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“Well, and what of it?” asked Mr. Grover blandly.

“Up into the mountains,” went on Mr. Wharton triumphantly.

“Is it against the law?” smiled the old lawyer.

“Confound the law! I don’t object to her going up into the mountains for a rest, but–“

“It’s much too hot in town for her, I fancy.”

“How’s that?” querulously. “But I’ve just heard that that scoundrel Havens is going to the mountains also.”

“The same mountain?”

“Certainly. I have absolute proof of it. Now, something has to be done!”

And so it was that the promising young lawyer, Samuel W. Rossiter, Jr., was sent northward into the Adirondacks one hot summer day with instructions to be tactful but thorough. He had never seen Mrs. Wharton, nor had he seen Havens. There was no time to look up these rather important details, for he was off to intercept her at the little station from which one drove by coach to the quiet summer hotel among the clouds. She was starting the same afternoon. He found himself wondering whether this petted butterfly of fashion had ever seen him, and, seeing him, had been sufficiently interested to inquire, “Who is that tall fellow with the light hair?” It would be difficult to perform the duties assigned to him if either she or Havens knew him for what he was. His pride would have been deeply wounded if he had known that Grover & Dickhut recommended him to Wharton as “obscure.”

“They say she is a howling beauty as well as a swell,” reflected Rossiter, as the miles and minutes went swinging by. “And that’s something to be thankful for. One likes novelty, especially if it’s feminine. Well, I’m out for the sole purpose of saving a million or so for old Wharton, and to save as much of her reputation as I can besides. With the proof in hand the old duffer can scare her out of any claim against his bank account, and she shall have the absolute promise of ‘no exposure’ in return. Isn’t it lovely? Well, here’s Albany. Now for the dinky road up to Fossingford Station. I have an hour’s wait here. She’s coming on the afternoon train and gets to Fossingford at eleven-ten to-night. That’s a dickens of a time for a young woman to be arriving anywhere, to say nothing of Fossingford.”

Loafing about the depot at Albany, Rossiter kept a close lookout for Mrs. Wharton as he pictured her from the description he carried in his mind’s eye. Her venerable husband informed him that she was sure to wear a white shirt-waist, a gray skirt, and a Knox sailor hat, because her maid had told him so in a huff. But he was to identify her chiefly by means of a handsome and oddly trimmed parasol of deep purple. Wharton had every reason to suspect that it was a present from Havens, and therefore to be carried more for sentiment than protection.

A telegram awaited him at Fossingford Station. Fossingford was so small and unsophisticated that the arrival of a telegraphic message that did not relate to the movement of railroad trains was an “occasion.” Everybody in town knew that a message had come for Samuel Rossiter, and everybody was at the depot to see that he got it. The station agent had inquired at the “eating-house” for the gentleman, and that was enough. With the eyes of a Fossingford score or two upon him, Rossiter read the despatch from Grover & Dickhut.

“Too bad, ain’t it?” asked the agent, compassionately regarding the newcomer. Evidently the contents were supposed to be disappointing.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Rossiter easily. But just the same he was troubled in mind as he walked over and sat down upon his steamer trunk in the shade of the building. The telegram read:

“She left New York five-thirty this evening. Stops over night Albany. Fossingford to-morrow morning. Watch trains. Purple parasol. Sailor hat. Gray travelling suit.

“G. and D.”