“Hello, Olivetta.  Hands out of commission.  You’ll have to shake my elbow.”  And he held out his angled arm.

“Good-morning, Jack,” responded Olivetta, in trepidation, hardly daring to be gracious where Mrs. De Peyster had been cool.

Jack slipped an arm across Matilda’s shoulders.  “How are you, Matilda?  Glad to see you again.”

“And I’m glad to see you again, Mr. Jack,” returned Matilda, with a look of stealthy affection.

“Please go, Matilda,” said Mrs. De Peyster crisply.  “And now, Jack,” she continued with frigid dignity after Matilda had withdrawn, “I trust that you will explain your absence, and your long silence.”

“Certainly, mother,” said Jack, pushing a slip-covered chair before the fireplace—­for an open wood fire burned here as in her sitting-room above—­and letting himself down into the chair slowly and with extreme care and crossing his legs.  “I got a sudden invitation from Reggie Atwater to—­”

“You know I do not approve of that young scape-grace!”

“I know you don’t.  I suppose that’s one reason I didn’t tell you beforehand what I was up to.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Reggie asked me to go on a long trip to try out his new car.  It’s a hummer.  Hundred-and-twenty horse-power—­bloody-eyed, fire-spitting devil—­”

“Such cars are dangerous,” severely commented Mrs. De Peyster, who still kept to her horses and carriage as better maintaining old-family distinction.

“I know.  That’s another reason I didn’t tell you—­especially since we were planning a thousand-mile lark.”

“What’s the matter with your hands?” suddenly demanded Mrs. De Peyster.

Jack gazed meditatively at the bandaged members.

“You were right about that car being dangerous, mother,” said he.  “I’ll confess the whole business.  We were whizzing around a corner coming into Yonkers this morning when the machine skidded.  I did a loop-the-loop and lit on my hands.  But the skin of my palms—­”

“Oh!” shuddered Olivetta.

“Were you much hurt?” asked Mrs. De Peyster, for a moment forgetting her reproving manner in her affectionate concern.

“Mother, with your love for old lace, you certainly would like the openwork effect of my skin.  But—­the patient will recover.”

“I trust this experience has been a lesson to you!” said Mrs. De Peyster with returned severity.

“Oh, it has—­a big lesson!” Jack heartily agreed.

“Then I trust you will do nothing of the kind again.”

“I trust I won’t have to!”

There was rather an odd quality in Jack’s tone.

“Won’t have to?  What do you mean?”

“You’ve questioned me a lot, mother.  I’d like to put a few leading questions to you.  And—­u’m—­alone.  Olivetta,” he remarked pleasantly, “do you know that Sherlock Holmes found it an instructive and valuable occupation to count the stair-steps in a house?  Suppose you run out for five minutes and count ’em.  I’ll bet you a box of—­”