“For what?” Leonore had lifted her head, and there was a look of hope in her eyes, as well as of doubt.

“Because it was better at that time than the truth.  But Watts will tell you that I lied.”

“Papa?”

“Yes, Dot.  Dear old Peter speaks the truth.”

“But if you lied to her, why not to me?”

“I can’t lie to you, Leonore.  I am telling you the truth.  Won’t you believe me?”

“I do,” cried Leonore.  “I know you speak the truth.  It’s in your face and voice.”  And the next moment her arms were about Peter’s neck, and her lips were on his.

Just then some one in the “torchlight” shouted: 

“What’s the matter wid Stirling?”

And a thousand voices joyfully yelled;

“He’s all right.”

And so was the crowd.

CHAPTER LX.

A CONUNDRUM.

Mr. Pierce was preparing to talk.  Usually Mr. Pierce was talking.  Mr. Pierce had been talking already, but it had been to single listeners only, and for quite a time in the last three hours Mr. Pierce had been compelled to be silent.  But at last Mr. Pierce believed his moment had come.  Mr. Pierce thought he had an audience, and a plastic audience at that.  And these three circumstances in combination made Mr. Pierce fairly bubbling with words.  No longer would he have to waste his precious wit and wisdom, tete-a-tete, or on himself.

At first blush Mr. Pierce seemed right in his conjecture.  Seated—­in truth, collapsed, on chairs and lounges, in a disarranged and untidy-looking drawing-room, were nearly twenty very tired-looking people.  The room looked as if there had just been a free fight there, and the people looked as if they had been the participants.  But the multitude of flowers and the gay dresses proved beyond question that something else had made the disorder of the room and had put that exhausted look upon the faces.

Experienced observers would have understood it at a glimpse.  From the work and fatigues of this world, people had gathered for a little enjoyment of what we call society.  It is true that both the room and its occupants did not indicate that there had been much recreation.  But, then, one can lay it down as an axiom that the people who work for pleasure are the hardest-working people in the world; and, as it is that for which society labors, this scene is but another proof that they get very much fatigued over their pursuit of happiness and enjoyment, considering that they hunt for it in packs, and entirely exclude the most delicious intoxicant known—­usually called oxygen—­from their list of supplies from the caterer.  Certainly this particular group did look exhausted far beyond the speech-making point.  But this, too, was a deception.  These limp-looking individuals had only remained in this drawing-room for the sole purpose of “talking it over,” and Mr. Pierce had no walk-over before him.