Front matter (continued 5)

"Well, what would you do?" he said, still holding her from him.

"I would make you what you should be: a personage—not a wanderer," she said with extraordinary energy. "I'd make your home a court; I'd show you what it meant to step into your box at the opera and have the feeling that every eye in the house turned to you. You want to do great things—but you want to feel that you have done great things, that others are impressed by them, envy and look up to you. You want that stimulus and there is only one way to get it. Take your place in society, where you belong among the great figures."

"I find my own stimulus," he said, looking at her.

"Listen, John Slade," she said furiously. "You think because you have always done what you want with women that that will continue. It won't. You are at a dangerous age. You have depended upon women; you cannot shake it off. The day will come when you'll be caught as every man is who plays beyond his youth and strength. Women will either hinder you or push you on. Make up your mind now. Which do you want?"

"I want you!" he said, suddenly caught by her words that came as an answer to his new view of himself; and violently, characteristically, he added, enfolding her: "And when I want a thing, I want it now! Get your wraps on. We're going over to Jersey now and get married."

"No, no," she said firmly though her heart was beating so that she thought he must hear it.

"You've got me. I never expected it, but I've got to have you," he said and brutally, without thinking whether he hurt her or not, he forced her head up to his. She did not resist, intoxicated, carried away by her absolute helplessness in his arms. Then, confident, he renewed his demand that they should be married that night, at once.

"No, no," she said, disengaging herself, and though all her natural being responded to his demand, her intellectual self conquered, knowing full well that beyond winning him, she must always maintain over him a certain moral superiority. "No. To do what I want to do, we must not give any one the slightest occasion to talk. Such an act as this would be suicidal."

"When then?" he said furiously.

"Announce our engagement tomorrow," she said, "and in a week we can be married very quietly."

"A week!" he cried indignantly.

"Or less," she said, smiling; "and now you must go."

"You haven't said, 'I love you,'" he said with a last flash of antagonistic suspicion.

"When I say it you will be satisfied," she said, with a look that revealed to him a new, undiscovered world.

"Rita," he persisted doggedly, seizing her wrist, "I know what you can do, what you'll make of us, but that's not all. I don't want any cold-blooded reason-and-logic marriage. Look here. You've got to love me—like hell—do you understand?"

She turned on him swiftly, opening her lips until her white teeth showed in their tense grip. Then, suddenly veiling her emotion in a relaxing smile, she said, as she rang for Henriette:

"No woman could find it hard to love you, John Slade."

When he had left she remained standing a long while very thoughtfully. Then she went quietly upstairs and fell almost immediately into a quiet, profound sleep. Her own self-possession surprised her; but unusual natures have this over common-place ones that they are continually surprising themselves.

CHAPTER XIX

When the next day Beecher reached his club he found all discussions centered upon John G. Slade and the astonishing and incomprehensible outcome of the conference at Gunther's of which naturally only the usual misinformation was known. The morning papers had contained a reassuring statement, backed by powerful names, of the condition of the Associated Trust, with promises of support. Gunther had publicly announced that he would bring twenty millions of ready money to relieve the financial stringency and, if that were not sufficient, twenty millions more. When the man in the Street comprehended that the great fortunes of the country had authorized this step, the effect was instantaneous. The stock market opened with loss of two to three points and immediately recovered this decline and, for the first time during the week, registered distinct advances. The runs on the banks still continued, but the lines of depositors were apparently less. At eleven o'clock Rupert V. Steele visibly entered the offices of the Associated Trust and, advancing to the deserted window of the cashier, made the first deposit. In a minute it was publicly announced that five millions of dollars had just been deposited to the credit of the great Columbus National. Half of the waiting line, wavered, turned and went home.

"Well, Slade's turned the trick," said Gunther, joining his friend. "But how he managed to wriggle through is a mystery."

"Haven't seen the papers," said Beecher. "What do they say about Emma Fornez?"

"Couldn't be better. The third act bowled 'em over," said Gunther, laughing. Beecher had told him of the diva's prophecy. "By the way, Ted, my long shot may not prove such a wild one. Mapleson is a close friend of the Cheevers—rather attentive to the lady, who from all accounts is a rather frisky one. I telephoned McKenna about it and he seemed distinctly interested."

"McKenna?" said Beecher, opening his eyes.

"Well, yes," said Gunther, laughing; "but forget I told you. Besides, I have a feeling that things will open up now."

"Is McKenna on the trail of any one?"

"Well, yes," said Gunther slowly; "and I don't think it'll be long now before we hear of him. How about lunch?"

At this moment a boy arrived with summons for Beecher to the telephone. He did not recognize the voice immediately.

"You don't know who it is?" said a woman.

He thought he recognized the tones of Miss Rivers, whom he had shamefully neglected in the excitement of the last days; but, warily, he did not commit himself.

"You're disguising your voice," he said cautiously.

"Not at all. You are not very flattering—but when one listens so much to the voice of Emma Fornez—"

"Miss Charters," he said instantly.

"At last."

He was suddenly troubled at the discovery, for he had sincerely persuaded himself that he did not intend to see her again.

"She is going to reproach me," he thought uneasily, "for not returning to see her last night. The devil! Well, I shall tell her the truth—I didn't like her companion."

But instead of reproaches she said in very good humor:

"Look out, I can be very jealous. What are you doing tonight?"

"I am dining out," he said, fibbing promptly, determined to remain firm.

"Oh—I'm sorry," she said, with a quick dropping of her tone. "I wanted you to take me to a dress rehearsal that will be very amusing."

"I'm sorry too."

"What are you doing this afternoon, around tea time?"

"I have an engagement," he said truthfully.

"With Emma Fornez?"

"Yes."

"I am not very lucky, am I?" she said.

The wounded tone in her voice made him feel a bit ashamed. He saw that she would not ask him again and relented a little.

"Will you be in at four? I can drop in for a little chat then," he said, amazed at his own yielding even as he spoke the words.

"Come then. I want very much to see you," she answered but without lightness.

"Now I'm in it again!" he said ruefully as he left the telephone. "What the deuce made me say I'd go. Just because I didn't want to hurt her—O Lord! Steady, old boy, steady!"

Outside the booth he found Gunther, an afternoon's paper in his hand, scanning it with excitement on every feature.

"I say, Ted, here's news indeed," he cried. "What do you think of that?"

He pointed to the headline on the front page where the engagement of John G. Slade to Mrs. Rita Kildair was announced in large type. The two young men looked at each other in profound astonishment.

"By Jove!" said Beecher, suddenly enlightened. "That's what was at the bottom last night! Now I understand." In a moment he comprehended the full measure of the agony of uncertainty she must have suffered at his side in the returning automobile. "So that was her game after all!"

"Now things'll begin to move," said Gunther eagerly. "If she really knows who's the thief, as McKenna believes, the ring ought to be returned in forty-eight hours."

"Why?"

"Because now that she is publicly engaged to Slade, any one who has been trading on the knowledge of how she got the ring won't have a shred to blackmail her with. You see it now becomes the engagement ring that Slade gave her and she can move openly; and from what I've seen of her, she'll lose no time. Ted, I'll prophesy in forty-eight hours we'll hear something about that ring."

"I believe you're right," said Beecher as they went into luncheon; and, thinking of the curious conjunction of Mrs. Kildair's and Miss Charters' prophecy as to the return of the ring, he said to himself unwillingly: "If the ring is returned, does that mean that Mrs. Bloodgood took it?"

