Tangles; Tales of Some Droll Predicaments/'The Little White Hin'

T was ten o'clock of an August morning. Somewhere near by a bee was buzzing; a locust shrilled not far away; and hot flecks of sunlight filtered through the elms and lay upon the grass.

The tall, clean-shaven, flannel-clad man standing on the Fletchers' veranda wiped the perspiration from his face, and rang again. When he had rung three times without eliciting any response, he returned to the touring-car in which he had come, and was about to step into it when his attention was attracted by a flutter of white behind a hedge near the back of the house; and he strolled around to investigate it. Outwardly he was a very ordinary sort of conventional, well-dressed young man, with nothing to distinguish him from others of his class.

He found a maid hanging out some filmy blouses, which evidently she had just washed. She wore no collar, her waist was turned in at the neck, her sleeves were rolled up almost to the shoulder, and there were wet spots on her checked gingham apron. There was also a smootch on one side of her saucy nose, but she was nevertheless a very pretty girl, of which the man, after the manner of his kind, was instantly aware. He regarded her appreciatively a moment before he spoke. Then said he, tentatively:

"Good morning."

The young woman turned quickly, still holding in place the garment she was hanging, and stared at him with startled, black-lashed, blue-gray eyes. The man waited, but she did not speak, so he began again.

"I rang—three times, but no one came." She averted her glance; and he added quickly, almost apologetically, "Of course you couldn't be expected to hear a bell out here," although he knew that he had heard it distinctly from the front veranda.

"No," said the girl. "Of course not."

"Mrs. Fletcher is not at home?"

"No—sir." There was the slightest possible pause between the words, and as the man noticed this he looked at her a little more attentively.

"Oh—indeed?" he considered. "And—Miss Powell?"

"Miss Pow'll—sure she's gon' out, too." She thrust a final clothes-pin over the blouse she had been holding, and came toward him, speaking with a rich brogue. "The both av thim's gon' out."

"Oh—really?" remarked the man. She glanced keenly at him, but his smile, although encouraging, seemed wholly ingenuous. "I am unfortunate. Will they be out long, do you know?"

"Sure, that's as it may be, but I'm thinkin' they'll not be back before lunch, which is at wan. Will ye be waitin'?"

"No—no, certainly I can't wait that long."

"Faith, they'll not be comin' back soon, fer Mrs. Fletcher wint off in the ottimobile, and Miss Pow'll's gon' fer a long walk."



"For a walk!" marveled the man, again wiping the perspiration from his face.

"Sure, 'tis hersilf's the great walker," she rather hastily explained. "Hot or cold, rain or shine, 'tis all wan to her. She must be walkin' some part o' the day. An' this mornin' says she to me, I'm off fer a long walk, Molly,' says she. Thim was her very worrds. 'I'm off fer a long walk,' says she. An' Mrs. Fletcher tuk Mary an' the baby wid her, an' Annie's away sick, an' 'tis Norah's day off, an' so I'm here by mesilf intirely. That's how ye didn't get in."

"I see."

"But av ye're a fr'ind o' theirs, sure they'll be that sorry to be missin' ye! 'Tis dull enough they are here!"

"Oh, I'm not a friend of theirs. I have never had the honor of meeting either of them, and I have never even seen Miss Powell—but once."

"But ye have seen her, thin?" demanded the young woman, her eyes widening a little.

"Yes," quietly; "she was pointed out to me once in New York. Miss Roberta Powell is getting to be rather a famous novelist, and many people whom she never heard of know her by sight."

"Humph!" ejaculated his companion. "'Tis little she'd thank thim fer the likes o' that! So ye niver saw her but the wance?"

"No; but I remember her quite distinctly." Just the right shade of indolent interest tinged his deliberate speech, "She's very large, and has a great deal of red—at least, auburn hair,"

"She has not!" indignantly contended the girl. "She's a little wan, an' her hair's brown."

"Really? Then I must have looked at the wrong person. It was in a crowd. I quite thought she was a big woman, with red hair. However, though I have evidently never seen her, I hope to have that pleasure very soon. I have here a note for Mrs. Fletcher, from Mrs. Dinsmore, with whom I am staying."

"Oh! That's who ye are, is it?" she reflected, a queer little gleam creeping into her eye, "Ye're from Mrs. Dinsmore's."

"I was to take back the answer, because Mrs. Dinsmore's telephone is out of order; but, since the ladies are not here, perhaps I can arrange to come back after lunch for the reply."

"Don't ye give yersilf that trouble, sor. Sure, William, the chaufurr, can take it over whin they do be comin' back."

"Oh, very well. You'll not forget to give the note to Mrs. Fletcher as soon as she comes in? It's very important."

