Sequels to the party and to Darcy’s success were promptly manifested in the form of sundry boxes and parcels bearing fashionable trade insignia which flowed in upon Bachelor-Girls’ Hall. But not for Miss Raines or Miss Barrett. Out of her sumptuous surplus, Miss Cole was pleased to present a dozen American Beauty roses to Miss Raines and a five-pound box of “special” candies to Miss Barrett, explaining kindly that she could not possibly use them herself. That was the glory-crowned summit of a delicate revenge, long overdue. “Poor Darcy,” indeed! So Darcy came into her own. One year Gloria had given her. The year had not yet gone. But most of Aunt Sarah’s gift had. Who cared? Not Darcy. She had won her heritage of womanhood. Where, a few brief months before—and she could laugh now at the pangs and hardships of those months which were so small a price to pay for the results!—she had looked a worn thirty years old and felt like a sapless leaf, she now looked a budding twenty and felt like a baby with a drum. Life was her drum. All its stirring rataplan, however, could not quite drown out the grim voice of reckoning, which spoke with the accent of Sir Montrose Veyze, Bart., of Veyze Holdings, Hampshire, England. CHAPTER X FIVE times Mr. Thomas Harmon vainly rang the bell of the Remsen mansion. While engaged upon the sixth variation he became aware of a face in the window, scrutinizing him. “All right,” called the face. Mr. Harmon was then admitted through a crack scarcely adequate to his well-set, muscular frame, to the presence of Mr. Jacob Remsen, who wore an expensive dressing-gown and an expression of unutterable boredom. “Laid up?” inquired Mr. Harmon, shaking hands. “Bottled up,” answered the young man gloomily. “Can I help?” “Possibly. Did you ever kill a subpoena-server?” “Not yet.” “Care to try?” “What does the thing look like?” “Cast your eyes toward the Avenue and you’ll see one.” “Hm! Not much to look at, is he?” “A worse-looking one comes on at ten and stays all night.” “I see,” said the visitor. “It’s a blockade.” “Hard and fast.” Among Mr. Harmon’s many endearing virtues is this: he never asks questions about other people’s troubles. He now busied himself in thought. “Haven’t you any of your amateur theatrical duds here?” was the outcome of his cogitations. “All of ’em.” “Why not dress a part and walk away _incognito?_” “Oh, certainly!” assented the other with bitterness. “Put on a suit of tights and dive out of the conservatory window disguised as Annette Kellerman, I suppose.” “What’s the matter with an old man makeup and the front door?” “Just this. Friend Murphy on watch hauls out his little paper and on the chance of its being me, slaps the wrist of anybody who appears on those steps. He’ll do it to you when you go out.” “He didn’t when I came in.” “No, he wouldn’t, coming in.” “Then why not fool him by coming in?”