“Oh, well, there’s sure to be somebody in the place who can put me up.”

“No one you could put up with.  Besides, Northridge is three miles off, and our place—­in the opposite direction—­is a little nearer.”  Through the darkness, Faxon saw his friend sketch a gesture of self-introduction.  “My name’s Frank Rainer, and I’m staying with my uncle at Overdale.  I’ve driven over to meet two friends of his, who are due in a few minutes from New York.  If you don’t mind waiting till they arrive I’m sure Overdale can do you better than Northridge.  We’re only down from town for a few days, but the house is always ready for a lot of people.”

“But your uncle—?” Faxon could only object, with the odd sense, through his embarrassment, that it would be magically dispelled by his invisible friend’s next words.

“Oh, my uncle—­you’ll see!  I answer for him!  I dare say you’ve heard of him—­John Lavington?”

John Lavington!  There was a certain irony in asking if one had heard of John Lavington!  Even from a post of observation as obscure as that of Mrs. Culme’s secretary, the rumor of John Lavington’s money, of his pictures, his politics, his charities and his hospitality, was as difficult to escape as the roar of a cataract in a mountain solitude.  It might almost have been said that the one place in which one would not have expected to come upon him was in just such a solitude as now surrounded the speakers—­at least in this deepest hour of its desertedness.  But it was just like Lavington’s brilliant ubiquity to put one in the wrong even there.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of your uncle.”

“Then you will come, won’t you?  We’ve only five minutes to wait,” young Rainer urged, in the tone that dispels scruples by ignoring them; and Faxon found himself accepting the invitation as simply as it was offered.

A delay in the arrival of the New York train lengthened their five minutes to fifteen; and as they paced the icy platform Faxon began to see why it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to accede to his new acquaintance’s suggestion.  It was because Frank Rainer was one of the privileged beings who simplify human intercourse by the atmosphere of confidence and good humor they diffuse.  He produced this effect, Faxon noted, by the exercise of no gift save his youth, of no art save his sincerity; but these qualities were revealed in a smile of such appealing sweetness that Faxon felt, as never before, what Nature can achieve when she deigns to match the face with the mind.

He learned that the young man was the ward, and only nephew, of John Lavington, with whom he had made his home since the death of his mother, the great man’s sister.  Mr. Lavington, Rainer said, had been “a regular brick” to him—­“But then he is to every one, you know”—­and the young fellow’s situation seemed in fact to be perfectly in keeping with his person.  Apparently the only shade that had ever rested on him was cast