flitted over his face. He put down his pipe. Incredulous, indignant, remorseful, he reached for the photograph and carried it to his lips.
“Three hours engaged,” he said, and whistled. “Three hours engaged—and beginning to criticize Margaret! Comparing her with another woman who isn’t fit to tie her shoes. What on earth has got into me?”
Then he remembered the entrance of that sinister presence a few minutes ago. Furious indignation swept over him as he began to realize what had taken place; the thing was intolerable. A gust of futile anger shook him. . . . Someone with a deep interest in Margaret Sloane was attempting telepathically to turn his mind from her, and toward some other woman. He put Margaret’s portrait on the table beside him and clenched his fists as he faced about toward the empty room.
Aloud he exclaimed: “Whoever you are that is trying to separate Margaret and me, you can not prevail. We love each other! You may as well be off, my invisible rival, for I am on my guard now.” He laughed grimly but shamefacedly at his spoken words. They seemed absurd, addressed to thin air, but he had the feeling that whatever or whoever it was that had entered his room and had actually succeeded for a few minutes in swaying his thoughts, this personality would understand—if not his words, his intentions.
He looked long at Margaret’s portrait, his lips parting in a tender smile. Who could compare with her? Ah, there was never such a glorious girl; how could he have thought otherwise, even for a passing moment? To be sure, she was a bit over-independent, and a man enjoys the clinging-vine type of woman for a sweetheart. Beatrice Randall was just such a helpless little thing; with all her guile and her feminine arts, a man felt he must look after the child. How appealingly feminine she was when she sang his Ode in that entrancing “little girl” way of hers; no wonder it always brought down the house. Now Margaret had a way of surrounding herself with such an atmosphere of independence, of proud confidence in herself, that a man almost felt he would be entirely superfluous in her life. Now that she was engaged to be married, it would not be such a bad idea for her to cultivate a little more of the womanly attitude of helpless dependence that was so pretty in Beatrice.
Ned had been pacing back and forth. He stopped and stood stock-still; the sickening realization swept over him that once more the unknown rival had entered into his secret thoughts and swung them away from Margaret. It was too much! He caught up a hat and stick, and went out of the house to walk about under the stars; perhaps the presence would tire of following him about in the open. It may have been so; it may also have been that the unknown had done all he cared to do for one night. After a brisk hour’s walk, Ned found his mind cleared of its cobwebs, and he went home, tosleep soundly.
5
With daylight, Ned’s recollections of his uncanny experience faded as dreams in one’s first waking moments; he remembered only that he had unaccountably given more thought to the prima donna in his musical comedy than he had ever given that damsel before, or ever would again, he told himself.
Ostensibly to inquire about Clare, but in reality to assure himself of his happiness, he telephoned Margaret early.
“Clare’s all right. But she’s worrying herself sick over an utterly ri-
