“Oh, a fellow from the South somewhere.”

“Well, Keith knows his business!” said Mr. Stirling, with a nod of genuine admiration.

Wickersham uttered an imprecation and turned back into the house.

Next day Mr. Stirling caught Wickersham in a group of young men at the club, and told them the story.

“Look out for Keith,” he said.  “He gave me a lesson.”

Wickersham growled an inaudible reply.

“Who was the lady?  Wickersham tries to capture so many prizes, what you say gives us no light,” said Mr. Minturn, one of the men.

“Oh, no.  I’ll only tell you it’s not the one you think,” said the jolly bachelor.  “But I am going to take lessons of that man Keith.  These countrymen surprise me sometimes.”

“He was a d——­d stage-driver,” said Wickersham.

“Then you had better take lessons from him, Ferdy,” said Stirling.  “He drives well.  He’s a veteran.”

When Keith reached his room he lit a cigar and flung himself into a chair.  Somehow, the evening had not left a pleasant impression on his mind.  Was this the Alice Yorke he had worshipped, revered?  Was this the woman whom he had canonized throughout these years?  Why was she carrying on an affair with Ferdy Wickersham?  What did he mean by those last words at the carriage?  She said she knew him.  Then she must know what his reputation was.  Now and then it came to Keith that it was nothing to him.  Mrs. Lancaster was married, and her affairs could not concern him.  But they did concern him.  They had agreed to be old friends—­old friends.  He would be a true friend to her.

He rose and threw away his half-smoked cigar.

Keith called on Mrs. Lancaster just before he left for the South.  Though he had no such motive when he put off his visit, he could not have done a wiser thing.  It was a novel experience for her to invite a man to call on her and not have him jump at the proposal, appear promptly next day, frock-coat, kid gloves, smooth flattery, and all; and when Keith had not appeared on the third day after the ball, it set her to thinking.  She imagined at first that he must have been called out of town, but Mrs. Norman, whom she met, dispelled this idea.  Keith had dined with them informally the evening before.

“He appeared to be in high spirits,” added the lady.  “His scheme has succeeded, and he is about to go South.  Norman took it up and put it through for him.”

“I know it,” said Mrs. Lancaster, demurely.

Mrs. Wentworth’s form stiffened slightly; but her manner soon became gracious again.  “Ferdy says there is nothing in it.”

Could he be offended, or afraid—­of himself? reflected Mrs. Lancaster.  Mrs. Wentworth’s next observation disposed of this theory also.  “You ought to hear him talk of you.  By the way, I have found out who that ghost was.”

Mrs. Lancaster threw a mask over her face.

“He says you have more than fulfilled the promise of your girlhood:  that you are the handsomest woman he has seen in New York, my dear,” pursued the other, looking down at her own shapely figure.  “Of course, I do not agree with him, quite,” she laughed.  “But, then, people will differ.”