“Sh!  Windomshire, it will cost you your life if she hears you.  That was Mrs. Scudaway.  You don’t know what happened, so I’ll tell you.  Half a dozen of the women went out with us for a run over the usual course.  They are among our best and oldest hunters, too.  Well, they were keeping right up with the men and having a splendid hunt, when all of a sudden a real, live fox dashed into view.  By gad, sir, he started a panic.  They’d never seen one in their lives, and they set up a howl that went clear to heaven.  And they started for home—­well, you saw ’em on the stretch.  It was great!  There never has been such riding in America.  Mrs. Hooper lost her hat in the woods, and Mrs. Graves lost part of her habit coming through that break in the hedge over there.  That skinny Miss Elperson, who never before has had nerve enough to jump her horse over the lawn hose, cleared the wall that runs along O’Brien’s mill,—­nobody’s ever done it before,—­and she came in hanging to the horse’s mane and yelling like a wild-cat.  Gad, it was two hours before we got ’em quiet and sent’em to town.  They thought it was a tiger, I understand, although some of them held out for the lion and the hyena.  Mrs. Scudaway was game enough to stay and enjoy the laugh.”

“What became of the fox?” demanded the Englishman, his eyes glistening.  At that moment the women came trooping down stairs; the ’bus bell was clanging sleepily.

“The fox?  Oh—­er—­hanged if I know.  I—­er—–­”

“Were you riding?”

“Well—­er—­just a practice run, you know, old man.  Er—­I say, ladies, the ’bus waits!”

Two minutes later the ’bus rolled away in the fog and drizzle, leaving Dauntless and Windomshire alone on the steps.

“Good-night,” said the Englishman, after an awkward silence.

“Good-night,” was the response.  Then, following a brief pause, both started toward their cars.  The next minute they were chugging away, in the night and the lights in the clubhouse began to go out.

Two hours later a stealthy figure crept across the Thursdale lawn, lurking behind the rose beds and lilac bushes, finally worming its way to a dripping but secluded spot under the weather side of the house.  It was past twelve o’clock, but there were still lights in the front part of the big summer-house.  Quiet reigned there, however; the noise of merry-making came from the servants’ quarters overlooking the ravine.  A handful of gravel left an impatient hand and rattled against the second-story window above.  Almost instantaneously the window was raised and a head came forth.

“Joe?” came a shrill whisper from above.

“What’s the matter?” whispered the man below.  “I’ve been waiting out there for two hours—­well, half an hour, at least.  Aren’t you coming, dear?”

“I can’t get out,” came in a whispered wail.  “I’ve had my hat on for hours, but—–­”

“Why can’t you get out?  Good Lord, you just must!”