"'Dade, I'll not forgit. But how did ye iver find out that Miss Pow'll was here at all, at all? Sure, 'tis the great secret!"

"A secret, is it? Why?"

"Ah, sure, she's that tired o' feastin' an' fêt'in', she can scarce abide the sight o' food or drink; an' as fer min—" She flapped her hands and turned aside her head in a typically Irish gesture.

"You seem to be in Miss Powell's confidence," he suggested, with that same encouraging, ingenuous smile.

"In her confidince, is it? An' why not, I'd like to know? Sure, 'tis her own maid I am."

"Oh, are you a lady's-maid?"

"I am," said she, dimpling. "Wud ye be takin' me fer the cook? Though, by the same token, 'tisn't as if I cudn't."

"Couldn't what?"

"Cook."

"Can you?"

"I can that! Whin there's no timptin' Miss Pow'll's appetite anny other way, 'tis mesilf can always do it; though 'tis sildom indade," tossing her head, "that I sile me fingers wid it."

"I see." The man's face was quite grave, but the corners of his eyes wrinkled with amusement. "And—have you been with Miss Powell long?"

"Always. I mane," quickly, "iver since I wint out to service at all, at all. An', by the same token, I'm the only maid she iver had. Sure, 'tis only mesilf can do annything to plaze her, even to the washin' of her blooses." She glanced back at the clothes- lines. "We suit wan another per-fect-ly."

"That's fortunate, isn't it?" He was smiling again now. "But Miss Powell is tired, you say? Particularly of men?"

"Ah!" Again the gesture. "An' most particularly o' thim that writes." She stole a mischievous, upward glance at him. "'Molly,' says she to me, 'Molly, do ye niver marry a scribblin' man,' says she. 'There's plinty o' rale min in the worrld,' says she, 'an' av there's not, ye'd far better die single,' says she."

At this he laughed outright, and then, regarding her quizzically, continued:

"But she writes herself."

"To be sure she does. By the same token, she trims her own hats an' wears bracelets, but she'd not be carin' greatly fer the man that did."

"Ah! Then she considers literature properly a purely feminine pursuit, does she?"

"Not literature—popular ficshun. She has the greatest rispict—manny's the time I've heard her say it—the greatest rispict fer min that writes rale books. 'But Hivin defind me,' says she, 'from the male persons that goes about to afternoon teas and preens thimsilves in the light of a bist siller,' says she."

"O-oh, I see!" said the man, as if a light had suddenly been granted him. "I see!" For a moment his eyes narrowed, as he turned his glance inward, his face twitching with amusement the while. Then he looked at her and laughed. "I see!" he reflected.

"Well, what is it ye see?" she asked, a shade more sharply.

"I see—your point. But there are degrees, even among men who—write best sellers." His lips twisted whimsically. "For example, there are Tracey Coates and Earl Bryant. Surely nobody could see any similarity between them. And Robert King and George Dean Shearer and Sheldon Wells—"

"An' all as like as canned Frinch peas, Miss Powell says. 'Wan may be a bit smaller or softer than another!' says she, 'but they're all preserved by the same process,' says she, 'an' they're all the same unhealthy shade o' green.'"

"Then there's—Forbes Myrick." He seemed to hesitate a little at the name, and a new, inscrutable quality came into his smile as he watched her.

"Oh, Mr. Forbes Myrick! Him!" "But Miss Powell doesn't know Mr. Myrick."

"How do ye know that?" she instantly demanded.

"Because," slowly, "Mr. Myrick happens to be staying at Mrs. Dinsmore's now, and I heard him say this morning that he had never met Miss Powell."

"Aha! So that's the milk in the cocoanut!" she cried. "Mrs. Dinsmore's got a bist siller stayin' wid her, an' Mrs. Fletcher, not to be outdone, betrays the fact that she's got wan too. An' the nixt move is a dinner-party to get the two o' thim together!" She flipped scornful fingers against the note she held.

"Well! Does Miss Powell object to dinner-parties, too?"

"Oh, not to say objict—whin she's ast fer hersilf alone, as ye might say. 'But whin a pullet is possissed of a divil that makes it lay eggs in the market-place an' cackle in public,' says she, ''tis small r'ason fer pokin' it up on a pidestal and pertindin' 'tis an inspired seraphim,' says she. 'Particularly whin itself knows all the time 'tis nothin' but a little white hin,' says she."

The man laughed again, and she joined him merrily, the while they covertly watched each other.

"Well, I must be going," he said. "Your Miss Powell must be a very remarkable woman, from all you tell me. I hope she'll come to that dinner. I should like to meet her."

"Wud ye so?" she asked, with another upflung, humorous glance.

"I would indeed," gravely.

"An' are ye to be there?"

"I hope to be."

