“Better not let mother find it out,” he advised.  “If she got on to this!  But I’ll never tell on you, Matilda.”  He patted her shoulder assuringly.  “So don’t worry.”

Mrs. De Peyster’s lips opened.  If her voice sounded unlike Matilda’s voice, the difference was unconsciously attributed by Jack to agitation due to his discovery.

“How—­how do you come here?” she asked.

“With an almighty lot of trouble!” grumbled he.  “Came around the corner an hour ago just in time to see you drive off with William.  I’ve got a key to the inside door, but none to the door in the boarding; and as I knew there was nobody in the house I could rouse up, there was nothing for it but to wait till you and William came back.  So we’ve been sitting out there on a park bench ever since.”

There was one particular word of Jack’s explanation that drummed against Mrs. De Peyster’s ear.

“We?” she ejaculated.  “We?” Then she noticed that another shadowy figure had drawn nearer in the dark.  “Who—­who’s that?”

“Mary,” was Jack’s prompt and joyous answer.

“Mary!  Not that—­that Mary Morgan?”

“She used to be.  She’s Mary de Peyster now.”

“You’re not—­not married?”

“To-day,” he cried in exultation.  “We slipped out to Stamford; everything was done secretly there, and it’s to be kept strictly on the quiet for a time.”  He bent down close to Mrs. De Peyster’s ear.  “Don’t let Mary know how mother objected to her; I haven’t told her, and she doesn’t guess it.  And oh, Matilda,” he bubbled out enthusiastically, “she’s the kind of a little sport that will stick by a chap through anything, and she’s clever and full of fun, and a regular little dear!”

He turned.  “Come here, Mary,” he called softly.  “This is Matilda.”

The next instant a slight figure threw its arms about Mrs. De Peyster and kissed her warmly.

“I’m so glad to meet you at last, Matilda!” exclaimed a low, clear voice.  “Jack has told me how good you have been to him ever since he was a baby.  I know we shall be the very, very best of friends!”

“And so—­you’re—­you’re married!” mumbled Mrs. De Peyster.

Jack was too excited by his happiness to have noticed Mrs. De Peyster’s voice had it been a dozen-fold more unlike Matilda’s than it was.  “Yes!” he cried.  “And wouldn’t it surprise mother if she knew!  Mother, sailing so unsuspiciously along on the Plutonia!” He gave a chortle of delight.  “But oh, I say, Matilda,” he cried suddenly, “you mustn’t write her!”

Mrs. De Peyster did not answer.

“We don’t want her to know yet,” Jack insisted; “that’s one reason we’ve done the whole thing so quietly.”  Then he added jocosely:  “If you tell, there’s a thing I might tell her about you.  About—­u’m—­about you and William.  Want me to do that—­eh?  Better promise not to tell.”

“I won’t,” whispered Mrs. De Peyster.