A little after four he went to pay his call on Miss Charters and as he had become accustomed to her perplexing change of moods, he wondered in what temper she would receive him. She was in a Russian blouse of gray corduroy relieved by a broad lace collar and fitted loosely to her straight, lithe body by a belt at the waist, an effect of girlish simplicity, very yielding and artless.

She did not wait for him in the sitting-room but came out into the hall, taking his hat and stick herself and leading the way. Once in the cosy sitting-room she stopped, turning to face him and suddenly taking his hands in hers.

"Let me look at you," she said, drawing off and raising her eyes to his thoughtfully, while her lips twisted a little into a most serious sternness.

"Little imp!" he thought grimly, prepared against her wiles and yet a little startled at this figure of a young girl which so tantalizingly confronted him.

She saw at once, in the amused composure of his face, that she had been mistaken in ascribing his absence to the pique of jealousy. What she had on her lips she did not say, and suddenly alert at the realization that her presence no longer troubled him she drew him toward the fireplace, leading him to a great armchair.

"There," she said, laughing, "you will see how we treat the prodigal son. Sit down." She brought a cushion and insisted upon placing it behind his back. "Don't get up. A scotch and soda? Sit still—I like to mix it."

She went to a table and presently came back with the tumbler, offering it to him with a well simulated attitude of submission. When he took it, she dropped a curtsey and going to the library table, returned with a box of cigars and the matches. Continuing always the same game, determined to force a laugh, she lit the match, holding it to him between her rosy palms.

"Is your lordship satisfied?"

"I am."

She lit a cigarette in turn and camping down on the bear rug, Eastern fashion, puffed a ring of smoke in the direction of the fire. For a moment neither spoke, she studying the embers, he enjoying this new side to her and awaiting the next development.

"I'm very unhappy," she said at last, without looking at him.

"I'm sorry," he answered sympathetically.

"I have had a great disappointment. I read that play of Hargrave's again—there's nothing to it."

"You surprise me."

The fact was that Brockway, Stigler's stage director had torn it to pieces. She continued, repeating what Brockway had said:

"The trouble is, it's not actable. It's like all plays that read well—I should have known it. There's no dramatic action. Then, it has one great fault—all young writers have it—you see, every scene should be a unit in itself, express one dramatic emotion, develop it, and increase it; and Hargrave puts three or four emotions in the same page—five or six," she continued indignantly. "It's all mixed up—topsy-turvy—no actress could make an effect." (This had been its chief merit two days before.) "It's very sad; I shall never find a play."

"You were very enthusiastic a few days ago," he said.

"Was I?" she said resentfully. "You see, the trouble is, in reading you imagine things that aren't there."

"So Hargrave isn't a genius after all?" he asked.

"He is very conceited—insufferably so," she said abruptly. "But you don't understand—it's the disappointment to me—I shall never find a play. Sometimes I feel like giving it all up. It's terrible—breaking your heart day after day. Yes, sometimes I feel like never acting again."

"You are in a blue mood," he said cheerfully.

"Everything has gone wrong," she said, pouting. "Even you have changed!"

She looked at him with a look of a tired child, longing to climb into his lap to be consoled.

"How so?" he said, opening his eyes.

"Teddy, have I offended you?" she asked gently, seeing that she could not unbend him by playing upon his sympathy.

"Not the least."

She would have preferred any answer but this.

"Why wouldn't you go with me tonight?" she said quickly.

"Because I have another engagement," he said, instinctively glancing at the clock.

She saw the look, sprang up from the rug furiously, and leaping toward the mantelpiece seized the offending clock and flung it across the room in a tantrum.

"Go to your Emma Fornez!" she said, stamping her foot. "If you are going to sit here and measure the minutes, you can go!"

He rose, startled at the passion of jealousy he had aroused.

"I told you I had an engagement," he began.

"Nonsense!" she burst out, still the prey of her anger. "You know very well you can keep her waiting half an hour if you wish, and you know very well that you can put off your engagement to-night—or is it with her, always with her?"

"I don't care to discuss my engagements," he said coldly, an emotion which he was far from feeling, for the sudden wild-eyed fury into which he had plunged her awoke in him something that thrilled him, as he had been thrilled the day he had returned Mrs. Bloodgood to her home, at the thought of what a consuming passion might be.

"Why do you tag around with her?" she continued heedlessly. "I should think you'd have more regard for your dignity—for what people think—Emma Fornez—ah!"

She stopped, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes and then, feeling he had perceived it, she exclaimed: "If I cry it's because I am disappointed—disillusionized—angry!"

She turned her back and went quickly to the window where the little Dresden clock lay shattered in a corner. She picked it up and looked at it, swallowing her anger. Then, as he continued to keep the silence, she came back, without looking at him, placed the clock on the mantelpiece again and said coldly:

"Well, it is time for you to go—not to keep her waiting."

"Good-afternoon," he said with a bow, and left the apartment.

When he reached the street, he was overcome with surprise.

"By Jove!" he said, swinging joyfully along. "Is it possible after all that she does care about me? How her eyes blazed—the little fury. That at least wasn't acting!"

And though he remained until late, amused at Emma Fornez, he felt the flame of the other presence about him, obtruding itself at every moment; and he who had seen the play of strong emotions in Mrs. Bloodgood and Mrs. Kildair, avidly began to feel what it would mean to be loved with such intensity.

Emma Fornez questioned him about Miss Charters but for the first time he resolutely concealed from her what had taken place.

That night on his return to his rooms, he found a short note from Bruce Gunther:

DEAR TED,

Be at McKenna's offices to-morrow—ten sharp. Something doing.

B.

P.S. Keep this to yourself—savez?

CHAPTER XX

DEAR TEDDY,

I am very much ashamed at what happened yesterday. Please forgive my ill-humor and some day, when you have a spare hour, do come to see me.

Very cordially your friend,

NAN CHARTERS.

This note was the first which Beecher read on awakening the next morning. He had slept by fits and starts, troubled by the memory of his last interview with the young actress. The sudden unchecked tempest of jealousy and anger which had revealed to him the dramatic intensity of the woman had made a more haunting impression on his imagination than all her premeditated appeals.

"If after all she does love me? How tremendous it would be," he had said to himself a dozen times, turning restlessly, in the half stupor of waking sleep.

He lived over again the scene—only this time it seemed to him that when she had flung the clock from her in a passion, he had laughed joyfully and caught her struggling in his arms, exulting in this rage which burned so close to him. His first impulse on reading her note was to telephone her immediately, but he resisted this movement, saying to himself that that would be surrendering all his advantage.

"I'll call up later," he thought with a smile; "that will be much better."

He went eagerly down to McKenna's office, wondering what surprise was in store. Gunther and McKenna were already in the latter's private office, as he entered, and with the first look he took at the detective's smiling countenance, he perceived that he must be on the track of something significant.

"We were discussing Mrs. Kildair's engagement," said Gunther. "McKenna agrees with me that it will expedite matters wonderfully."

"How did Slade manage it?" said Beecher at once.

The detective, without answering, went to his desk and picked up a square of cardboard on which he had pasted two clippings from the newspapers, one the announcement signed by Gunther, Sr., Marx and Fontaine, giving notice of their support of the Associated Trust, and the other the bare announcement of the prospective marriage of John G. Slade and Mrs. Rita Kildair.

