“The same,” said Margaret, stretching herself out at full length, and snuggling her head into the softness of her perfumed hair.  “But now that you’ve brought it thus far, let me have it.”

Selina laid it on the silk and swansdown quilt and departed.  Margaret forgot that it was there in thinking about a new dress she was planning, an adaptation of a French model.  As she turned herself it fell to the floor.  She reached down, picked it up, opened it, read: 

“It’s no use.  Fate’s against us.  I find the President is making my marriage the excuse for not appointing me.  How lucky we did not announce the engagement.  This is a final good-by.  I shall keep out of your way.  It’s useless for you to protest.  I am doing what is best for us both.  Thank me, and forget me.”

She leaped from the bed with one bound, and, bare of foot and in her nightgown only, rushed to the telephone.  She called up the Arkwrights, asked for Grant.  “Wake him,” she said.  “If he is still in bed tell him Miss Severence wishes to speak to him at once.”

Within a moment Grant’s agitated voice was coming over the wire:  “Is that you, Rita?  What is the matter?”

“Come out here as soon as you can.  How long will it be?”

“An hour.  I really must shave.”

“In an hour, then.  Good-by.”

Before the end of the hour she was pacing her favorite walk in the garden, impatiently watching the point where he would appear.  At sight of her face he almost broke into a run.  “What is it, Margaret?” he cried.

“What have you been saying to Josh Craig?” she demanded.

“Nothing, I swear.  I’ve been keeping out of his way.  He came to see me this morning—­called me a dozen times on the telephone, too.  But I refused him.”

She reflected.  “I want you to go and bring him here,” she said presently.  “No matter what he says, bring him.”

“When?”

“Right away.”

“If I have to use force.”  And Grant hastened away.

Hardly had he gone when Williams appeared, carrying a huge basket of orchids.  “They just came, ma’am.  I thought you’d like to see them.”

“From Mr. Arkwright?”

“No, ma’am; Mr. Craig.”

“Craig?” ejaculated Margaret.

“Yes, Miss Rita.”

“Craig,” repeated Margaret, but in a very different tone—­a tone of immense satisfaction and relief.  She waved her hand with a smile of amused disdain.  “Take them into the house, but not to my room.  Put them in Miss Lucia’s sitting-room.”

Williams had just gone when into the walk rushed Grant and Craig.  Their faces were so flurried, so full of tragic anxiety that Margaret, stopping short, laughed out loud.  “You two look as if you had come to view the corpse.”

“I passed Craig on his way here,” explained Grant, “and took him into my machine.”

“I was not on my way here,” replied Josh loftily.  “I was merely taking a walk.  He asked me to get in and brought me here in spite of my protests.”