Stewart was full of his encounter as he took the candle the Portier gave him and followed the gentleman's gruff directions up the staircase. Peter admitted him, looking a trifle uneasy, as well he might with Marie in the salon. Stewart was too preoccupied to notice Peter's expression. He shook the rain off his hat, smiling. “How are you?” asked Peter dutifully. “Pretty good, except for a headache when I'm tired. What sort of a place have you got here anyhow, Byrne?” “Old hunting-lodge of Maria Theresa,” replied Peter, still preoccupied with Marie and what was coming. “Rather interesting old place.” “Rather,” commented Stewart, “with goddesses in the garden and all the usual stunts.” “Goddesses?” “Ran into one just now among the trees. 'A woman I forswore, but thou being a goddess I forswore not thee.' English-speaking goddess, by George!” Peter was staring at him incredulously; now he bent forward and grasped his arm in fingers of steel. “For Heaven's sake, Stewart, tell me what you mean! Who was in the garden?” Stewart was amused and interested. It was not for him to belittle a situation of his own making, an incident of his own telling. “I lost my way in your garden, wandered among the trees, broke through a hedgerow or two, struck a match and consulted the compass--” Peter's fingers closed. “Quick,” he said. Stewart's manner lost its jauntiness. “There was a girl there,” he said shortly. “Couldn't see her. She spoke English. Said she didn't live here, and broke for the gate the minute I got to the path.” “You didn't see her?” “No. Nice voice, though. Young.” The next moment he was alone. Peter in his dressing-gown was running down the staircase to the lower floor, was shouting to the Portier to unlock the door, was a madman in everything but purpose. The Portier let him out and returned to the bedroom. “The boy above is worse,” he said briefly. “A strange doctor has just come, and but now the Herr Doktor Byrne runs to the drug store.” The Portier's wife shrugged her shoulders even while tears filled her eyes. “What can one expect?” she demanded. “The good Herr Gott has forbidden theft and Rosa says the boy was stolen. Also the druggist has gone to visit his wife's mother.” “Perhaps I may be of service; I shall go up.” “And see for a moment that hussy of the streets! Remain here. I shall go.” Slowly and ponderously she climbed the stairs. Stewart, left alone, wandered along the dim corridor. He found Peter's excitement rather amusing. So this was where Peter lived, an old house, isolated in a garden where rambled young women with soft voices. Hello, a youngster asleep! The boy, no doubt. He wandered on toward the lighted door of the salon and Marie. The place was warm and comfortable, but over it all hung the indescribable odor of drugs that meant illness. He remembered that the boy was frail.