shall whirl them later in a mad dance like brown butterflies. And
there's the green of the pines, and the flaming red of five-fingered
creepers.

It was on a sunny November day, therefore, as he followed Rock Creek
through the Park that Roger came to the old Mill where a little tea room
supplied afternoon refreshment.

As it was far away from car lines, its patronage came largely from those
who arrived in motors or on horseback, and a few courageous pedestrians.

Here Roger sat down to rest, ordering a rather substantial repast, for
the long walk had made him hungry.

It was while he waited that a big car arrived with five passengers. He
recognized Porter Bigelow at once, and there were besides two older men
and two young women.

The taller of the two young women had eyes that roved. She had blue
black hair, and she wore black--a small black hat with a thin curved
plume, and a tailored suit cut on lines which accentuated her height and
slenderness. Her furs were of leopard skins. Her cheeks were touched
with high color under her veil.

The other girl had also dark hair. But she was small and bird-like.
From head to foot she was in a deep dark pink that, in the wool of her
coat and the chiffon of her veil, gave back the hue of the rose which was
pinned to her muff.

But it was on the girl in black that Roger fixed his eyes. Where had he