Kentucky cherishes a legend concerning the potency of its moonshine whiskey which is said to be such that one drink of it will inspire a rabbit to spit in the eye of a bulldog. Desperation will produce much the same psychological effect in the soul of woman. There, in monocle and whiskers, was Darcy’s bulldog. And before her and behind her threatened Desperation, double-barreled. Darcy took a short, gaspy breath—it was all she could get—and advanced upon her unwitting victim. The apparition had just succeeded in its aerial enterprise with the ulster when it became aware of a mute appeal at its elbow. It turned. It saw a girlish face, suffused with a wonderful warmth of color, clear, steady eyes, with an irresistible plea in them; lips that looked both firm and soft and were tremulous at the comers with what might be fear, but seemed much like mirth, and two perfectly gloved little hands stretched out in welcome. No possible doubt about it; those hands were held out to the apparition. The apparition’s face underwent a sort of junior earthquake. Its monocle fell out. It replaced the doubtful aid to vision. It contemplated the creature of bewildering charm and still more bewildering behavior confronting it. Hesitatingly its hands went forth to meet those little, appealing, waiting hands. “Monty!” said the girl in a clear, ringing, happy voice, and inexpertly kissed the apparition on the nose. “Holy Snakes!” gasped the apparition. It took a step backward. Its knees caught. It collapsed in its chair. CHAPTER XII AFTER that one exclamatory lapse from Briticism, the tweed-clad man sat speechless, struggling to regain command over his shattered sensibilities. In this laudable endeavor he was severely handicapped by his _vis-à-vis_. She had turned the chair next his and was now seated facing him with parted lips, fluttering color, and lovely, desperate, suppliant eyes, a picture to divert the most determined attempt at concentration. “Please! Please,” she implored, like a child, holding out her small, quivering hands to him. “Won’t you speak to me?” “Why—er—to be sure! To be sure! What shall I say, for choice?” “Anything. Weather. Politics. ‘Shakespeare and the musical glasses.’ Only, talk!” “But I’m afraid—er—there’s some beastly mistake, you know.” “Pretend it isn’t,” she urged. “Oh, help me pretend it isn’t.” There was the sound of a clicking latch back of her, and the tension of the girl’s face relaxed a little. A second click in front indicated a similar closure of Drawing-Room B. Darcy took a long breath. No longer under observation, she enjoyed a truce in which to lay her plans. Incidentally she did her newly wed friends the gross injustice of rejoicing that Pullman doors have no keyholes. “Now I can explain,” said she composedly. “Pray do.” There was lively interest in his tone. “No, I don’t know that I can, either. I’m afraid you won’t understand.” “Give me a sporting chance at it.”