“And you, Judge Harvey?  You will—­ah—­protect me?”

Judge Harvey bit the end of his mustache.  “I don’t like this bargaining over a matter of justice.  But—­for Jack’s sake, yes.”

“Thank you, Judge Harvey,” Mr. Pyecroft said in a soft, grateful voice, and with a slight, dignified bow.

Mrs. De Peyster drew a deep breath.  He certainly was a cool one.

“There’s something that’s just been occurring to me,” spoke up Jack.  “It’s along of that infernal reporter Mayfair who’s snooping around here.  He’s likely to get in here any time.  If he were to find me here alone, there’d be nothing for him to write about.  It’s finding me here, married, that will give him one of his yellow stories, and that will put mother next.  Matilda, since you already have so large a family visiting you, I suppose you wouldn’t mind taking on one more and saying that Mary here was something or other of yours—­say a niece?”

“Oh, that would be delicious” laughed Mary.

“Why, Mr. Jack,—­I!  I—­” The flustered Matilda could get out no more.

“Mr. Simpson, couldn’t you say she was your daughter?” queried Jack.

“I would be only too delighted to own her as such,” said Mr. Pyecroft.  “But I am not married and I am obviously too young.  However,”—­moving closer to Mrs. De Peyster,—­“our sister Angelica is married, and I am sure it will be a great pleasure to her to claim Mrs. De Peyster as her daughter.  Angelica, my dear, of course you’ll do it?”

Mrs. De Peyster sat rigid, voiceless.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mary, in deep concern.

“Our sister probably did not hear, she is slightly deaf,” Mr. Pyecroft explained.  He bent over Mrs. De Peyster, made a trumpet of one hand, and raised his voice.  “Angelica, if any other person comes into the house, you are to say that young Mrs. De Peyster is your daughter.  You understand?”

Mrs. De Peyster nodded.

“And of course you’ll say it?”

For a moment Mrs. De Peyster was again rigid.  Then slowly she nodded.

The spirit of the masquerade seized upon Mary.  “Oh, mother dear,—­what a comfort to have you!” she cried with mischievous glee; and arms wide as if for a daughterly embrace she swept toward Mrs. De Peyster.

Mrs. De Peyster shriveled back.  She stopped living.  In another moment—­

But the Reverend Mr. Pyecroft, alias Archibald Simpson, alias Thomas Preston, alias God knows what else, stepped quickly between her and the on-coming Mary, and with an air of brotherly concern held out an intercepting hand.

“No excitement, please.  The doctor’s orders.”

“Is it anything serious?” Mary asked anxiously.

“We hope not,” in a grave voice.  “It is chiefly nervous exhaustion due to a period of worry over a trying domestic situation.”

“That’s too bad!” Very genuine sympathy was in Mary’s soft contralto.  “But if she’s unwell, she ought to have more air.  Why don’t you draw up that heavy veil?”