Fate moves in a mysterious way. Luck comes hand in hand withmisfortune. What we lose on the swings we make up on the roundabouts.

　　If Keggs had not seen twenty-five of his hard-earned dollars pass atone swoop into the clutches of the _croupier_ at the apparentlyuntenanted house on Forty-First Street, and become disgusted with thepleasing game of roulette, he might have delayed his return to thehouse on Fifth Avenue till a later hour; in which case he would havemissed the remarkable and stimulating spectacle of Kirk driving to thedoor in an automobile with Mamie at his side; of Mamie, jumping out andentering the house; of Mamie leaving the house with a suit-case; ofKirk helping her into the automobile, and of the automobiledisappearing with its interesting occupants up the avenue at a highrate of speed.

　　Having lost his money, as stated, and having returned home, he wasenabled to be a witness, the only witness, of these notable events, andhis breast was filled with a calm joy in consequence. This wassomething special. This was exclusive, a scoop. He looked forward tothe return of Mrs. Porter with an eagerness which, earlier in the day,he would have considered impossible. Somehow Ruth did not figure in hispicture of the delivery of the sensational news that Mr. Winfield hadeloped with the young person engaged to look after her son. Mrs.

　　Porter's was one of those characters which monopolize any stage onwhich they appear. Besides, Keggs disliked Mrs. Porter, and thepleasure of the prospect of giving her a shock left no room for otherthoughts.

　　It was nearly seven o'clock when Mrs. Porter reached the house. She wasa little tired from the journey, but in high good humour. She had had athoroughly satisfactory interview with her publishers--satisfactory,that is to say, to herself; the publishers had other views.

　　"Is Mrs. Winfield in?" she asked Keggs as he admitted her.

　　Ruth was always sympathetic about her guerrilla warfare with thepublishers. She looked forward to a cosy chat, in the course of whichshe would trace, step by step, the progress of the late campaign whichhad begun overnight and had culminated that morning in a sort ofGettysburg, from which she had emerged with her arms full of capturedflags and all the other trophies of conquest.

　　"No, madam," said Keggs. "Mrs. Winfield has not yet returned."Keggs was an artist in tragic narration. He did not give away hisclimax; he led up to it by degrees as slow as his audience wouldpermit.

　　"Returned? I did not know she intended to go away. Her yacht party isnext week, I understand.""Yes, madam.""Where has she gone?""To Tuxedo, madam.""Tuxedo?""Mrs. Winfield has just rung us up from there upon the telephone torequest that necessaries for an indefinite stay be despatched to her.

　　She is visiting Mrs. Bailey Bannister."If Mrs. Porter had been Steve, she would probably have said "For thelove of Mike!" at this point. Being herself, she merely repeated thebutler's last words.