thought he recognized. Miss Charters herself answered the door, detaining him a moment in the anteroom.