"I am going to preserve this and hang it up over my mantelpiece," he said, looking at it thoughtfully, "and when I have an idle hour, I'll stretch out, smoke up and study it. A couple of million people must have seen that—and that's all they'll ever know."

"And you?"

"I can only—deduce," he said, a twinkle in his eye. He glanced at the clock and said hurriedly: "Now we must get down to business. I am expecting some one in half an hour who ought to particularly interest you."

"You know who took the ring!" said Beecher instantly.

"I know several things," said McKenna briskly; "but everything in place. I promised you gentlemen, as you are interested in those things, a little history of the party that was at Mrs. Kildair's that night. It's nothing as literary style goes—just facts. Here it is. I'll skip the personal descriptions."

He took up a bundle of notes, seated himself on the corner of the flat desk, and began to read:

"Cheever, Stanley: Age 48; married; old New York family; left a fortune estimated at $425,000, at the death of his father, Ganet Cheever, when he was twenty-eight. Lived ten years abroad, principally London; inveterate gambler; lost heavily at Monte Carlo—sum estimated at $125,000; later became involved in a gambling scandal in England, but it was hushed up by his payment of a large sum to cover notes given. Continued to lose heavily at St. Petersburg, Baden and Paris; began borrowing large sums, meeting obligations with difficulty. Declared bankruptcy in Colorado, where he had gone to promote a mine; his statements contested by creditors who brought suit; contest settled out of court by payment by his relatives to avoid a family scandal. Returned to New York and engaged himself as an exploiter of well-known wine merchants. Married three years ago Lydia Borgen, daughter of a large importing grocer, who brought him $100,000. Lives at rate of $20,000 a year. Only known occupation gambling; said to have won fifty-five thousand dollars in three nights' play from Kane Wentworth and Thomas Haggerty, Jr.,—protested but paid. Method of play has occasioned numerous reports to his discredit. Accused operating a system of private signals with his wife, by Mrs. Elmer Jardine after scene at card-table; brought suit for libel against her and received $12,000 damages out of court to compromise it. Is not received in home of father-in-law. Cut off by mother's will. Frequently quarrels with his wife over the attentions of other men. Known to have applied unsuccessfully at several banks within the last month to raise loans. Heavily speculated on long side of recent market, purchasing large block of stocks, margined, on morning after theft of ring, and said to be heavily involved. Sought aid of wife's relatives day before yesterday; refused.

"Cheever, Mrs. Lydia: Born Lydia Borgen, daughter Harris Borgen, German immigrant, who married Lydia Foley, waitress in Pearl Street restaurant. Father made fortune in grocery business, establishing with brother in South America a large importing office dealing in cocoa, coffee, and fruit. At death of uncle, Lydia became heir to $100,000. Father said to be worth three quarters of a million, but estranged from daughter, whose marriage he opposed. As a young girl Lydia, rebellious and wild, constantly involved in escapades, notably with an actor, James Rocker, with whom she attempted to elope and go on the stage. Kept under strict surveillance, but at age of seventeen ran off with Charles Bourgoyne, young English groom at Waltby's riding academy. Pursued and arrested just as about to be married in New Jersey. Bourgoyne arrested for abduction but later paid to leave country. Married at nineteen to Stanley Cheever, through mediation of mother and a Mrs. Dorgan, notorious marriage broker. Has become tool of husband in schemes of raising money while leading a separate existence. Keeps private bank account unknown to husband. Very extravagant in personal expenses which cannot be accounted for on known income. From beginning of married life has been conspicuous for her relations with other men, generally wealthy bachelors, who have subsequently lost money at cards: names best known, Edward Fontaine, Reginald Forrest, Thomas Haggerty, Jr. At present seen frequently with R. G. Mapleson of firm of Sontag & Co.—"

"Mapleson!" said the two young men in a breath.

"I know what you mean," said McKenna, raising his hand. "Wait till I get through"; and he continued to read in his matter-of-fact, unemotional voice these pages of hard, glaring facts that left his hearers straining forward to catch every word:

"At present deeply involved in affair with E. V. Garraboy. Seems to have been introduced to the broker at desire of husband, to obtain through this channel information which his sister, Mrs. Enos Bloodgood, may have acquired from B. L. Majendie of financial affairs in general and particularly Atlantic Trust. Acquaintance developed into violent passion for Garraboy by Mrs. Cheever; has met him frequently of late, twice having been followed to his apartments. Of late, scenes with husband have been increasing in violence, coupled with mutual threats—believe rupture possible.

"Item: Bills against Mrs. Cheever known to be outstanding include $13,800 to Sontag & Co., for jewels; $1,200 to Madame Cortin for hats, etc.; $8,300 to Friegel Bros., robes.

"Item: The $100,000 she inherited, stands in her own name, but is believed to be now reduced to $75,000. Morning after theft of ring, sold short through Garraboy, her broker, 5,000 shares Union Pacific. For further details, see Garraboy.

"Charming little domestic circle, eh?" said McKenna, laying down the sheet. "Now for another:

"Bloodgood, Enos R.: Owner New York Daily Star; large holder of real estate in lower New York; director Metropolitan Opera; brought up, at death of his parents, by his grandfather, Joseph Bloodgood, president of the Northwestern Railroad, as his prospective heir. At age of 20, despite threats of his guardian, left college and married Charlotte Granby, daughter of his tutor. Promptly disinherited. Went to work as a clerk in Brooklyn drygoods store, living on twenty-five dollars a week, refusing all overtures from grandfather, who offered to forgive him on condition of separation from his wife, allowing her $20,000. Refused and lived in that condition for five years until her death, brought on by privations. Reconciled with grandfather and sent abroad for a journey through Europe. Two years later became violently infatuated with a Spanish singer of the Café Chantants and went with her on a trip to South America, again defying his guardian. At the end of a year, affair ended by a secret payment made by his grandfather to the woman to procure her desertion. Followed her and engaged in duel with her companion, from whom he received serious wounds. After recovery, returned to Paris, where he again became entangled in violent infatuations. On point of marrying an Austrian countess of doubtful history, fell ill with pneumonia and almost died. Returned to New York and became reconciled with grandfather. Seemed to turn over new leaf; entered journalism and made good record for steadiness and conservatism, leading exemplary life. Grandfather, in his will, however, contrary to expectations, cut him off with $20,000. Two months later, married Mrs. Georgiana Wakeman, fifteen years his senior, fortune estimated at ten millions, widow of former owner of N. Y. Star, which then passed under his control. Next ten years remarkable for his strict application to business and the dissoluteness of his private life. Mixed up in several promoting schemes with various success. At death of second wife, received bulk of fortune. Remained widower three years, greatly increasing fortune at period of Trust consolidations. Married third wife, Elise Garraboy, noted Southern beauty, no fortune. Union unhappy after first months; returned to his old habits. Three months ago forced to pay $15,000 to prevent blackmailing suit on part of a Miss Edna Rusk, chorus girl. Plunged heavily on short side of late market in a pool formed to bear market; reputed to have made immense gains.

"Item: Has been in confidential relations with Miss Maud Lille for some time. Visited her early morning, after theft of ring."

"That's queer," said Gunther, startled at this final detail. "Did Bloodgood do anything in the market that day?"

"Sold right and left," said McKenna, exchanging papers.

