When the costume is complete you will look naturally beautiful."
"Naturally," echoed Ken.
"Unnaturally," commented Mimi Minetta, with a twinkle in her eye.
Shortly after midnight a graceful, beautiful young woman was escorted to a waiting limousine by Madame, who enthusiastically characterized her as, "Ravissante, vetue au dernier cri."
"If I could make mesdames of Back Bay as chic as you," she said, "I would be rich."
Ken sank back into the cushions of the car with which Ernie Emerson had provided him. It sped on, through a sleeping city into a road paralleling the Atlantic shore. As Ken opened his hand bag, the diamond Emerson had given him sparkled on his finger. From the bag he drew a card.
"Your name is Cara," he read. He smiled. "Cara," he said aloud. "I wonder what that means?"
At first glance, the mansion appeared to be an old dilapidated house seated on a slight rise west of the North Shore road. It was wide, with ample wings which rambled off on both sides. And it was ancient. The chestnut trees of solid girth which lined the driveway were now nearly bare of leaves. On the broad old porch, figures were moving in silhouette against the windows.
In the mansion, an old-time governor of Massachusetts had lived and died. Succeeding generations had added new wings until what had once been a self-contained Colonial homestead was now a hodge-podge of rooms varying in size from the huge ball-room, with its balcony boxes, to tiny