"Thin ye'll meet her—av she's there."

"So I will." Once more they laughed together. "Well, good morning, Molly."

"Ah, sure, they'll be askin' me who called wid the message, sor," she coaxed.

"Oh, will they? Tell them," he paused a moment, smiling down at her, and continued very deliberately, "tell them it was brought by—Mr. Trowbridge."

If surprise swept across her face, it was instantly replaced by a roguish gleam, which was still in her eye as she asked, grave of lip and innocently inquiring:

"Trowbridge?"

"Trowbridge. You'll not forget to give Mrs. Fletcher the note as soon as she comes in?"

"No, Mr. Tro-owbridge," with an indescribable little drawl, "I'll not be forgittin'—anny thing."

"Thank you, Molly. Good morning."

"Ah, sure, 'tis a pity," she sighed, still with a lurking twinkle in her eye, "but ye'll not be meetin' her at all, at all. I'm just after remimberin', Mr. Tro-owbridge, that we do be goin' away come Thursday!"

"Which is undoubtedly the reason that Mrs. Dinsmore has arranged her dinner for to-morrow night—Wednesday," he serenely returned. "Good morning, Molly."

"Good-by, Mr. Tro-owbridge," she drawled, returning immediately to her clothes-lines.

He looked back after he had stepped into his waiting car, but the hedge hid her from sight; and he drove away, still wearing that inscrutable smile.

About four o'clock the next afternoon the same man in the same car was whizzing along a shady stretch of road, a mile or so from the Fletchers', but he was no longer smiling. He frowned instead, and sat hunched in his seat behind the wheel, staring moodily ahead, absorbed and unseeing. Because of this preoccupation he nearly passed without noticing a young woman who walked by the side of the road; but he caught a glimpse of her profile just in time to recognize it, and a moment later he had checked and turned the big machine, and was slowly and much more cheerfully trundling back to meet her.

"An' av it ain't Mr. Tro-owbridge!" she exclaimed, as he sprang from the car. "Sure, I'd niver 've knowed ye, sor, in thim goggles. Ye must have been breakin' the speed limits to nade thim things on a day like this."

"I have," said he. "I've been chasing wild geese all over the country-side."

"An' did ye catch anny, sor?"

"I did not."

She laughed and drew nearer him, lowering her voice confidentially.

"Faith, ye shud put salt on their tails. Thin they'll ate out o' yer hand."

"Humph! Is there anything that will have that effect on a woman, Molly?"

"An' is it a woman ye're after? Ah, that's another pair o' shoes intirely! Sure, 'tis not fer the likes o' me to be tellin' a fine gintleman how to do that!"

"Probably you know a lot more about it than I do, Molly. How's Miss Powell?"

"That ye'll soon be seein' fer yersilf, Mr. Tro-owbridge." Her slight drawl always subtly emphasized his name. "She do be goin' to the dinner-party."

"Humph! I wonder if she is? You don't happen to know of an available and competent cook, do you, Molly?"

"Cook?"

"Mrs. Dinsmore's woman received a telegram at noon saying her father had been hurt and was dying, and she's gone; and unless we can find somebody to take her place, there won't be any dinner. That's what I've been chasing—a cook."

"An' y' ain't got anny?" she half whispered, wide-eyed.

"I neglected to supply myself with salt," he dryly returned.

"Faith, 'tis little salt wud avail ye wid a cook, they're that familiar wid it! Have ye tried the village?"

"There's nobody to be had there."

"An' ye can't borrow? Sure, Mrs. Dinsmore must have fri'nds wud lind her the loan of a cook the night, wid the dinner-party an' all."

"I've tried all she cared to ask, except Mrs. Fletcher. I'm on my way there now."

"Ah, 'tis another wild goose! Sure, Annie wud be that proud to go, but the poor soul's away, sick."

"The deuce! Well—" he drew a long breath, "I guess that settles it. Mrs. Fletcher was the last hope."

"Wudn't anny o' thim let a girrl go the night?" she indignantly queried.

"Oh, they were willing enough. But Mrs. Briggs has a dinner on herself, and Mrs. Ford has a house-party, and Mrs. Dover's woman is out for the day—and so on."

"Did ye try Mrs. Howard? Sure, she's gon' away fer the week, an' the girrls has nothin' to do at all, at all."

"I don't think Mrs. Dinsmore knows Mrs. Howard. She gave me a list of all she cared to ask help from, and there's nothing doing."

"How manny has she comin' the night?"

"I don't know. About ten, besides the house-party, I think."

"Ah, the poor soul!" She meditatively poked the dust with her toe for a moment, and then looked up at him with a daring glint. "'Tis a pity min has no invintion nowadays."

"Invention?"