Beecher, more impressionable than his companion, said nothing, overcome by the bare recital of this brutal, materialistic life that once had been young and stirred to unbelievable sacrifice.

"Bloodgood, Mrs. Enos: Born Elise Garraboy; sister of Edward Garraboy; old Southern family, New Orleans; father Colonel Marston Garraboy; died when children were little. Mother married Boyd Hallowel, Englishman, third son Lord Carmody, came to live in New York. Hallowel died ten years later, leaving her with small income but social connections. Elise educated at convent; made début in society at age of eighteen; great beauty; numerous suitors; engaged in second season to Enos Bloodgood; engagement broken; married a year later. Story current, forced into it to save mother from bankruptcy. Left husband twice in first two years, but persuaded to return by mother. Met Bernard L. Majendie eight months ago at Palm Beach. Infatuation no secret; understood that two weeks before panic had placed her interests in hands of lawyers, who procured evidence for divorce; action halted temporarily. Night of party at Mrs. Kildair's, trunks packed for journey, tickets purchased at Grand Central to Montreal. Day after, made no investments in Wall Street. Following day, left home with trunks and returned shortly after suicide. Violent scenes with husband. Shut herself up in room for hours. That night went to home of Majendie, company with—"

Suddenly McKenna stopped at a violent movement of surprise from Beecher, and said quickly, "—a woman and a young man. Said to be totally without funds; husband reputed to allow her only $120 a month pocket-money. That's all."

Gunther had been quick to see the agitation of his companion but, since he comprehended that whatever the part he had played Beecher wished to keep it in confidence, he pretended to have understood nothing.

"Then there is no trace of Mrs. Bloodgood's having gone into the market?" he said.

"None," replied McKenna. "There are other details, but they come better under head of the brother."

He shuffled the remaining sheets and then, as though divining the unease of Beecher, he said in a matter-of-fact tone:

"Here's the history of Miss Nan Charters; but as it gives us nothing important we don't know, I'll leave it out. Particularly as we're short of time. However, I'll say this—there is no record of any stock transactions except that which we know of already. The next is Miss Maud Lille, a curious character, too."

Beecher drew a long breath and relaxed in his chair, grateful to McKenna for his consideration.

"Lille, Maud," said the detective, reading. "Real name Margaret Case; daughter Rev. Hiram Case and Fanny Saunders, Zanesville, Ohio; left home at age of sixteen; studied one year to be trained nurse; left hospital and studied stenography; later joined traveling circus, business department; became press agent. Stranded in northern Arizona; earned living by writing for local newspapers under name Jane Anderson; went to San Francisco and from there to Honolulu, supporting herself by her writings, occasionally taking regular position as stenographer. In Hawaii met and married an eastern adventurer known under name of Edward Bracken; returned with him to San Francisco, where couple engaged in mining speculations. Husband pursued for fraud and fled; wife arrested but released. Went to Chicago after securing divorce and changed name to Maud Lille. Sent to Cripple Creek by Chicago World and made a hit by her graphic accounts of labor conditions. Married Patrick O'Fallon, wealthy mine owner. Went with him for trip in Europe but apparently dissatisfied with life left him and returned to newspaper work, establishing herself in New York. Not divorced. Under own name author of several successful novels; prefers Bohemian existence of journalist evidently, reporting prize-fights, political conventions, murder trials, etc. Attached to staff of New York Star and apparently much in confidence of owner. Lately much interested in stock market. On morning after theft met E. V. Garraboy at Levere's restaurant, near home, before breakfast; returned to her apartment and saw Enos Bloodgood two hours later. Reported sold short 500 shares Union Pacific."

"By Jove," exclaimed Beecher as Gunther rose excitedly to his feet, "you've got it!"

"Maud Lille took it first and transferred it to Garraboy," said Gunther, then he stopped, puzzled; "but Bloodgood—that's incredible!"

"Hold in your horses," said McKenna, shaking his head with silent laughter, delighted, in fact, that they had fallen into his trap. "There's one more little history to read." He hesitated and then said: "Now, I don't want to play up to a little tin god on wheels, though that's easy enough. I'll say this, that a good deal of the information I am reading you I have had in hand. The gentleman whose bright little history I am going to read you, I have had my eyes on for some time. That'll develop.

"Garraboy, Edward V.: Sent to military training school; expelled; went up north, boarding-school; expelled; tutored for college and went to Harvard; ran up debts to extent of over a thousand dollars in two months, signing promissory notes. Paid by stepfather, who withdrew him at the request of college authorities; cut off by family and sent to Chicago with four hundred dollars to enter business house. Instead, speculated in wheat market and said to have made a little money. Went to Denver with small capital and posed as son of wealthy parents. Made acquaintance of a family called Sanderson and shortly became engaged to daughter, heiress to considerable fortune. Engagement broken as result of investigations. Left Denver, leaving behind a number of debts and bad checks. Next, heard of in southern California, working in mine; got in shooting affray over daughter of Mexican and went into British Columbia. Used many names. Spent a year in small stock companies playing little rôles; made a lucky gamble in silver mine and went to San Francisco, living high. Went to Seattle; became engaged to a widow of large real estate manipulator; persuaded her to invest her money in land exploitation scheme in southern California which proved failure. Ran away from Seattle and went to Hawaii to sell imitation jewelry under name of Edward—"

"Bracken!" exclaimed the two young men in one breath.

"Exactly."

"Married to Maud Lille!" cried Gunther, the first to recover his astonishment. "Why, the little toad! How the deuce did these women fall for him?"

"Oh, that's a question by itself, Mr. Gunther," said McKenna, smiling. "It's a good deal in studying what you're dealing with, and Garraboy watched them pretty close. Let me finish.

"Came to San Francisco, as you know; fled to escape pursuit; changing name, shipped as clerk on a merchantman from New Orleans. Next known of him, returned from the Far East under own name with apparently a certain amount of money. On hearing marriage of his sister, came to New York and established himself in Wall Street, largely through the aid of Bloodgood, over whose head evidently has held some threat. Met Maud Lille and probably came to some understanding with her; has paid her money from time to time. Encouraged sister's infatuation for Majendie, whom sought to enlist in scheme for rice production in South; failed. Made money rapidly until three months ago, when several ventures failed and became involved. Secured personal loan of $10,000 from Majendie without knowledge of sister. Has lived at rate of $40,000 a year, running several establishments; said to have given $15,000 worth of jewelry to Mlle. Clo. D'Aresco, the dancer, on her last visit here. Made immense short sales in recent market and was on verge of failure when panic saved him. Has profited by infatuation of Mrs. Cheever to borrow large sums in last week. On day after theft sold steadily all day; under suspicions by his own clients and on verge of arrest, when drop in stocks turned tide in his favor. Reputed to have covered his losses and made $100,000 in last three days."

"You were on his track then!" exclaimed Beecher, suddenly enlightened.

"I was and I am," said McKenna; "and in less than twenty-four hours I'll shake down that frisky gentleman for about forty-five thousand dollars that he has been speculating with. Four days ago I couldn't have collected forty-five cents. That's why I held off."

"Good Lord!" said Beecher, suddenly remembering. "I say, McKenna, Miss Charters' money is tied up with him. You don't suppose—by Jove, I hope nothing's wrong!"

"You give me the amount," said McKenna with a click of his teeth. "I'll get it. He knows, I guess, by this time what a pretty little story it would make in the morning papers. He won't resist—not he!"

