“Here, you! Go into that office!” he said sharply. “What are you doing out there, you young ninny? You’ll be picked up for a street-corner loafer if you don’t mind your own business better!” The alarmed youth retreated before him, apologizing. Mr. Carter, with his hat still on, strode past the clerks in the outer office, went into his own room, and slammed the door with such force that the glass rattled. One of the young stenographers looked up from her work and laughed silently at the other. “Seen his daughter-in-law?” she inquired in a whisper. The other girl nodded. “She’s awfully pretty and swell, anyway,” she murmured. “Oh, my--Minnie, look!” Across the street was the old road-house where William and his wife had supped after the dance. As Mr. Carter’s stenographer looked out now she saw a hastily saddled horse led to the door. A tall man came out and swung himself into the saddle. It was Corwin. The two girls across the street rose silently and leaned over their machines to watch him. He rode well, turning his horse around, starting at a quick trot, and breaking almost at once into a gallop. “He’s gone after her, Minnie!” Minnie nodded; then, hearing a noise in the inner room, they dropped into their places and worked furiously. Mr. Carter opened the door, looked in, and closed it sharply again. They heard him return to his desk. Minnie pulled her companion’s sleeve. “He saw him!” she whispered. The other girl assented, touching her lips with her finger. They could hear earthquakelike sounds within, and they rattled away at their typewriters, demurely silent; but through the open window they could see, far in the distance, the furious horseman disappearing down the turnpike. His horse was a powerful animal, a far better traveler than the young bay that had carried Fanchon. The two girls in the office speculated in silence, and worked rapturously. Young Mrs. Carter was the most exciting thing in a dull town at a dull time of the year, and they were grateful to her. Mr. Carter kept them late that day and worked them hard. Usually an easy taskmaster, he called them in during the afternoon and gave them page after page of dictation. It was half past six when he slammed down the top of his desk, locked it, and went home. He walked, and it was a long way. It was seven o’clock when he opened the front door with his latch-key. The family were already at dinner--all but William, who was walking up and down the hall, looking haggard. Mr. Carter came in and hung his hat upon the rack. “Waiting for any one?” he asked his son dryly. William raised his head. “Yes, Fanchon. She hasn’t come in yet. I’m expecting her any moment.” “You needn’t,” his father retorted grimly. “She’s out riding with that fellow--Caraffi’s manager.”