"Av ye was wan o' thim knights yer friend Mr. Forbes Myrick writes so much about, ye wudn't be wastin' time like this, Mr. Tro-owbridge. Ye'd go forth an' raid a castle, an' bear away the cook ye want on yer prancin' steed. Sure, no gintleman o' thim times wud disapp'int a lady fer a mere matter of assault an' batthery."

"Right you are!" he granted, laughing. "But the days of chivalry—as some one has said before, I think—are dead."

"'Twas Miss Pow'll' said it," she instantly returned with a droll twinkle. "'Time was whin min made their own romance,' says she, 'an' life was interestin'. But now we have romance ready-to-wear, manufactured by wholesale an' kipt in nate piles on a shilf,' says she, 'along wid canned music an' hand-me-down opinions,' says she." Her sparkling upward glance encountered a steady gaze that should have warned her, despite the amusement in it, that she was pressing a dangerous point and must be on her guard. Nevertheless, with a little defiant toss of her head, she went on. "'Iv'rything that cud pos-si-bly happen—along wid most o' thim that cudn't,' says she, 'has been done up in a book, at a dollar eight,' says she, 'so what's the use o' botherin' wid it in rale life at all, at all?'"

"I'm afraid Miss Powell is a pessimist," he suggested.

"A pessi— What's that?"

"A pessimist, Molly, is a person who sits in a flood of bright moonlight and insists that it emanates from a chunk of green cheese."

"Ah, sure, 'tis a pity ye're not a writer yersilf, Mr. Tro-owbridge. That sounds like a book."

"Which brings us back to cooks—and to you," he continued, ignoring her interruption and holding her in an intent, amused, but none the less purposeful gaze.

"How to me?" she demanded, stiffening slightly.

"Because you told me yesterday that you could cook. Now's your time to prove it. You will, won't you?"

"Will what?"

"Prove it. Come over to Mrs. Dihsmore's with me now, and cook that dinner."

"'Dade, I will not!" said she.

"Oh, I think you will," he returned, very quietly. "Think of her predicament—a houseful of guests and no dinner. Unless, of course," with a little flickering smile, "you are afraid to try anything so important."

"I'm afraid o' nothin'," came the quick retort, "but ye know quite well I have me young lady to driss."

"Can't she dress herself—once?"

"Sure, av she was goin' as a fri'nd, she cud do fer hersilf, but since she doesn't even know Mrs. Dinsmore, an' 'tis as a bist siller she's ast, she'll be wantin' expert attintion. An, by the same token, I'd better be gettin' on, Mr. Tro-owbridge. She'll be nadin' me."

"But unless you cook it there won't be any dinner. Don't forget that, Molly."

"An' av I don't driss me young lady there'll be no guest of honor. Don't be forgittin' that, Mr. Tro-owbridge."

"Then you won't?"

"Sure, I will not!"

"All right. Just as you say, of course. I'm sorry." He turned half way, and then added, as if by an afterthought: "Get in. I'll take you home."

"Ah, sure, ye're very kind, sor, but 'tis not fer the likes o' me to be ridin' in ottimobiles."

"Except sometimes with the chauffeur, eh, Molly?"

"Faith," tossing her head again, "I lave him to Norah, the sicond-girrl. 'Tis not William Hogan n'r the like of him I'd be wastin' me time wid! But ye must be havin' yer jo-oke, Mr.Tro-owbridgel"

"Well, this is no joke. I mean it. I have detained you here talking about this affair of the cook. Now I'll atone for it by making up the lost time for you. Otherwise you'll have to hurry, and it's a hot day. Come, hop in."

"But what 'd Miss Pow'll an' Mrs. Fletcher be thinkin' o' me?" she parleyed, obviously hesitating. "Sure, 'tis out o' me place I'd be intirely, ridin' wid a gentleman!"

"I'll make that all right. Get in, please. You see, if there is to be no dinner, the guests must be notified; and since I'm so near, I might as well begin with Mrs. Fletcher and Miss Powell."

"Well—so be ye're goin' there annyway." She allowed herself to be helped into the front seat, twinkling again as she added: "Thin ye'll be meetin' Miss Pow'll, Mr. Tro-owbridge, party or no party."

"I hope so," he replied, going to crank the machine. "I should like nothing better." As he slipped into his place beside her he glanced at her embroidered linen gown, asking casually: "Dressed up a bit, aren't you, Molly? There is a young man somewhere, then?"

"Ah, sure, there's no lack o' lads, Mr. Tro-owbridge, av I chose to notice thim."

"But you don't?"

"Sure, I do not! As fer the driss, 'twas Miss Pow'll's last summer."

"Oh, she gives you her old dresses, does she?"

"Sure, 'tis wan o' the purquisites o' me position," she loftily replied.