"Look here," said Beecher excitedly, putting his hand to his pocketbook. "By Jove, that's lucky. I've still got that order. I can telephone her now—"

"Telephone nothing," said McKenna, reaching out his hand. "I don't need that order, except as a reference. Just keep it quiet. The young lady won't thank you less for your saving her without her knowledge, will she?"

"No," said Beecher, flurried. "Here's the order. When'll you get at Garraboy?"

"In about ten minutes," said McKenna, reaching over for a fresh cigar.

"Here?"

"Right here."

"And the ring?" asked Gunther quickly.

"What do you think?" said McKenna, his little eyes snapping through the blaze of the match as he lighted his cigar.

"I think it lies between Mrs. Cheever, Miss Lille and Garraboy," said Gunther; "either woman took it and either passed it to Garraboy at the table—"

"Well?" said McKenna, as Gunther hesitated.

"Or Garraboy took it first and passed it to one of them."

"Why?"

"For fear that he or she had been seen taking it the first time—to cover up the tracks. Whoever may have seen the ring taken would believe the original thief had restored it and kept quiet."

"That's ingenious, and I must say it may prove to have some bearing," said McKenna. "It's likewise possible. But you gentlemen have missed the whole point of what I've been reading you."

"In what way?"

"There's not one bit of evidence who took the ring," said McKenna, with a gesture at the recording sheets. "It shows who might have taken it—that's true. Now, what it shows is this—what was working in every one's mind the night of that party. You remember that it was on the night before Majendie's failure, and that the whole question of the panic hung on whether he was going to pull through or not. Now, of every one who was there, with the exception of Miss Charters, Mrs. Bloodgood and Mr. Beecher here, every one was in Wall Street up to their necks, and if they knew what had happened to Majendie they could call the turn. Now, what happened? Bloodgood was getting his information from Maud Lille, who got it from Garraboy, who easy enough could get it from his sister, not out of treachery, but unconsciously, you may be sure. Well, all these three got the straight tip. That's what the meeting next morning was about. Bloodgood never took the ring; that would be ridiculous; and Maud Lille, whatever her record for drifting, is not a crook. So those meetings were on the question of speculation, pure and simple.

"Now, Mrs. Cheever got the news straight and Mr. Cheever didn't, though he depended on his wife working Garraboy. Cheever bought stocks and was caught. That likewise shows there may be some interesting developments in that charming little family, particularly when he finds out that Mrs. Cheever sold and won. Now, what have we to go on? Cheever's a crook—but if he took it, he did it alone.

"Garraboy's a crook and, following Mr. Gunther's theory, he could have taken it alone or working with Mrs. Cheever. If there was any collusion, it was there. Gentlemen, I am only discussing possibilities."

"If the ring was taken to raise money to gamble in Wall Street, then it lies between Cheever and Garraboy," said Gunther.

"Say it this way: if Mrs. Cheever or Miss Lille took it, Garraboy would probably know—"

"And Slade?" said Beecher.

"If Slade took it, we're losing our time. Aren't we?" said McKenna.

"McKenna, do you know?" said Gunther suddenly.

"Unless I am very much mistaken, I'll know in twenty-four hours," said McKenna, "I know this—who has the ring and when he had it, and this evening, about 5:30 in the afternoon, I ought to know from the gentleman in question, who pawned it—unless I learn sooner."

"Unless Garraboy confesses," said Beecher.

"Gentlemen," said McKenna, answering with a nod an assistant who opened the door at this moment, "I'm not given to boasting, but I'll risk this." He went to the desk, wrote a name on a card, sealed it in an envelope and handed it to Beecher. "That's the name of the person who took the ring. Keep it until it is found. That sounds like Sherlock Holmes, but there's one reason why I feel like being a little stagey; and I don't mind admitting to you that I got to it by deduction—honest deduction, though!"

"Why've you Garraboy here, then?" said Beecher, while the letter in his pocket seemed to radiate heat like an ember.

"Do you want to know?—you'll be surprised," said McKenna, going to the desk again. "Well, it's to convince myself that Garraboy had nothing to do with it."

"What!" exclaimed the two.

McKenna made them a signal to be silent and, taking up the loose sheets of the different records, started to place them in the drawer; but all at once he stopped, selected one, the record of the broker himself, and laid it face up on the table. The next moment the door opened and Garraboy came warily into the room.

CHAPTER XXI

At the sight of Beecher and Gunther, Garraboy stopped short, evidently nonplused.

"I was told to come in," he said, lifting his eyebrows.

"Quite right," said McKenna briskly, raising his voice a trifle. From the moment of the broker's entrance his eyes fastened on Garraboy, never leaving him. "Come right in."

"I'm interrupting—" said Garraboy carefully, conscious of this set gaze.

"Not in the least."

"I thought our business was confidential, McKenna," he said, without having moved from the position he had taken on entering. "I fail to see—" he stopped and looked again at the two young men.

"Oh, Mr. Beecher and Gunther," said McKenna affably; "suppose we call them attorneys for one of your clients."

"Miss Charters?"

"You're a good guesser, Mr. Garraboy."

The broker drew in his upper lip and, coming slowly forward, said:

"The presence of these gentlemen is exceedingly distasteful to me."

"You're not in a position to object, Mr. Garraboy."

Garraboy turned his back and walked slowly back and forth, evidently in distressed conjecture, occasionally raising his head to shoot a glance at the three, half in rage, half in fear.

All at once he stopped by the desk as though his mind had come to a certain decision, and, bearing heavily on it, said:

"I do not know that I care, under the circumstances, to enter into any discussion. You, Mr. McKenna, represent my client, Mrs. Alva White; your claim against me is for forty-five thousand eight hundred and forty-six dollars." He drew out his pocketbook. "I have here a check made to your order." A second time he plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a check-book. "I was not notified that Miss Charters' was also under discussion. However, I will settle that at once. To whose order, please?"

McKenna, without answering, indicated himself with a jerk of his finger.

Garraboy, seating himself at the desk, took up a pen and carefully filled in the check, blotted it and handed the two drafts to McKenna, who took them, endorsed them and, ringing, handed them to an assistant:

"Present these at once. Telephone me as soon as they are honored."

Garraboy carefully blotted the check-book in turn, replaced it in his pocket, and was thrusting back his chair from the desk when McKenna, turning on him sharply, said:

"Garraboy, you stole that ring of Mrs. Kildair's."

The broker, startled, jerked up his head.

"So that's the meaning of all this!" he said angrily.

"Answer my question!"

But this time Garraboy, without wincing, rose suddenly to his feet.

"McKenna, I have nothing more to say to you," he said, scowling, "on this or any other question. Your claims are satisfied. I recognize no further right of you to insult me."

"Don't move, Mr. Garraboy," said McKenna softly; "we've a lot of business still to talk over."

"Are you trying to blackmail me?" said Garraboy furiously, folding his arms.

"Garraboy, I've got the goods on you and there may be a paper or two in my pocket you wouldn't care to have served," said McKenna, the pupils of his eyes seeming to dwindle to a point as the whites showed under a well-simulated show of anger. "First place, you're going to sit here until I get a telephone those checks are cashed. Second, and this may surprise you, you're going to stick right by me—today and tonight, until you make up your mind whether you'll answer me or answer a court of justice. Third, before we get through here, I want your name at the bottom of a little document I've drawn up for you."

