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"Who--o?" It was not one who asked; the whos came like shrapnel; and when, not knowing what else to do, I smiled as one dying, there went up a wail of mirth that froze my blood and then heated it to a fever. The company howled. They rolled over one another, crying, "Charlie Toliver!--Charlie Toliver!--Oh, Lord, where's Scott Gholson!--Charlie Toliver!"--and leaped up and huddled down and moaned and rolled and rose and looked for me.

"We smuggled it through!" chanted the trio, ready to weep for virtuous joy. And then they clasped arms like the graces, about their aunt, and let her speak.

"No," he said, "my last name is Durand." He gave it the French pronunciation.

His smile darkened. "I am your prisoner," he said, with a sudden splendid stateliness, and right then I guessed who he was.

The trio laughed, the young woman most musically.

"Those? That one is the Virgin's sheaf; and those two are the Balances."

I laughed a gay disdain. "Who is Lucius; is he Charlotte's husband?"

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