early fall, and with that far-off touch of melancholy which ever
heralds the coming winter, even in the midst of a city. The man's
face looked tired and ugly. His long white hands were clasped
tight together. His entire figure and face wore every mark of
weakness and physical exhaustion; but his eyes contradicted. They
were red and restless.

In the private dining-room the dinner party was in the best of
spirits. Samuel Walcott was happy. Across the table from him was
Miss Virginia St. Clair, radiant, a tinge of color in her cheeks.
On either side, Mrs. Miriam Steuvisant and Marshall St. Clair were
brilliant and lighthearted. Walcott looked at the young girl and
the measure of his worship was full. He wondered for the
thousandth time how she could possibly love him and by what earthly
miracle she had come to accept him, and how it would be always to
have her across the table from him, his own table in his own house.

They were about to rise from the table when one of the waiters
entered the room and handed Walcott an envelope. He thrust it
quickly into his pocket. In the confusion of rising the others did
not notice him, but his face was ash white and his hands trembled
violently as he placed the wraps around the bewitching shoulders of
Miss St. Clair.

"Marshall," he said, and despite the powerful effort his voice was
hollow, "you will see the ladies safely cared for, I am called to
attend a grave matter."

"All right, Walcott," answered the young man, with cheery good
nature, "you are too serious, old man, trot along."