Furthermore, Gloria Greene was very deeply and happily preoccupied with certain affairs of her most intimate own, which will serve to explain a slight vagueness in her usually accurate schedules, with consequences quite unforeseen by her managerial self. For one of Miss Greene’s errands that day had been to send a vitally important telegram which called for an answer in person on the following day. That the answer in person might arrive that same day she had not reckoned. She had consulted only railway time-tables, forgetting that far-and-swift-flying chariot of Cupid, the high-powered automobile. ALL things threaten a guilty conscience. Haunted by the unlaid ghost of Sir Montrose Veyze, Darcy, on receipt of Gloria’s message, fearfully anticipated that some new complication had arisen. Having concluded a satisfactory interview with B. Riegel & Sons (whose representative was impressed anew with her splendor) she reached Gloria’s studio a little before the appointed time. The place was empty. For a few moments she idled about, examining the new pictures, glancing casually at books, and presently drifted to the piano seat. Insensibly guided by memories, her fingers wandered into the little, soothing cradle-song which she had first heard in that very spot from Jack Remsen’s lips. Long ago, it seemed; so long ago! Once she played it through, and then in her tender and liquid voice she crooned it softly. She did not hear the door open and close. But she felt a light draught of air, and the next instant a man’s figure loomed through the gathering dusk, a man’s strong hands fell on her shoulders, and a man’s glad voice cried: “Dearest!” “Oh!” exclaimed Darcy in consternation. “Good Lord!” ejaculated the newcomer in an altered and horrified tone. Darcy turned to confront Thomas Harmon. She had seen him but once, but she carried the clearest memory of his quiet eyes, his vital personality, his big, light-moving, active frame, and his persuasively friendly manner. Mr. Harmon was a person not easy to forget. Now he was covered with confusion. “I—I _really_ beg your pardon,” he stammered. “It was inexcusably stupid of me.” Darcy held out her hand, smiling. “I’m Darcy Cole, Mr. Harmon,” she said. “And I have a great deal to thank you for.” “Me?” said the big man in surprise. “I’d be glad to think so, but—” “But you don’t know why,” she concluded, kindly intent on putting him at his ease. (Darcy, who a year before would have been on live coals of embarrassment before any strange man!) “You gave me a refuge at Boulder Brook when I very much needed one.” “Oh! So you’re Gloria’s—Miss Greene’s little friend. I hope they made you comfortable.” “Didn’t you get a note from me telling you how delightful your place is?” “No. But, you see, I’ve been away. Just got in.”