“Over this hill, and yeh can see it. Only house in sight. Whut else?” “To ferget that you’ve seen me.” “Nuthin’ fishy about this?” inquired the cautious chauffeur. “It’s just a little joke on the people in front.” “My mem’ry,” said the other, pocketing the bill, “ain’t whut it was. I c’n t ba’ly rec’lect t’ say ‘Thank-ye,’ but there my power gives out. Some one comin’ aroun! the bend,” he added. Remsen made a dive into the underbrush. From somewhere above Darcy, a moment later, a tree found voice to speak like a dryad: “I’ll be at your call to-morrow.” At the elbow of the road appeared Maud and Holcomb Lee. Darcy, envying Daniel what has been regarded as one of the most trying experiences in the records of animal training, walked forward to meet them. Her head was high. Her chin was firm. Her step was light. Her eyes danced with defiance. Andy Dunne would have been proud of her. She was game. CHAPTER XIV ROUSED into semi-wakefulness by the first shaft of sunlight that pierced the Bungalow windows, Mr. Jacob Remsen indulged in sleepy self-communion. “Who are we this morning? Not our bright and lovely self. That’s a cinch... Rodney Carteret? No: we shook Rodney in New York... Veyze! That’s it; Montrose Veyze. _Sir_ Montrose, if you please.... Oh, Lord! The bride.” Unaccustomed though he was to allow the sun’s early rays to pry him forth from his slumbers, the man of aliases leapt out of bed, chuckled himself through his toilet and breakfast, and still emitting sub-sounds, not so much of glee as of a profound and abiding satisfaction in life, took the road for Center Harbor. Darcy, still wrapped in dreams at the Farmhouse, would have made the distance in better time; nevertheless, his hour-and-a-half was a fairly creditable performance. In consequence of certain telephonic efforts of the previous evening, he expected to find an express package at his destination, wherein he was not disappointed. At eleven o’clock, Darcy rambled down the long, wooded driveway, leading from the Farmhouse to the lake. Off to her right, where a little brook brawled gayly down among rounded boulders, another dryad-haunted tree burst into soft, familiar music. She answered the whistled melody with a pipe of her own, as true and sweet. “Coast clear?” asked the tree, which, for a good American hickory, spoke with a surprisingly British accent. “Yes. Come out.” “Just a minute. What’s my nationality?” “English, this morning.” “I thought likely. So I put on the regalia.” The owner of the voice stepped forth in the full panoply of wig, whiskers, and monocle. Darcy surveyed him disparagingly. “No,” she decided. “I don’t like it as well as I did.” “Perhaps you prefer the original,” he suggested modestly. “I do, myself. But I was afraid some one might be around.” “Nobody is likely to be here this morning. And the rig doesn’t fit in with that great box you’re carrying. What’s in it? More disguises?” He uncovered the box and held it out to her.