"I see," said he, putting on more speed. The car gained steadily in velocity, and neither spoke again until they reached a fork in the road, when he swerved sharply and suddenly to the left.

"No, no!" she cried. "'Tis the wrong turn ye tuk!" Apparently he did not hear her, for he bent slightly over the wheel, peering through his goggles at the way ahead, without noticing her protest. She touched his arm, calling again: "'Tis the wrong road we're on intirely!"

"What's that, Molly?" he asked, slowing up a little to make talking easier.

"Sure, ye tuk the wrong turn back there! 'Tis not the road to the Fletchers' we're on!"

"No," he composedly admitted; "it is not. This is the road to the Dinsmores'." Then he looked at her and smiled.

"But I'm not goin' to Dinsmores'!" she declared.

"Oh, yes, you are, Molly! You are going to cook that dinner."

"'Dade, an' I'm not! What manner o' man are ye, annyhow? Stop the car! Let me out o' this!"

"Not at all. Now, don't be frightened, Molly, or foolish. Nobody's going to hurt you. Nothing's going to happen—except that you are going to cook that dinner."

"Stop the car, I say!" For answer he merely smiled at her, meeting her indignant gaze with steady eyes, full of amused but unwavering purpose. "Sure, I can scream—an' I will!" she threatened.

"To be sure you can," was the pleasant response, "but you won't. If you do, I shall yell and wave my arms, and people will think we're the chauffeur and the second-girl, somewhat intoxicated and out for a joy-ride. They might arrest us, though—and I don't think you'd like that, Molly."

"Av they did, 'twould be a fine pickle you'd be findin' yersilf in, Mr.—" she hesitated, and their glances clashed before she drawled, "Tro-owb-ridge!"

"Maybe. But I'm a man, and—you're not. Remember that before you scream."

"Ye're a brute!" she snapped.

"Oh, undoubtedly. But one must risk something in every adventure, and—I sha'n't scream if I'm caught, Molly."

"I suppose 'tis yer idea of a jo-oke, Mr. Tro-owbridge! Sure, 'tis yersilf s the great humorist!"

"If it's a joke, it's yours, not mine," he retorted, unmoved.

"What do ye mane by that?"

"It was a bright suggestion of yours, young woman, that I should raid a castle and carry off a cook. This isn't exactly the 'prancing steed' you recommended, but still—it will serve very well."

"O-oh! So that's yer little game, is it?"

"That's my little game," cheerfully. "In plain words, Molly, you are being kidnapped—for culinary purposes."

"Kidnapped, indade!" she scoffed. "Faith, 'tis a large order ye've taken, Mr. Tro-owbridge!"

"Perhaps. But I rather think that, between us, we'll convince even Miss Roberta Powell that the days of chivalry have not entirely passed, and that there is something new under the sun."

"Chivalry, ye call it! This?"

"Certainly. To be sure, I stopped short of the assault and battery you suggested, but I'm a merciful man, and the occasion hardly seemed to warrant it. Besides, finesse is always superior to force, Molly, in the long run. But no man—no real man," with a pointed glance, "would hesitate at kidnapping, if disappointing a lady were the alternative."

"An' ye're thinkin' to plaze Miss Pow'll wid this?" she mocked, instantly catching her breath as if to recall the words.

"I was thinking," gently, "of my friend Mrs. Dinsmore."

She bit her lip, and a gleam that might have been anger or inspiration or suppressed mirth danced in her eye. Presently she spoke again, but cajolingly.

"Ah, sure, Mr. Tro-owbridge, 'tis not fer a gintleman like yersilf to be gettin' a poor girrl into trouble, an' losin' her a good place. Ye've had yer joke—an' I'm not denyin' 'tis a good wan. Let me go now, sor, back to me young lady. Sure, ye said ye'd take me home."

"Mrs. Dinsmore's is home to me, at present."

"An' is that what ye mint? An' yersilf a gintleman! Faith, 'tis little better than a lie!"

"You suggested this yourself, Molly," he challenged. "Now be a sport and play the game."

"No, sor, av ye plaze," roguishly again. "I may have mintioned that ye might kidnap a cook, but I said nothin' at all, at all, about a lady's-maid."

"A technicality, Molly, a mere technicality. The point is that you can cook, and you will cook."

"That I'll not! Ye may lock me in the kitchen an' chain me to the range, but I'll not cook!"

"Oh, now, now, Molly! Think! Here is a lady with a lot of guests coming to dinner—"

"An' two bist sillers!"

"And two best sellers."

"Only wan o' thim 'll not be there!"

"Neither of them will be there—nobody will be there—there won't be any dinner, unless you help us out."

