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she was shaking from head to foot, and when at last Rodney’s voice came to her over the telephone, she stammered so much that at first he could not understand what she said.

“I want to see you. Will you come round?”

“To your rooms?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause—Ann knew a sudden anguish. Would he make an excuse? Plead some engagement?

“All right. I’ll come along now,” he said at last.

Ten minutes later she heard his knock, and went to open the door.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, come in for a little while.”

He followed her into the lighted showroom, and they stood there facing one another.

Ah! Would she have been deceived as Stephanie had been by his laughter? Deep in his eyes she saw the pain.

“Rodney . . . my dear—I’m so sorry.”

He turned away with a little bitter gesture.

“I loved that horse.”

“I know you did. . . . Oh, poor Rodney!”

“And I killed him. The vet says he strained his heart. He was too old. And he was so game—he wouldn’t give in—oh, God!”

He suddenly sank down on the cushioned lounge, and buried his face in his hands. Ann came and sat beside him.

“Don’t grieve so much, Rodney,” she said gently. “It’s got to come to all of us—death. And he died well—gallantly—poor old Nigger.”

“Yes, but I’d looked after him when I first got him