“Anywhere to get away from him!”

“But, ma’am, the money?” said Matilda who had handled Mrs. De Peyster’s petty cash account for twenty years, and whose business it had been to think of petty practicalities.  “We’ve only got twenty-three cents left, and we can’t possibly get any more soon, and no one will take us in without money or baggage.  Don’t you see?  We can’t stay here, and we can’t go any place else.”

This certainly was a dilemma.  The two gazed at each other, their faces momently growing more ghastly with helplessness.  Then suddenly Mrs. De Peyster leaned forward, with desperate decision.

“Matilda, we shall go back home!”

“Go home, ma’am?” cried Matilda.

“There’s nothing else we can do.  I’ll slip into my sitting-room, lock the door, and live there quietly—­and Jack will never know I’m in the house.”

“But, ma’am, won’t that be dangerous?”

“Danger is comparative.  Anything is better than this!”

“Just as you say; I suppose you’re right, ma’am.”  And then with an hysterical snuffle:  “But oh, ma’am, I wish I knew how this thing was ever going to turn out!”

Five minutes later the two twin figures of somberness, their veils down, stole stealthily down the stairs and out into the night.

CHAPTER XII

HOME AGAIN

The two dark figures, giving a glance through the rain in either direction, stole down beneath the stately marble steps of No. 13 Washington Square, and Matilda unlocked the servants’ door.  They slipped inside; the door was cautiously relocked.  Breathless, they stood listening.  A vast, noble silence pervaded the great house.  They flung their arms about each other, and thus embraced tottered against the wall; and Mrs. De Peyster relaxed in an unspeakable relief.

[Illustration:  MATILDA UNLOCKED THE SERVANTS’ DOOR]

Home again!  Her own home!  Odorless of pot-roasts and frying batter-cakes.  The phrase was rather common and sentimental—­but, in truth, this was “home, sweet home.”

And free of that unthinkable Mr. Pyecroft!

While Mrs. De Peyster leaned there in the blackness, gathering strength, her mind mounted in sweet expectancy to her suite.  Only a few minutes of soft treading of stairways—­certainly they could avoid arousing Jack—­and she would be locked in her comfortable rooms.  A cautious bath!  Clean clothes!  Her own bed!  All of the luxuries she had been so long denied!

Cautiously they crept through the basement hallway; cautiously crept up the butler’s stairs and turned off through the door into the great hall of the first floor; cautiously they crept up to the drawing-room floor and trod ever so softly over woven treasures of the Orient, through the spacious ducal gloom.  One more flight, then peace, security.  With unbreathing care, Mrs. De Peyster set foot upon the first step of her journey’s end.