"Ah, 'tis hilp ye' re talkin' now, is it? Hilp ye, indade! An' me picked out o' the road like a fish out o' the river, widout so much as 'By yer lave!' Hilp ye, is it? Huh!"

"But you will, Molly. You're far too nice a girl to let a lot of people be disappointed just for lack of a little consideration from you. And it isn't as if there were anybody else. There's only you."

"Sure, ye must have Irish blood in yer veins, yer tongue's that smooth! But I'll have ye know ye—can't—fool—me, Mr. Tro-owbridgel"

"Oh, I'm quite sure of that." He was watching her again with that same intent, humorous look. "But—you're no quitter, are you? Be a sport and play the game."

For a moment she met his gaze squarely, each measuring the other's strength. Then she gave her head a decisive little toss, and said:

"Very good, sor. I'll do that same."

"You'll—what?" He seemed rather taken aback by his victory.

"I'll 'play the game,' Mr. Tro-owbridge. An' on yer own hid be all that comes av it!"

"You mean—"

"Sure, I mane just what I say. I'll 'play the game.' I'll hilp ye out." No word can convey the scorn of her manner. "An' I'll wash me hands of annything that comes after."

"You—you don't think anything very serious is likely to result?"

"I cudn't say, sor."

"Well, of course—" He seemed to be floundering in rather deep water. "I don't want to—I don't want you to do anything you really don't want to, Molly. I thought I might persuade you-"

"Ah! 'Tis persuasion now, is it? A little back 'twas chivalry, an' before that 'twas kidnappin'! By the same token, before we're there, ye'll be riddy to swear I pursued ye!"

"No, I won't. And to prove it, I'll turn around now, if you say the word, and take you—"

"'Tis too late fer all that, sor. I've given me worrd," her eyes narrowed and she spoke with deliberate emphasis, "an' I'll kape it in spite o' the divil! I'll hilp ye out—and thin 'tis yersilf will rickon, Mr. Tro-owbridge, wid Miss Roberta Pow'll."

A mile or two more slipped beneath them, he turning once or twice meanwhile to glance at her quizzically and a little curiously. Finally he broke the silence, saying:

"We're very near the Dinsmore place now."

"Are we so?" in ominous calm from his companion.

"There is still time—"

"Oh, play the game, Mr. Tro-owbridgel Be a sport an' play the game!"

"Oh, very well," said he.

"Wan thing, an' wan only, I have to ask o' ye."

"Anything, of course," he murmured, turning in at a gateway.

"I'll ask ye to remimber that, as long as I'm stayin' here, I'm a cook, not a lady's-maid."

"Certainly. I found you in the village. But won't your—won't the family be anxious about you, if you don't return?"

"Sure, that's part o' the 'game' wid which I have nothin' to do at all, at all. 'Wan must risk something in ivery adventure,' Mr. Tro-owbridge," she taunted, and smiled to see him wince.

A moment later he stopped the car near the back of a pleasant country residence, and she sprang out without waiting for bis help.

"I'll find Mrs. Dinsmore and tell her you're here!" he suggested.

"Spare yersilf that trouble, Mr. Tro-owbridge. I prefer to meet the madam alone."

"Oh, very well," he said again, but he sat looking after her until she had disappeared within the house. Then he arched his brows and whistled softly.

Half an hour later young Mrs. Dinsmore sought him, where he sat smoking on the veranda.

"Wizard!" she cried. "Where did you get that woman?"

"Is she all right?" he ventured, eying her somewhat apprehensively.

"All right? She's more than that! She's so preternaturally bright and good that I'm perfectly sure this is black magic, and that she'll presently disintegrate before my very eyes and disappear in a little whiff of vapor. Where did you find her?"

"Oh," carelessly, "I picked her up down near the village. Did she—tell you her name?"

"Molly McManus." He took a long, furtive breath and frowned slightly. "But there's certainly some mystery about her. You know, that's altogether too handsome a gown for a girl of her position to be wearing."

"Did you tell her so?" he asked, very quickly.

"She didn't give me the chance. She explained that it was given to her by a woman she worked for in town last year—she's only here for a few days, visiting her sister—and that she had it on to-day because she'd been out with her 'young man' and didn't want to keep us waiting while she changed, knowing I'd have maid's dresses here."

"And have you?" He was beginning to look decidedly troubled.

"Of course. But that's not the point. There's something queer about that woman."

"Aren't you looking a gift horse in the mouth?"

"Not I!" merrily. "I'm merely savoring the situation to the full. Far be it from me to question anything she wears or does or says as long as she cooks that dinner! And she can do it! She's an adept! I could see that before she'd been in the kitchen ten minutes. All she asked of me was to keep away and leave her a clear field—not 'flooster' her mind, she said—and I'm going to do it."

