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hurried scrawl which she had found on the empty cot. He had merely said

that he had taken away William Bannister, but that "it was all right."

Why Steve should imagine that it was all right baffled Mamie. Anything

less all right she had never come across in a lifetime of disconcerting

experiences.

She was aware that things were not as they should be between Ruth and

Kirk, and the spectacle of the broken home had troubled her gentle

heart; but she failed to establish a connection between Kirk's

departure and Steve's midnight raid.

After devoting some ten minutes to steady brainwork she permitted

herself the indulgence of a few tears. She did not often behave in this

shockingly weak way, her role in life hitherto having been that of the

one calm person in a disrupted world. When her father had lost his job,

and the rent was due, and Brother Jim had fallen in the mud to the

detriment of his only suit of clothes, and Brothers Terence and Mike

had developed respectively a sore throat and a funny feeling in the

chest, she had remained dry-eyed and capable. Her father had cried, her

brother Jim had cried, her brother Terence had cried, and her brother

Mike had cried in a manner that made the weeping of the rest of the

family seem like the uncanny stillness of a summer night; but she had

not shed a tear.

Now, however, she gave way. She buried her little face on the pillow

which so brief a while before had been pressed by the round head of

William Bannister and mourned like a modern Niobe.

At the end of two minutes she rose, sniffing but courageous, herself

again. In her misery an idea had come to her. It was quite a simple and

obvious idea, but till now it had eluded her.

She would go round to the studio and see Kirk. After all, it was his

affair as much as anybody else's, and she had a feeling that it would

be easier to break the news to him than to Ruth and Mrs. Porter.

She washed her eyes, put on her hat, and set out.

Luck, however, was not running her way that morning. Arriving at the

studio, she rang the bell, and rang and rang again without result

except a marked increase in her already substantial depression. When it

became plain to her that the studio was empty she desisted.

It is an illustration of her remarkable force of character that at this

point, refusing to be crushed by the bludgeoning of fate, she walked to

Broadway and went into a moving-picture palace. There was nothing to be

effected by staying in the house and worrying, so she resolutely

declined to worry.

From this point onward her day divided itself into a series of three

movements repeated at regular intervals. From the moving pictures she

went to the house on Fifth Avenue. Finding that neither Ruth nor Mrs.

Porter had returned, she went to the studio. Ringing the bell there and

getting no answer, she took in the movies once more.

Mamie was a philosopher.

The atmosphere of the great house was still untroubled on her second

visit. The care of the White Hope had always been left exclusively in

the hands of the women, and the rest of the household had not yet

detected his absence. It was not their business to watch his comings in

and his goings out. Besides, they had other things to occupy them.

The unique occasion of the double absence of Ruth and Mrs. Porter was

being celebrated by a sort of Saturnalia or slaves' holiday. It was

true that either or both might return at any moment, but there was a

disposition on the part of the domestic staff to take a chance on it.

Keggs, that sinful butler, had strolled round to an apparently

untenanted house on Forty-First Street, where those who knew their New

York could, by giving the signal, obtain admittance and the privilege

of losing their money at the pleasing game of roulette with a double

zero.

George, the footman, in company with Henriette, the lady's-maid, and

Rollins, the chauffeur, who had butted in absolutely uninvited to

George's acute disgust, were taking the air in the park. The rest of

the staff, with the exception of a house-maid, who had been bribed,

with two dollars and an old dress which had once been Ruth's and was

now the property of Henriette, to stand by the ship, were somewhere on

the island, amusing themselves in the way that seemed best to them. For

all practical purposes, it was a safe and sane Fourth provided out of a

blue sky by the god of chance.

It was about five o'clock when Mamie, having, at a modest estimate,

seen five hundred persecuted heroes, a thousand ill-used heroines,

several regiments of cowboys, and perhaps two thousand comic men

pursued by angry mobs, returned from her usual visit to the studio.

This time there were signs of hope in the shape of a large automobile

opposite the door. She rang the bell, and there came from within the

welcome sound of footsteps. An elderly man of a somewhat dissipated

countenance opened the door.

"I want to see Mr. Winfield," said Mamie.

Mr. Penway, for it was he, gave her the approving glance which your man

of taste and discrimination does not fail to bestow upon youth and

beauty and bawled over his shoulder!

"Kirk!"

Kirk came down the passage. He was looking brown and healthy. He was in

his shirt-sleeves.

"Oh, Mr. Winfield. I'm in such trouble."

"Why, Mamie! What's the matter? Come in."

Mamie followed him into the studio, eluding Mr. Penway, whose arm was

hovering in the neighbourhood of her waist.

"Sit down," said Kirk. "What's the trouble? Have you been trying to get

at me before? We've been down to Long Beach."

"A delightful spot," observed Mr. Penway, who had followed. "Sandy, but

replete with squabs. Why didn't you come earlier? We could have taken

you."

"May I talk privately with you, Mr. Winfield?"

"Sure."

Kirk looked at Mr. Penway, who nodded agreeably.

"Outside for Robert?" he inquired amiably. "Very well. There is

no Buttinsky blood in the Penway family. Let me just fix myself a

high-ball and borrow one of your cigars and I'll go and sit in the

car and commune with nature. Take your time."

"Just a moment, Mamie," said Kirk, when he had gone. He picked up a

telegram which lay on the table. "I'll read this and see if it's

important, and then we'll get right down to business. We only got back

a moment before you arrived, so I'm a bit behind with my

correspondence."

As he read the telegram a look of astonishment came into his face. He

sat down and read the message a second time. Mamie waited patiently.

"Good Lord!" he muttered.

A sudden thought struck Mamie.

"Mr. Winfield, is it from Steve?" she said.

Kirk started, and looked at her incredulously.

"How on earth did you know? Good Heavens! Are you in this, Mamie, too?"

Mamie handed him her note. He read it without a word. When he had

finished he sat back in his chair, thinking.

"I thought Steve might have telegraphed to you," said Mamie.

Kirk roused himself from his thoughts.

"Was this what you came to see me about?"

"Yes."

"What does Ruth, what do they think of it, up there?"

"They don't know anything about it. Mrs. Winfield went away early this

morning. Mr. Keggs said she had had a telephone call, Mrs. Porter is in

Boston. She will be back to-day some time. What are we to do?"

"Do!" Kirk jumped up and began to pace the floor. "I'll tell you what

I'm going to do. Steve has taken the boy up to my shack in Connecticut.

I'm going there as fast as the auto can take me."