The gowns were all too small for her, but there was a cloak of velvet
and ermine. The General's wife had worn it to the White House dinner
over the gown in which she had been painted. Hilda drew the cloak
about her shoulders, and laughed noiselessly. She could look like
this, and she had never known it! But now that she knew--!

There was the soft click of the telephone in the General's room.
Fearful lest the sound should waken her patient, she tore off the
tiara, turned up the neck of her dress to hide the shining collar,
dropped the cloak, pulled the chain of the lamp, then sped breathless
to the shadowed room.

Dr. McKenzie was at the other end of the wire.

"I am coming over, Hilda."

"You need not,"--her voice was a whisper--"he is sound asleep."

"I want to see you for a moment. It is very important."

She hesitated. "It is very late."

"Has young Drake arrived?"

"Yes. He has gone to bed."

"I'll be there in ten minutes. You can meet me downstairs."

The General stirred. "Miss Merritt."