"What do you mean?" said Garraboy, but with a note of apprehension in his voice.

"A plain, honest recital of what you've been doing with other folks' property these last two months—"

"You said—" fairly screamed the broker.

"I said if you settled my claims I wouldn't prosecute—true, and I won't. But just the same you're getting out of business here in New York, and I'm going to hold a paper that'll keep you out."

"Never!" exclaimed Garraboy in desperation. "Every cent I owe will be settled in twenty-four hours. I'll close up every account—I'll agree to that—but I'll not be blackmailed into this. You haven't a charge against me that'll stand in any court in this country—"

"What about that ring?" said McKenna. "You were trying all over town to raise fifteen thousand dollars that day. Garraboy, you stole that ring, pawned it, and raised the money to hold off your loans."

"That's a lie!" he said, clenching his fists. "I got it—"

"Where?"

"None of your business."

"Where did you get the money to pay your interest and to put up the new margins you did?"

"I was acting for others."

"What others?"

Garraboy opened his mouth to reply and then suddenly stopped.

McKenna said immediately:

"No, you won't say what others, because if you do claim you sold for others, here before witnesses, you know you'll restore a good deal more money than you figured out to disgorge. Oh, you're clever all right. Answer me—did you steal that ring?"

"I did not," said Garraboy suddenly; "and I don't know anything more about it than Beecher here—in fact, considerably less." He looked over with a sneer on his lips and then quickly and firmly exclaimed: "McKenna, my mind's made up. I'm going out that door—now. If you attempt to prevent me, I'll hold Mr. Beecher and Mr. Gunther here as witnesses that you kept me here by force. And I'll have you up on—"

All at once he seemed to choke on a word as his eyes, following the movement of the fist that struck the table, came suddenly in contact with the upturned sheet entitled:

"GARRABOY, EDWARD V."

The sight seemed to paralyze every muscle of his body. He sat down abruptly, drawing the document under his eye.

"Take your time, Bracken, read it over carefully," said McKenna in a soothing voice. He retired to the fireplace and relaxed into the easy chair awaiting the moment.

Garraboy read hastily, fairly galloping through the pages. Then he stiffened in his chair, frowned and read carefully through it all again, considering each phrase.

At the last, the three who watched him saw him push the paper from him, lock his hands in front of him and stare at McKenna. The correct, insolent man of the world had faded; instead, before them, bare to the bone, was the rascal, the desperate, clever adventurer. Suddenly making a quick resolve, he said in a tone that surprised them for its absence of emotion:

"Give me the paper I'm to sign."

McKenna jumped up and going to a shelf took down an affidavit.

"It is always a pleasure to deal with profession," he said genially, placing the document on the table. "Oh, read it first."

Garraboy skimmed through it hastily, nodding. He took up his pen and paused.

"It's understood that the contents will never be made public, directly or indirectly, so long as I keep out of the United States?"

"Understood."

"Your word of honor on it as a gentleman, McKenna?"

"My word."

"And yours, too, Mr. Beecher, Mr. Gunther?"

Each repeated the promise in turn.

Garraboy signed the confession and handed it to McKenna.

"What now?"

"You will, of course, wind up your business immediately."

"I will telephone for my clerk to bring my books here at once for your inspection. I will draw the necessary checks and have them deposited to the credit of my clients this afternoon. One of your men can personally assure himself that everything is right. Will that satisfy you?"

"Couldn't have proposed anything more practical," said McKenna, nodding.

"What next?"

"Clean up that matter of the ring."

Garraboy rose impatiently,

"I haven't got the ring."

"I don't believe you."

"Are you going to keep me under surveillance?"

"I am."

"Until when?"

"Until the ring is returned."

"McKenna," said Garraboy desperately, "I think I've satisfied you. I'm not standing on technicalities. You've got me cold. I know it. Now, I'll tell you just how I stand. When everything is paid up, I stand pretty nearly $200,000 to the good. I'm going to get out—go abroad and stay there, and I want to catch the first boat out. If I had that ring, I'd throw it over, quick. That's straight goods."

"Garraboy, did you steal that ring?" said McKenna again.

"I did not." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the perspiration which stood on his forehead.

"Did you ever see before the detective, John Ryan, whom Mrs. Kildair called in?"

Garraboy hesitated.

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"Employed him?"

"Yes."

"Many times?"

"Several."

"And you recommended him to Mrs. Kildair?"

"Yes."

"So you knew whom she would call in?"

"No, I didn't think of that."

"Garraboy, didn't you take the ring knowing that Ryan would be called in and that he would never make a search of you?"

"I did not."

"Do you know who took it?"

"No."

"That's sufficient," said McKenna, apparently satisfied.

"What are you going to do?" asked Garraboy nervously.

"Keep you on a rope until the ring turns up.

"I want to get away," said Garraboy weakly.

"I know that."

The broker remained quiet a moment, turning a pencil with his moist fingers.

"Will you answer one question?" he said at last.

"What?"

"Does Mrs. Kildair know—are you acting for her?"

"Mrs. Kildair does not know what I'm doing," said McKenna quietly.

Garraboy rose with what seemed a little relief, a movement that McKenna was quick to note.

"Well, I've made up my mind to tell you what I know," he said, after a few nervous steps.

"Good."

"I haven't got the ring," he said carefully.

"Did you take it?"

"I did not take it," said Garraboy, looking steadily in McKenna's eyes.

"But you know?"

"Yes, in a way I know," he said firmly. "A woman took it."

"How do you know?"

Garraboy did not answer immediately. He seemed reluctant to continue, frowning and moving restlessly from foot to foot. Finally he blurted out:

"I don't know who took it first, but this is what happened—the God's truth. When Mrs. Kildair put out the lights and counted sixty-one, I heard the ring on the table." He hesitated a moment and said hurriedly: "I made up my mind to give them all a shock. I did not intend to keep the ring; I swear it. I put out my hand to take it—and I touched another hand—the hand of a woman."

"Who took it?"

"Yes."

"Was that woman Mrs. Cheever, or Miss Lille?" said McKenna quickly.

"I don't know."

"You don't know."

"No."

"You have no idea?"

"No."

"No suspicion?"

"No."

"You were told nothing afterward?"

"Nothing."

"Garraboy, it's just possible you're not lying," said McKenna with a frown; "though I'm not sure by a long shot. However, I'll know the truth before the sun goes down."

"How?" said Garraboy, looking up.

"I neglected to tell you," said McKenna, watching him, "that I know whom the ring was pawned with, and this evening the gentleman himself will tell me who pawned it. The time I keep you depends a good deal on what he says."

"Then, this evening I will be free," said Garraboy joyfully, with such evident confidence that both young men were struck by it and McKenna, a little disturbed in his theory, continued staring at the face of Garraboy, which was illumined with a slight, malicious smile.

CHAPTER XXII

Half an hour later Gunther and Beecher, leaving McKenna's office with a promise to return that evening, went up town. In Beecher's pocket was a check on McKenna representing the amount of Miss Charters' account. Garraboy remained in the custody of the detective.

"Well, what do you think of it?" said Gunther.

"I think Garraboy lied," said Beecher.

"Oh, about the reason he tried to take the ring—yes, naturally. He could make a plausible reason for that—you'd hardly expect him to say in so many words that he was a thief, if he really didn't get the ring, as he says."

