“Well, what did I tell you about Donald McKaye?”

Mr. Daney twitched inwardly, but answered composedly.  “Not one-tenth of one per cent, of what I have discovered without your valuable assistance my dear.”

She wrinkled the end of her nose disdainfully.  “He’s gone motoring with Nan Brent in a hired car, and they took the baby with them.  They passed through town about half past two this afternoon and they haven’t returned yet.”

“How do you know all this?” he demanded coolly.

“I saw them as they passed by on the road below; I recognized that rent limousine of the Central Garage with Ben Nicholson driving it, and a few moments ago I telephoned the Central Garage and asked for Ben.  He hasn’t returned yet—­and it’s been dark for half an hour.”

“Hum-m-m!  What do you suspect, my dear?”

“The worst,” she replied dramatically.

“What a wonderful fall day this has been,” he remarked blandly as he hung up his hat.  She turned upon him a glance of fury; he met it with one so calm and impersonal that the good lady quite lost control of herself.  “Why do you withhold your confidence from me?” she cried sharply.

“Because you wouldn’t respect it, my dear; also, because I’m paid to keep the McKaye secrets and you’re not.”

“Is he going to marry her, Andrew?  Answer me,” she demanded.

“Unfortunately for you, Mrs. Daney, the young gentleman hasn’t taken me into his confidence.  Neither has the young lady.  Of course I entertain an opinion, on the subject, but since I am not given to discussing the intimate personal affairs of other people, you’ll excuse my reticence on this subject, I’m sure.  I repeat that this has been a wonderful fall day.”

She burst into tears of futile rage and went to her room.  Mr. Daney partook of his dinner in solitary state and immediately after dinner strolled down town and loitered around the entrance to the Central Garage until he saw Ben Nicholson drive in about ten o’clock.

“Hello, Ben,” he hailed the driver as Ben descended from his seat.  “I hear you’ve been pulling off a wedding.”

Ben Nicholson lowered his voice and spoke out the corner of his mouth.  “What do you know about the young Laird, eh, Mr. Daney?  Say I could ‘a’ cried to see him throwin’ himself away on that Jane.”

Mr. Daney shrugged.  “Oh, well, boys will be boys,” he declared.  “The bigger they are the harder they fall.  Of course, Ben, you understand I’m not in position to say anything, one way or the other,” he added parenthetically, and Ben Nicholson nodded comprehension.  Thereupon Mr. Daney sauntered over to the cigar stand in the hotel, loaded his cigar case and went down to his office, where he sat until midnight, smoking and thinking.  The sole result of his cogitations, however, he summed up in a remark he directed at the cuspidor just before he went home: 

“Well, there’s blood on the moon and hell will pop in the morning.”