“What—­what—­”

“For only a limited period,” continued the young gentleman—­“to be exact, say one minute.  Light work,” he added with a certain whimsicality, “short hours, seven days out—­unusual opportunity.”

“But what—­what am I to do?” gasped the cook, and before she could gasp again one surprised black glove was clutching two ten-dollar bills.

“Arrange for me to see Miss Gardner—­alone.  It’s all right.  She and I are old friends.”

“But—­but how?” helplessly inquired this mistress of all non-intrigantes.

“Isn’t there some room where nobody will come in?”

“The library might be best, sir,” pointing up the stairway at a door.

“The library, then!  And arrange matters so that no one will know we’re meeting.”

“But, sir, I don’t see how—­”

“Most simple, Mrs. Cook.  Before you go, you, of course, want to bid Miss Gardner good-bye.  Just request the lady in black in there with the reporters to tell Miss Gardner that you want to speak to her and will be waiting in the library.  When you’ve said that, you’ve earned the money.  Then just watch your chance until the somber lady isn’t looking, and continue with your original plan of leaving the house.”

“Perhaps it will work,” hesitated the cook.  But with a gesture in which there was no hesitation she slipped her minute’s pay between the buttons of her waist.

The young gentleman went lightly and swiftly up the stairs and through the mahogany door that had been pointed out to him.  Curiously he looked about the spacious, dark-toned room of splendid dignity.  He had the ease of the man to whom the world is home, and seemed not one whit abashed by the exclusive grandeur of the great chamber.  With a watchful eye on the door, he glanced at the rows and rows of volumes:  well-bred authors whom time had elevated to a place among literary “old families.”  Also he examined some old Chinese ivory carvings with a critical, valuating, meditative eye.  Also in passing—­and this he did absently, as one might do from habit—­he tried the knob of a big safe, but it was locked.

The next moment there was a sound at the door.  Instantly he was out of sight behind the brown velvet hangings of a recessed French window.  Miss Gardner entered, saw upon the embarrassed edges of none of the shrouded chairs a plump and short-breathed Susan.  Surprised, she was turning to leave when a cautious but clear whisper floated across the room.

“Clara!”

She whirled about.  At sight of the young gentleman, who had stepped forth, she went pale, then red, then pale again.

“Eliot—­Mr. Bradford!” she exclaimed.  Then in a husky frightened whisper:  “How did you get in here?”

He sought to take one of her hands, but she put both behind her back.  At this repulse the young gentleman winced, then smiled gravely, then pleasantly,—­and then with a whimsical upward twist to his wide mouth.