“So soon!  But come and dine.  I will send for your bag and see that you get to your train.”

The prospect of Swallow and his feeble, overdressed wife, and his comrade’s urgency, decided Woodburn.  He said, “Yes, if Mr. Swallow will excuse me.”

Swallow said, “Oh, of course!” relieved to be rid of a dissatisfied client, and the two ex-soldiers went away together chatting of West Point life.

Half-way up the avenue Penhallow said, “Before we go in, a word or two—­”

“What is it, Jim?”

“That fellow said nothing of Mrs. Penhallow, you are sure?”

“Yes,” returned Woodburn, “not a word.  I knew that you lived here, but neither of you nor of Mrs. Penhallow did he say a word in connection with this business.  I meant to look you up this afternoon.  Why do you speak of your wife?”

“Because—­well—­I could not let you join us without an honest word concerning what I was sure you would have heard from Swallow.  Now if you had taken what I presume was his advice—­to punish the people concerned in warning Josiah, you—­indeed I—­might hesitate—­”

“What do you mean, Jim?” said his companion much amazed.

“I mean this:  After our loose-tongued friend Grey told my wife that Josiah was in danger, she sent him word of the risk he ran, and then drew out of our bank for him his savings and enabled him to get away.  Now don’t say a word until I have done.  Listen!  This man turned up here over three years ago and was soon employed about my stables.  He broke his leg in stopping a runaway and saved my wife’s young niece, our adopted child, Leila Grey.  There was some other kind and efficient service.  That’s all.  Now, can you dine with me?”

“With all my heart, Jim.  Damn Grey!  Did he talk much?”

“Did he?  No, he gabbled.  But are you satisfied?”

“Yes, Jim.  I am sorry I drove off your barber—­and I shall hold my tongue when I get home—­as far as I can.”

“Then come.  I have some of my father’s Madeira, if Grey has left any.  I shall say a word to Mrs. Penhallow.  By George!  I am glad to have you.”

Penhallow showed Woodburn to a room, and feeling relieved and even elated, found his wife, who had tired of waiting and had gone to get ready to dine.  He told her in a few words enough to set her at ease with the new guest.  Then Mark Rivers came in and John Penhallow, who having heard about the stranger’s errand was puzzled when he became aware of the cordial relations of his uncle and Mr. Woodburn.

The dinner was pleasant and unembarrassed.  The lad whom events had singularly matured listened to gay memories of West Point and to talk of cadets whose names were to live in history or who had been distinguished in our unrighteous war with Mexico.  When now and then the talk became quite calmly political, Ann listened to the good-natured debate and was longing to speak her mind.  She was, however, wisely silent, and