"I think he cooked up the lie right there," said Beecher obstinately. "I don't believe a word of it."

"I don't know—I sort of think he told the truth."

"Do you think any woman would have the nerve to go on after she had felt a hand on hers and knew that some one had a clue, not absolutely definite but almost so?"

"But, Ted, if any one denounced her, wouldn't he have to acknowledge the fact of his own motive? That would be enough to shut any one up."

"I think Garraboy lied," persisted Beecher. "I think he had a part in the theft and at least I am sure he knows all about it."

"Listen to reason," said Gunther warmly. "If Garraboy signed a confession like McKenna handed him, he wouldn't stop at returning a ring—particularly when he knows that McKenna will keep hold of him till the affair is closed up. No, no; Garraboy says he's cleared $200,000—you may be sure he's got considerably more. He's satisfied. He wants to get away from here quick. McKenna's not the only one on his track, you may be sure of that. No, it doesn't stand to reason he'd balk at a little matter like the ring."

Beecher was silent, digesting the argument.

"There may be one explanation," he said at length. "You noticed that the fellow was particularly anxious to know if Mrs. Kildair was behind us?"

"Yes, I noticed all that."

"Now McKenna thinks, and I do too, that Mrs. Kildair all along has known who took the ring and has only been held up before this from prosecuting on account of a possible scandal."

"But, that's over now—nothing can be said—it was an engagement ring, of course."

"Exactly; and that's the reason why I'm going to make this guess—that Garraboy, knowing the game was up, returned the ring this morning."

"By George!"

"And that's the reason he told the lie he did—knowing that everything will blow over in twenty-four hours."

"Ted, by the Lord Harry, I believe you've hit it!" said Gunther excitedly. "I say—"

"What?"

"Let's go up to your rooms—there may be a letter from Mrs. Kildair."

Full of eagerness they went to Beecher's rooms—only to return empty-handed and disappointed. Then they hurried to the club and searched the letter-boxes without success.

Disappointed and impatient they went in to a late lunch.

"What are you going to do about that check of Miss Charters'?" said Gunther in an aggressive tone.

"Take it round to her," said Beecher, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Mail it."

"Why?"

"Gratitude and a pretty woman are a dangerous combination," said Gunther gruffly; "especially for something soft like you."

"You damned, impertinent cuss," said Beecher acridly.

"Fact. Better let me call a messenger boy and send it around."

But in the pleased state of mind in which he was, Beecher had not the slightest intention of surrendering the delightful opportunity which the visit promised. Likewise, he was indignant at hearing from Gunther the same implications which amused him from the lips of a fascinating woman like Emma Fornez.

"You've got a fine idea of me," he answered hotly.

"I have."

"According to you, I oughtn't to be allowed to roam the streets without a keeper."

"Exactly expressed."

"Don't alarm yourself," said Beecher in a lofty, superior tone, and, believing every word, he added, "I'm quite able to take care of myself. I know how to amuse myself—and I know it is amusing myself, thank you. You think I don't know anything about women—well, I know better than some people how to keep my head straight."

"So you're going around?" said Gunther with a grin.

"I am."

"I thought you said you had never met any one who could make you so angry?"

"Come and get me at five o'clock," said Beecher, with a trifling wave of his hand.

"I begin to have my doubts," said Gunther slowly, with the air of one steeling himself against a great calamity.

Beecher had no such anticipation as he went lightly out of the club and took his way up the Avenue. For the last day he had thought much more of the possible feelings of Nan Charters toward his own receptive person than of analyzing the impregnability of his own position. He had not telephoned, desiring to effect a little surprise. But as he neared his destination he remembered that she might possibly be out.

"In that case I'll leave a little note—just a line with the check—as though it were a casual affair," he said to himself.

But Miss Charters was in. An automobile was at the curb which he thought he recognized.

Miss Charters herself answered the door, detaining him a moment in the anteroom.

"I am so glad you came," she said in a low voice, but one in which it was impossible to mistake the pleasure. "I wanted you to know that. A friend of yours is here—but he won't stay long," she added softly, with that gentle appeal in her voice against which he knew no defense. "You'll stay—I want you to."

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Mr. Lorraine." And as she saw the instant stiffening that went through him, she said quickly, with that subtle, merciless flattery of which only women have the command, "Shall I send him away—if you wish?"

"No."

The two men greeted each other boisterously, but underneath their heartiness was a sudden sense of invaded territory.

"Is he interested?" thought Lorraine, with an uneasy glance. "And why did she go out into the hall?"

"What's his right here? Was he here to lunch, I wonder?" thought Beecher, and for the first time he felt something hot surging inside of himself.

Each with an extra show of cordiality began to talk, addressing their remarks to the other. Only Lorraine, whose tenancy was thus threatened, continued to prolong his stay, anxiously watching the effect on the woman. At the end of half an hour, he no longer doubted, she was only waiting for him to go, uneasy and resentful at his delay.

He rose, heavy of heart, and shook hands with Beecher, whom he would have liked to throttle, and nodding to Miss Charters, went toward the hall, hoping that she would follow him. But women in love match the wordless surrender and tenderness they show to the man to whom they yield with an equal cruelty toward those whose misfortune is to have loved them. She did not move, waiting impatiently until she heard the tardy click of the door. Then she went to him directly, standing quite close, looking up at him like a penitent schoolgirl.

"I thought he'd never go," she said impatiently, and then with an uneasy, searching look in her eyes, she said contritely: "Do you think I am very terrible?"

He smiled and shook his head, but without profiting by the opportunity her attitude invited.

"You were engaged to Charlie once, weren't you?" he said, trying to give the question an accent of natural curiosity.

"No, never."

"Almost?"

She shook her head impatiently at the introduction of this topic.

"People said so."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"But he is in love with you," he said positively.

What she did not like was the quiet, inconsequential way he spoke, for in her own mood she did not detect the jealousy underneath.

"Please don't let us talk of Mr. Lorraine," she said quickly. "I have never been engaged to Mr. Lorraine and never could; first, because I don't intend to marry, and, second, because if I did, Mr. Lorraine could never appeal to me."

She broke off and going to the telephone said to him over her shoulder:

"You're not in a hurry?"

"No."

"Good—then we need not be interrupted."

She called the office and left word that she would not be at home. Then, rising, she came slowly back, very subdued, still alarmed at the undisturbed friendship in his look.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come to see such a little virago," she said softly.

"I came to see you on a matter of business," he said, without thinking of his words.

Her face fell.

"Oh, indeed."

He drew out his pocketbook and took out the check.

"Mr. Garraboy is leaving very suddenly for Europe," he said, turning over the bit of paper. "He has decided to wind up his affairs. He wished me to give you this check in settlement of your account," with him.

She stood quite still, her arms behind her back, but her eyes dangerously brilliant.

"If it's only on business you came," she said, breathing deep, "you can keep your check."

"But—"

"Is it only on business you go to see other women?"

He extended the check, and the jealousy Lorraine's presence had brought him made him seek to hurt her a little more.

"Don't be unreasonable," he said.

"If you don't answer," she said, stamping her foot, "I will tear it into pieces!"

A quick, impulsive joy went through him at this revealing anger.

"I came because I wanted to see you," he said with a provoking delight in his eyes. "This is of no importance."

She took the check, still looking at him, became calmer, smiled, and then with a determined bob of her head, went to place it on her writing-desk. All at once she turned quickly:

"But this is signed McKenna!"

