Slowly the Dodge car proceeded through the streets up from the river front, followed by the taxicab, until at last the Dodge mansion, was reached.

There Elaine and Aunt Josephine got out and Bennett stood talking with them a moment.  Finally he excused himself reluctantly for it was now late, even for a lawyer, to get to his office.

As he hurried over to the subway, Elaine nodded to the porters in the taxicab, “Take that stuff in the house.  We’ll have to send it by the next boat.”

Then she followed Aunt Josephine while the porters unloaded the boxes and bags.

Elaine sighed moodily as she walked slowly in.

“Here, Marie,” she cried petulantly to her maid, “take these wraps of mine.”

Marie ventured no remark, but, like a good servant, took them.

A moment later Aunt Josephine left her and Elaine went into the library and over to a table.  She stood there an instant, then sank down into a chair, taking up Kennedy’s picture and gazing at it with eyes filled by tears.

Just then Jennings came into the room, ushering the two porters laden with the boxes and bags.

“Where shall I have them put these things, Miss Elaine?” he inquired.

“Oh—­anywhere,” she answered hurriedly, replacing the picture.

Jennings paused.  As he did so, one of the porters limped forward.  “I’ve a message for you, Miss,” he said in a rich Irish brogue, with a look at Jennings, “to be delivered in private.”

Elaine glanced at him surprised.  Then she nodded to Jennings who disappeared.  As he did so, the Irishman limped to the door and drew together the portieres.

Then he came back closer to Elaine.

A moment she looked at him, not quite knowing from his strange actions whether to call for help or not.

. . . . . . . .

At a motion from Kennedy, as he pulled off his wig, I pulled off the little false beard.

Elaine looked at us, transformed, startled.

“Wh—­what—­” she stammered.  “Oh—­I’m—­so—­glad.  How—­”

Kennedy said nothing.  He was thoroughly enjoying her face.

“Don’t you understand?” I explained, laughing merrily.  “I admit that I didn’t until that last minute in the stateroom on the boat when we didn’t come back to wave a last good-bye.  But all the care that Craig took in selecting the porters was the result of work he did yesterday, and the insistence with which he chose our travelling clothes had a deep-laid purpose.”

She said nothing, and I continued.

“The change was made quickly in the stateroom.  Kennedy’s man threw on the coat and hat he wore, while Craig donned the rough clothes of the porter and added a limp and a wig.  The same sort of exchange of clothes was made by me and Craig clapped a Van Dyck beard on my chin.”

“I—­I’m so glad,” she repeated.  “I didn’t think you’d—­”