"I would, if I were you. Let her alone," he moodily recommended.

"I shall. And what greater proof could I give of my entire confidence, considering the importance of the occasion? But why so gloomy now, when you've saved the day for me?"

"Am I gloomy?"

"As a November rain! Cheer up! Cheer up!" She laid both hands on his arm and squeezed it affectionately. "The dinner can't help being a success now, with that cook and Roberta Powell!"

"Oh, can't it, though!" he muttered, as she whirled away. "Damn!" Presently he strolled around to the kitchen window, and called softly: "Molly!" There was no response until he had called again, when a flushed and frowning face, surmounted by a white cap, appeared from behind the screen.

"Well, what is it now?" demanded a hushed but exasperated voice.

"Come out here. I want to talk to you a moment."

"Sure, I'e no time to palaver, I'm that busy! Go 'way wid ye!"

"Yes, but—see here!" he begged, as she turned away. "You mustn't do this! You mustn't cook—"

"A-ah! Scairt, are ye?" jeered his captive, softly. "Oh, be a sport, Mr. Tro-owbridge! Play the game! Play the game!" With this she disappeared, and he meandered back to the front veranda, kicking the gravel as he went.

The Fletcher party arrived late, and most of the other guests were assembled when they descended to the drawing-room. Some one spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher in the hall, detaining them a moment; but Miss Powell, apparently not noticing the interruption, kept on alone. She was a slender, erect little person, with dark hair, black-lashed, blue-gray eyes, and a saucy nose, and she wore white chiffon.

Mrs. Dinsmore, espying her, gasped audibly, and stood as near agape as a gentlewoman can, staring at her approaching guest of honor, who contracted her brows a hair's breadth and shook her head ever so slightly at the hostess.

"It's all this wretched girl's fault that we're late," cried Grace Fletcher, overtaking her friend. "She went for a walk, and got lost—but of course you know all about that."

"Yes, she knows all about it," calmly echoed Miss Powell.

Dinsmore hurried up to greet the new arrivals, and fell into conversation with the Fletchers, leaving the two women practically alone for the moment.

"Am I asleep or crazy?" whispered one.

"Neither. Be careful!" warned the other, while her seeking glance touched one after another of the company and then hastily sought again.

"Then you are—! But how—? Why—? Oh, I don't understand!"

"'Sh! Not here!"

"But who, in the name of Heaven, is in my kitchen now?"

"Mrs. Howard's cook. A treasure. Don't worry."

"But—I don't know Mrs. Howard!"

"'Sh! Grace does—intimately. It's all right. Grace—doesn't know anything else, however," she finished, lightly, as a man approached.

"Witch!" whispered Mrs. Dinsmore. "Ask and it shall be given thee, to the half of my kingdom! I said it was black magic! Meanwhile, here's Forbes Myrick waiting to meet you."

"I shall be very glad indeed to meet Mr. Forbes Myrick," responded Miss Powell, with a queer little intonation that caused the hostess to glance quickly at her before prompting:

"But this is Mr. Myrick."

He was a very ordinary sort of conventional, well-dressed, well-mannered young man, tall and clean-shaven, with nothing to distinguish him, outwardly, from a hundred others of his class; but as she glanced up at him the gleam in Roberta Powell's eyes faded to bewilderment, every shade of expression was wiped from her face, and she presented a blank mask to the politely smiling gaze of a man she had never seen before.

"Oh—really?" she faltered, to break the silence that fell upon them. "Are you really Forbes Myrick?"

"You are evidently surprised." The man seemed uncertain whether to be offended or flattered.

"I am. At least—I'm not. That is— Oh, I am so glad to meet you, Mr. Myrick! Do please forgive me," the phrases came quickly now, between little gusts of gleeful laughter, "but this is too good to be true! It simply couldn't happen! You see, I thought you were somebody else. At least, I thought somebody else was—well, at any rate, I had no idea that you were yourself, and I'm so glad, so very glad that you are!"

Myrick still looked a little bewildered, but here was obviously cause for complacence, so he smiled down upon her and constructed something subtly complimentary in reply. Other people were brought to her and introduced, and through it all she talked and laughed—and watched the doors. The women in the room outnumbered the men by one.

Dinner was announced, and at the same time there entered from the hall a dejected young man. He stopped short in the doorway, seeing her, and a curious expression, compounded of many complex emotions, strengthened in his face as he crossed to where she stood.

