As Diane entered, Mrs. Wappinger, dishevelled and distraught, was standing in the hail, a slip of yellow paper in her hand.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so glad you’ve come!  I’m just about crazy!  Read this!”

Diane took the paper and read: 

  “D. and I are to be married to-night.  Be ready to receive us
  to-morrow. 
  CARLI.”

“When did this come?” Diane asked, quickly.

“About half an hour ago.  I sent for you at once.”

“I see it’s dated from Lakefield.  Where’s that?”

Mrs. Wappinger explained that Lakefield was a small winter health resort some two hours by train from New York.  She and Carli had stayed there, more than once, at the Bay Tree Inn.  He would naturally go to the same hotel, only, when she had telephoned to it, a few minutes ago, she could find no one of the name in residence.  Under the circumstances, Diane suggested, he would probably not give his name at all.  There followed a few minutes of silent reflection, during which Mrs. Wappinger gazed at Diane, in the half-tearful helplessness of one not used to coping with unusual situations.

“Won’t you come in and sit down?” she asked, with a sudden realization that they were still standing beneath the light in the hail.

“No,” Diane answered, with decision; “it isn’t worth while.  May I have the motor for an hour or so?”

“Why, certainly.  But where are you going?”

“I’m going first to Mr. Pruyn’s, and afterward to Lakefield.”

“To Lakefield?  Then I’ll go with you.  We could go in the car.”

Diane negatived both suggestions.  The motor might break down, or the chauffeur might lose his way; the train would be safer.  If any one went with her, it would have to be Mr. Pruyn.

“But don’t go to bed,” she added, “or at least have some one to answer the telephone, for I’ll ring you up as soon as I have news for you.”

“God bless you, dear,” Mrs. Wappinger murmured.  “I know you’ll do your best for me, and them.  Keep the auto as long as you like; and if you decide to go down in it, just say so to Laporte.”

But Diane seemed to hesitate before going.  A flush came into her cheek, and she twisted her fingers in embarrassment.

“I wonder”, she faltered, “if—­if—­you could let me have a little money?  I shall need some, and—­and I haven’t—­any.”

“Oh, my dear! my poor dear!”

Mrs. Wappinger bustled away, crumpling the notes she found in her desk into a little ball, which she forced into Diane’s hand.  To forestall thanks she thrust her toward the door, accompanying her down the steps, and kissing her as she entered the automobile.

“Why, bless my ’eart, if it ain’t the madam!”

This outburst was a professional solecism on the part of Fulton, the English butler, at Derek Pruyn’s, but it was wrung from him in sheer joy at Diane’s unexpected appearance.