“I have run away,” he declared.  “My honored father is, of course, furious, but Europe was desolate—­and so—­” He shrugged his shoulders.  Then, noting Benton’s half-amused, half-annoyed smile, he bowed and saluted.  “Ah, Benton,” he said.  “How are you?  I see that your eyes resent foreign invasion.”

Benton raised his brows in simulated astonishment.  “Are you still foreign?” he inquired.  “I thought perhaps you had taken out your first citizenship papers.”

“But you?” Pagratide turned to the girl with something of entreaty.  “Will you not give me your welcome?”

In the distance loomed the tile roofs and tall chimneys of “Idle Times.”  Between stretched a level sweep of road.

“You didn’t ask permission,” she replied, with a touch of disquiet in her pupils.  “When a woman is asked to extend a welcome, she must be given time to prepare it.  I ran away from Europe, you know, and after all you are a part of Europe.”

She shook out her reins, bending forward over the roan’s neck, and with a clatter of gravel under their twelve hoofs, the horses burst forward in a sudden neck and neck dash, toward the patch of red roofs set in a mosaic of Autumn woods.

CHAPTER II

BENTON PLAYS MAGICIAN

In the large living-room, Van Bristow, the master of “Idle Times,” had expressed his tastes.  Here in the almost severe wainscoting, in inglenook and chimney-corner, one found the index to his fancy.  It was his fancy which had dictated that the broad windows, with sills at the level of the floor, should not command the formal terraces and lawns of a landscape-gardener’s devising, but should give exit instead upon a strip of rugged nature, where the murmur of the creek came up through unaltered foliage and underbrush.

Shortening their entrance through one of the windows, the trio found their host, already in evening dress.  Bristow was idling on the hearth with no more immediate concern than a cigarette and the enjoyment of the crackling logs, unspoiled by other light.

As the clatter of boots and spurs announced their coming, Van glanced up and schooled his face into a very fair counterfeit of severity.

“Lucky we don’t make our people ring in on the clock,” he observed.  “You three would be docked.”

The girl stood in the red glow of the hearth, slowly drawing off her riding-gauntlets.

Pagratide went to the table in search of cigarettes and matches, and as the light there was dim, the host joined him and laid a hand readily enough upon the brass case for which the other was fumbling.  As he held a light to his guest’s cigarette, he bent over and spoke in a guarded undertone.  Benton noticed in the brief flare that the visitor’s face mirrored sudden surprise.

“Colonel Von Ritz is here,” confided Bristow.  “Arrived by the next train after you and was for posting off in search of you instanter.  He acted very much like a summons-server or a bailiff.  He’s ensconced in rooms adjoining yours.  You might look in on him as you go up to dress.  He seems to be in the very devil of a hurry.”