finished the sixth dance with me, and as we sauntered about after the music ceased, we met Philip apparently looking for her.
"The next dance is ours," he said looking at her in an unsmiling way.
"Indeed it isn't!" declared Mildred, who had by no means forgotten to whom she had promised the seventh dance.
"It is," said Philip sternly, "come!"
"Better go," I whispered in Mildred's ear; "he's in an awful huff!"
Meekly she allowed herself to be led away, and Philip took her out on the veranda.
"Now," he said, as they passed out of hearing, "with whom are you going to dance this next dance, with me or with that confounded foreigner?"
"With him, Philip," said Mildred, very quietly. "I promised it to him before the party began."
I was thoroughly angry at the little coquette, and I turned away and strolled idly through the rooms. I did not feel like dancing, for the moment; and seeing Miss Maxwell, sitting alone in a corner of the drawing-room, I went and sat by her for a few moments' chat.
She seemed preoccupied, and after some perfunctory answers to my trivial remarks, she said:
"Peter"—she always called me by my first name, and somehow her soft, sweet voice gave the ugly word a pleasant sound—"there is something wrong with Philip. I can't imagine what it is, but for a week or more he has been so different. It began all at once.
"One day last week he came to luncheon looking so harassed and worried that my heart ached for him. I said nothing about it—we are not confidential as a family, you know—I only tried to be especially gentle and tender toward him. But he didn't get over it. He spoke sharply to his uncle, he failed to show his usual deferential courtesy to me, and he behaved altogether like a man stunned and bewildered by some sudden misfortune.
"I talked to his uncle about it when we were alone, and he, too, had noticed it, but could not account for it in any way. He though perhaps it might be money difficulties of some sort, and he offered to increase Philip's allowance. But Philip refused to accept an increase, and said he had no debts and plenty of spending money. So we are at our wits' end to understand it."
"Could it have anything to do with Miss Leslie?" I asked.
"I think so," replied Miss Miranda, looking about to make sure we were not overheard. "He is very much in love with her, and I think she cares for him, but she is such a coquettish little rogue that one cannot be sure of her. Besides, this trouble of Philip's began before he planned this house party, and before he thought of inviting Miss Leslie and her sister down here."
"Does he talk frankly to you about Mildred?"
"Oh, yes, he hopes to win her—indeed, he says he feels confident of succeeding. But I think he tries to persuade himself that he will succeed, while really she is breaking his heart over her flirtation with Gilbert Crane."
"Gilbert Crane!" I exclaimed, greatly surprised. "Why, I thought she was flirting so desperately with the Earl."
"Nonsense! Mildred is just teasing Philip with him. When she flirts so openly, there is no danger. But she conceals her liking for Gilbert Crane. He's here to-night, and I'm sure I don't know what will happen."
"But Gilbert Crane! why he's a friend of Philip's."
"Yes, our fellow townsman, and one of Philip's best friends."
"But he can't hold a candle to Philip."
"I know it. Philip is rich, or will be, and Philip is handsome and talented, while Gilbert is none of these. But somehow he has a queer sort of fascination over Mildred, and she is certainly very gracious to him."
"Philip and Gilbert are as good friends as ever, aren't they?"
"Yes, I think so. At least they were until lately. But Mildred's evident preference for Gilbert's society has wounded Philip, and though he treats Gilbert as kindly as ever, I've seen him look at him as if he wondered how he could play such an unfriendly part."
"You think, then, to put it plainly, that Gilbert is trying to win Mildred away from Philip?"
"I do, and I think Philip is as much hurt by Gilbert's treachery as by Mildred's fickleness. But I cannot think that it is this affair that worried Philip so last week. For then, Mildred hadn't come, and Gilbert was right here all the time, and he and Philip were inseparable. No, it's something else, and I can't imagine what."
"Phil seems about as usual to me," I said.
"Yes, he is much brighter since you young people came. More like his old self. But when he's alone, even now, he drops into an attitude of absolute despair. I've seen him, and it is something very dreadful that has come to my boy. Oh, Peter, can't you find out what it is, and then I'm sure we can help him."
I assured Miss Miranda that I would try in every possible way to do all I could to help, but I felt convinced that no one could help Philip at the present time, except Mildred Leslie herself.
Then Mr. Maxwell came in and joined us, and the tenor of our conversation changed.
I should have been glad to talk with him about Philip, but owing to his deafness I couldn't carry on such a conversation in the drawing-room. But notwithstanding his affliction, Mr. Maxwell had a fine ear for music, and greatly enjoyed it. A piano, violin and harp furnished the music on this occasion, and as it was of exceedingly good quality, Mr. Maxwell sat and listened, tapping his foot gently in time with the rhythm. I saw him glance at Philip several times, and, if the boy was smiling, the old gentleman's anxiety seemed relieved, but if Phil was over-quiet or sober-looking, Mr. Maxwell sighed and glanced away again.
The drawing-room was the front room on the left, as one entered the great hall that ran through the centre of the house. Back of it was the billiard-room; back of that, Mr. Maxwell's study and behind that a well-filled conservatory.
On the right of the wide hall, the front room was the music-room; behind it was the dining-room, and back of that a short cross hall and a butler's pantry,—the kitchen being still farther back.
The large library was on the second floor, and was in many ways the most attractive room in the house. There were bedrooms on both the second and third floors, so that Maxwell Chimneys was well adapted for generous hospitality.
A broad veranda ran all around three sides of the house both on the ground floor and second story, and on it, from most of the rooms, opened long French windows.
After watching the dancers for awhile Miss Miranda urged that I join them, and though I would have quite willingly remained with her, I did as she bade me.
"And, Miss Miranda," I said, as I left her, "don't worry about Philip's affairs. I hope—I'm sure you exaggerate to yourself his despondency, and I can't help thinking that soon matters will be brighter for him."
Chapter V.
The Tragedy
I was fortunate in finding Miss Gardiner free to give me a dance, and in a moment we were circling the polished floor.
She said little or nothing during the dance, and when it was over I took her for a stroll on the upper balcony, where, standing at the front railing we looked out on the beautiful country spread before us in the moonlight.
Irene Gardiner puzzled while she attracted me. I never could feel quite sure whether or not she was as frank as she seemed.
Perhaps it was only the natural effect of her dark, almost Oriental beauty, but she somehow seemed capable of diplomacy or intrigue.
To-night, however, she was simply charming, and whether assumed or not, her attitude was sincere and confidential.
We traversed the three long sides of the house on the upper balcony and then, turning, retraced our steps. Frequently we met or