fortunate rescue--from what cruel fate, of course, we did not know at the time--was a signal for Pat to let out a cry of mingled thankfulness and relief. "Oh, goody! He's alive!" she exclaimed. Then, pressing her face closer to the rain-washed window, she added: "I--I wonder who he is?"  
One glance was sufficient to show Henry who he was. But I'm sure I gave a far louder exclamation of astonishment than my brother.  
"God bless my life and soul!" I exclaimed. "It's Bob McGinity, the Daily Recorder reporter!" Just as suddenly as the recognition had come, the reporter shook himself free of the two chauffeurs, and rushed up to Henry.  
"Mr. Royce!" he said, excitedly. "Will--will you please confirm the report that--er--that you and Serge Olinski have established radio connection with Mars?"  
Henry for a moment remained perfectly still and mute. His face looked as dark as the thunder-clouds that were sweeping over the castle. I saw the whole thing now, clearly enough. The reporter's predicament had been self-imposed; a ruse to gain personal contact with Henry which had been denied him by telephone. Anxiously, and puzzled, I watched closely the two of them.  
"Can't I have a word with you--inside?" the reporter pleaded desperately. The rain ran in little rivers down his face; his dark, disheveled, kinky hair fringed his brow like the little, curled, rat-tail bangs that were fashionable when my grandmother was a girl. "I'm sorry, sir, if I've put you to so much inconvenience," he went on, "but in a case like this--momentous discovery--well, I've got--"  
He got no further. "Not another word!" Henry interrupted sternly, raising his hand as though to command silence. Turning to the chauffeurs, he ordered, in a low, harsh voice: "Take him round to the garage, and dry him out. Then turn him loose--and--be damned with him!"  
Just then, I heard a slight sound at my elbow. Pat, somehow, had wedged her pretty head under my arm, and was peering through the crack of the door. I had been so engrossed in the unhappy but thrilling scene outside, I hadn't noticed her presence. Apparently she had seen and heard everything. As the two chauffeurs, with a firm grip on the reporter, marched him off to the garage, she spoke. But what she said was inarticulate. It sounded to me like a heart-cry.  
And then, suddenly, an idea came to me. Under her little harmless affectations and artificialities, Pat was very human. She had contacted very few young men outside her own exclusive social set; she knew very little of the outside world. Since childhood, she had been guarded and protected from the world's disillusions and ugliness, a protection which only great wealth like ours can give; and she still had the sweet and tender heart of a child.  
Now, it was plain to 

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