Meanwhile Mrs. Dinsmore, looking about the room, had exclaimed:

"Why, where's Peter? He seems to have disappeared. Is it possible he doesn't know— Peter! Oh, here you are!" discovering him at her elbow. "Miss Powell, my brother, Mr. Trowbridge. Oh, I forget! You need no introduction—or do you?" Her laughter gave place to perplexity as she glanced from one to the other. Her brother was regarding the girl with an intent, humorous look, behind which glowed something deeper and warmer, and he seemed to be holding himself in check, as if waiting for his cue, while in Roberta's manner, sparkling and triumphant though it was, lurked a quality as far removed from indifference as it was from welcoming warmth.

"I think I've never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Trowbridge before," said she, smoothly. "And nobody told me you had a brother, Mrs. Dinsmore."

"Oh, really?" dryly returned the hostess, whose quick glance at Peter had been met with a reassuring twinkle. "He's a sort of jack-in-the-box, given to sudden appearances, and he chose to make one here, most unexpectedly, yesterday morning."

"Which was fortunate for me, as I should have been loath to miss this opportunity," said Trowbridge, watching the girl.

At that moment Dinsmore came up, offering his arm to Miss Powell, and they led the way to the dining-room. Trowbridge was seated midway down the long table, on the same side as Roberta, making conversation between them impossible; and so successfully did she evade him, after they returned to the drawing-room, that it was only when the party was about to break up that he succeeded in cornering her where she could not escape.

"Miss Powell," he began, "skill in untying Gordian knots is part of the necessary equipment of a novelist, and though, as we've never met before, I feel some hesitation in approaching you in this matter, I should like to present a hypothetical problem for your solving."

"Why hypothetical?" she asked.

"John Stuart Mill says there are 'no other limits to hypotheses than those of the human imagination,' and as this case lies clear outside all ordinary boundaries, perhaps it can best be presented in hypothesis."

"Oh—" with a shrug, "if you're going to be academic—"

"Very well, then," he retorted. "I was trying to be literary; but if you don't like that, let's get right down to brass tacks. How did you do it?"

"Quite simply," was the cold reply. "I asked Mrs. Dinsmore to allow me to telephone to my sister, to allay her natural anxiety when I did not return, and, as the telephone was out of order, she very kindly offered to send a note by the chauffeur. I then wrote to Mrs. Fletcher, telling her that I had taken the wrong turn and arrived here, finding Mrs. Dinsmore suddenly bereft of her cook. I asked her to send her own car for Mrs. Howard's cook, who would leave it at the gate here, where it would wait for me. The woman slipped in, I gave her the instructions I had received from Mrs. Dinsmore, slipped out, and drove home. You see, it was very simple."

"When did this woman arrive?"

"About an hour after I did."

"And all this time I have been grilling in torment," he protested, "imagining you out there in that stifling kitchen this sweltering day, just because you wouldn't give in!"

"Imagining me! Then you knew? You didn't' know!"

"Know? Of course I knew, from the very first minute yesterday morning. Did you think I really meant to coerce a cook? Do you think I normally go about kidnapping Irish girls and chaining them to the wheel? What do you take me for?"

"I took you—for Mr. Forbes Myrick," she admitted, and laughed a little.

"Then—I'm forgiven?" He bent forward to see into her eyes, whereupon she gave him a full view of them alight and defiant, the while she demanded:

"Does it seem to you so much less a thing to kidnap me and chain me to a wheel?"

"Ah, but you had it in your own hands. Who began this game?"

"Oh, son of Adam!" she scoffed.

"Apparently Adam had a few daughters, too," he intimated. "By the way, does mechanical engineering impress you as being a man's work? A real man's work?"

"Why?" she parried; but her eyes began to dance.

"Because it happens to be my work, and I want to know."

"Do you always talk shop, Mr. Trowbridge—first mine and then yours?"

"It doesn't seem anything like embroidery or knitting-work, does it?" he anxiously persisted.

"Might one suggest that it sounds a little—what shall I say—heavy?"

"Brutal, eh? That's all right!" He took a long breath of exaggerated relief, and she made a little movement as if to step past him. "No, not yet," he said. She looked up, to meet the intent, humorous, purposeful gaze she had encountered before; but now it had in it certain lights, before which her own glance fell. "Tell me first when I may come to see you?"

"Sure, we do be goin' away come Thursday, Mr. Tro-owbridge," was the laughing but slightly unsteady reply. "That's to-morro'."

"Yes, I know. But you remember my jack-in-the-box proclivities. Won't you let me come?"

"That depends—on which of me you would come to see," she lightly evaded, her color a little heightened by the earnestness in his tone. "Choose."

"The novelist is very brilliant," he told her, slowly, "and Molly is utterly bewitching, but of the trinity that is you, neither of these is the one that attracts me most. What would you say if I should ask you to show me—the 'little white hin'?" He was smiling, but he finished very softly indeed, and there was a palpitant pause.

"She'll be at Bar Harbor next week," she breathed, in one laughing gasp, and fled.