When Gwendolyn was under the covers, and all the shades were down, Jane stepped into the school-room, leaving the door slightly ajar.  She snapped on the lights above the school-room table.  Then Gwendolyn heard the crackling of a news-paper.

She lay thinking.  Why had she not been asked to the great dining-room?  At seven her father—­if all were well—­should be sitting down to his dinner.  But was he ill to-night? or hurt?

A half-hour dragged past.  Jane left her paper and tiptoed into the nursery.  Gwendolyn did not speak or move.  When the nurse approached the bed and looked down, Gwendolyn shut her eyes.

Jane tiptoed out, closing the door behind her.  A moment later Gwendolyn heard another door open and shut, then the rumble of a man’s deep voice, and the shriller tones of a woman.

The chorus of indistinct voices made Gwendolyn sleepy.  She found her eyelids drooping in spite of herself.  That would never do!  To keep herself awake, she got up cautiously, put on her slippers and dressing-gown, stole to the front window, climbed upon the long seat, and drew aside the shade—­softly.

The night was moonless.  Clouds hid the stars.  The street lamps disclosed the crescent of the Drive only dimly.  Beyond the Drive the river stretched like a smooth wide ribbon of black satin.  It undulated gently.  Upon the dark water of the farther edge a procession of lights laid a fringe of gold.

There were other lights—­where, beyond the precipice, stood the forest houses; where moored boats rocked at a landing-place up-stream; and on boats that were plying past.  A few lights made star-spots on the cliff-side.

But most brilliant of all were those forming the monster letters of words.  These words Gwendolyn did not pronounce.  For Miss Royle, whenever she chanced to look out and see them, said “Shameful!” or “What a disgrace!” or “Abominable!” And Gwendolyn guessed that the words were wicked.

As she knelt, peering out, sounds from city and river came up to her.  There was the distant roll of street-cars, the warning; honk! honk! of an automobile, the scream of a tug; and lesser sounds—­feet upon the sidewalk under the window, low laughter from the dim, tree-shaded walk.

She wondered about her father.

Suddenly there rose to her window a long-drawn cry.  She recognized it—­the high-keyed, monotonous cry of a man who often hurried past with a bundle of newspapers under his arm.  Now it startled her.  It filled her with foreboding.

“Uxtra!  Uxtra!  A-a-all about the lubble-lubble-lubble in ump Street!”

Street! What street?  Gwendolyn strained her ears to catch the words.  What if it were the street where her fath—­

“Uxtra!  Uxtra!” cried the voice again.  It was nearer, yet the words were no clearer.  “A-a-all about the lubble-lubble-lubble in ump Street!”

He passed.  His cry died in the distance.  Gwendolyn let the window-shade go back into place very gently.  To prepare properly for her trip downstairs meant running the risk of discovery.  She tiptoed noiselessly to the school-room door.  There she listened.  Thomas’s deep voice was still rumbling on.  Punctuating it regularly was a sniffle.  And the key-hole showed a spot of glinting red—­Jane’s hair.