He pocketed his letter and, rising, spoke to her with a chivalrous gentleness “I will go now Do not let the thought of Fontenoy distress you Do you remember the snow man we made there once, wreathing his head with holly?  But I’ll tell you a strange thing,—­even on such a night as this, I always see Fontenoy bathed in summer weather!”

“Yes, yes,” she answered “I, too.  Oh, home!”

He held out his hand “You’ll give my compliments to Mr. Rand?”

“Yes,” she said.  “He is busy to-night with a client from the country.  He works too hard.”

“Take him soon to Roselands and tie him there.  Sing him To Althea and make him forget.”  He bent and kissed her hand.  “Good-night—­good-night!”

“Good-night,” she answered, and moved with him to the door.  Standing there, she watched him through the hail and out of the house, then turned and, going to the window, pressed her brow against the pane and watched him down the street.  The night had cleared; there was a high wind and many stars.

In Rand’s dining-room the three men sat late over the wine and the questions that had brought them together, but at last the conference was somewhat stormily over.  Burr and Adam Gaudylock left the house together, the hunter volunteering to guide the stranger to his inn.  It was midnight, and Colonel Burr did not see his hostess.  He sent her courtly messages, and he pressed Rand’s hand somewhat too closely, then with his most admirable military air and frankest smile, thrust his arm through Gaudylock’s and marched away.  Rand closed the door, put down the candle that he held, and turned into the drawing-room.

Before the dying fire he found Jacqueline in her white gown, the amethysts about her throat, and her scarf of silver gauze fallen from her hand upon the floor.  In her young face and form there should have been no hint, no fleeting breath of tragedy, but to-night there was that hint and that breath.  The fire over which she bent and brooded seemed to leave her cold.  The room was no longer brightly lighted, and she appeared mournfully a part of the hovering shadows.  Her spirit had power to step forth and clothe the flesh.  Almost always she looked the thing she felt.  Now, in the half light, bent above the fading coals, she looked old.  Her husband, with his hand upon the mantel-shelf, gazed down upon her.  “It was wise of you to send me that note.  Burr and I might have walked in here, or we might have spoken loudly.  I heard Cary when he went out.  How did you manage?”

“He asked for you.  I told him that you were engaged with a client from the country.  Oh, Lewis!”

Rand stooped and kissed her.  “It was the best thing you could say.  I would not have had him guess our visitor to-night.  You are trembling like a leaf!”

“The best that I could say!—­I don’t know that.  I feel like a leaf in the wind!  I did not understand—­but I was afraid for you.  It is done, but I prefer to tell the truth!”