"That's a detail."

"Your friend McKenna, the detective? Then you forced this out of him?"

"It wasn't very hard."

She let the check flutter from her fingers to the desk, thoughtfully considering it, divining slowly what it meant.

"I am unreasonable," she said quietly, returning and holding out her hand. "Thank you. Why did you bother—after the way I acted?"

"Well, just because," he answered, looking down into her eyes.

"So, Garraboy is a defaulter," she said slowly.

"I cannot tell you any more."

All at once a thought came to her and an anxious frown passed over her forehead.

"None of this is your money?" she said quickly.

"No."

"On your honor?"

"Yes."

"It is a great thing you have done for me," she said solemnly. "I am very grateful."

"Nonsense," he said lightly. "It was no trouble. I would have done it for any one."

They were near the great dormer-windows, high above the threaded smoke and gray roofs of the city, now blending into fuzzy masses with the closing of the day.

"Well, now that your business is over," she said, but with a new lightness, "I suppose you must be going?"

"What do you want me to say?" he said, smiling with a growing feeling of well-being.

"Why did you come?" she repeated maliciously, and, half-laughing, half-determined, she took the lapel of his coat in a gesture which, in her fingers, was almost a caress. She stood looking up at him, so happy, so brimming with the satisfaction of having him back, of regaining what she had feared to lose, that he could not resist the desire in her eyes.

"Because I like you," he said.

"Despite my tantrums and my moods?"

"On account of them."

"And would you have done what you did—for any one?"

"Come to think of it—no."

She was not content. She would rather that he had answered more sentimentally. She felt that he was stronger than she was, more controlled.

"Are you interested in Emma Fornez?" she said, looking away from him.

"Oh,—interested."

"You like her?"

"Yes, very much."

"I shouldn't like to have you talked about."

He did not answer.

"What have I done that displeases you, Teddy?" she said all at once.

But before he could answer, the room behind them dropped suddenly back into darkness.

"The light's gone out," she said, startled, her hand on his arm.

"The current's cut—that's all," he answered.

"I'll light a lamp."

"No. It's good here. Wait. It'll only be a moment."

They remained in the dark, turning their glances out of the window, suddenly conscious of the panorama of the evening, the stir of departing multitudes, the end of labor and the evening of rest.

"How plainly you can see," he said. "That's Brooklyn Bridge, isn't it?"

"Yes."

At the east three giant spans stood out across the unreal gray view that had neither banks nor green approaches, that cut its way like an invading flood through the cities. Innumerable, cottony puffs of steam, busy, hurrying, restless, rose from unseen hulls across the fading silhouettes of tangled spans. High to the south from a cyclopean tower a single ball of fire was shining. Below, in the long, straight avenues, the city was putting on its necklaces of brilliants; and from the black dotted masses that must be there somewhere in the growing obscurity, rushing home over the backs of the waters, high above housetops or deep through the bowels of the city, a great sigh seemed to rise with the sudden freshening of the twilight breeze, and the two human beings who looked down, as God looks down on this spectacle of a moving world, found nothing to express the sudden melancholy that troubled them, awakening vague desires, stirring them with the feeling of their own littleness.

"Come," she said, turning away the first, and, lingering, looking back, placed a hand on his arm, repeating, "Come."

He did not reply, looking beyond, deeply penetrated by all this humanity that each moment receded farther from them, isolating them, lifting them above the world into the loneliness of the skies. Her hand remained on his arm unconsciously, but this weight so soft but yet so imperious recalled him to himself. He thought no longer of what lay without. He looked at her. She was trembling. He too felt the subtle, disturbing restlessness of this dark that closed in about them, shutting out the peopled world—this mood of the day that exerts over human beings such a compelling desire.

She turned and looked at him. He could not see her face distinctly, only the eyes—that seemed incapable of seeing all but this. Then abruptly, brusquely, by the same mutual impulse, they were in each other's arms, straining to each other, their lips irresistibly closed over each other, feeling themselves more and more wrapped around by this soft darkness that had cast them up, enfolding their loneliness in the great protective instinct of human love.

The room flared up brilliantly. She recovered herself the first, drawing herself out of his arms, covering her face with fingers that still throbbed with the agony of their embrace.

They could not look at each other, bewildered by the suddenness of what had happened. She went past him hurriedly to the fireplace, sitting down. He followed irresolutely, feeling his feet unsteady beneath him, all the intellectual forces within him submerged, drunk, overthrown by the sudden, delirious awakening of his senses, suddenly aroused by this revelation of woman.

"What have we done? What was it?" she said breathlessly, without facing him. "We are crazy, Teddy,—crazy!"

He came heavily to the other end of the fireplace, leaning on the mantel, looking down at the woman who was no longer an indefinite mystery of silks and colors, but a moving, living body that had stirred in his arms.

"Teddy, we are crazy," she repeated. "What possessed us?"

"It is you who are crazy now," he said abruptly. "What is the use of arguing? Those things are beyond us. It is over—it is settled. We had nothing to do with it."

"No, no," she cried vigorously, jumping up. "It is not right. It isn't fair to you. We were swept off our feet."

"Thank Heaven, yes."

"But it's impossible, it's crazy—it's senseless. I don't want to marry, I don't want to fall in love. I want to be free—I must be free—I know that—you know that. So what then?"

"What's the use of arguing? It's been settled for us."

"But it isn't settled. I lost my head—you lost your head. We didn't know what we were doing. Marriage is impossible, absurd. I'm not a woman to marry—you would be unhappy—don't you see how ridiculous it is? I think only of myself—my career—"

"What's all that amount to—you love me and I love you. It's always been so—we've been fools and I didn't know it."

"But I don't know it," she cried; but at the same breath she knew that it was so. But this knowledge only roused in her the spirit to combat, to remit, to put away from her the threatening obstacle.

"Nonsense. Why didn't you let me go? You wouldn't; you brought me back; you couldn't help it—and I came. I would have come if you had called me. I've said all that you say myself—what good did it do me? Here I am!"

"Well, then—yes, we may love each other," she said desperately. "I don't know. I cannot reason it out—it may be so, perhaps—but even then? Teddy, it can't go on. Don't you see how wicked it would be—how wrong? Your wife can't be on the stage, and I can't give it up. It's everything—it's been my whole life. We must be strong—we must stop it. It's absurd—it's wrong."

She came to him, seized with the two contrary impulses: an instinctive revolt, a desire to force him from her life, and something just as instinctive and irresistible that drew her back to him; and at the moment she said the most firmly, "No, no, it's absurd, it's wrong," she put out her hand and caught her fingers in his coat collar, just behind his ear, under the masses of his hair.

He caught her to him, wrapping his arms around her; she continued to protest but, without resisting, her head dropped on his shoulder, her eyes closed, her lips breathlessly open.

All at once from the hall came the sound of a key in the latch. They disengaged themselves hurriedly, arranging their disordered hair, standing ridiculously apart.

From the antechamber came the voice of Miss Tilbury, the chaperon, discreetly remaining without:

"Nan, dear, Mr. Hargrave is below. He has come for his manuscript."

"But I'm not at home," she said in a muffled voice.

"You ought to send it down to him, really."

"Mr. Beecher is here—aren't you coming in?"

"In a moment."

The steps died out going to the back. Beecher, who had looked at the clock, uttered an exclamation. She came to him quickly, with the motions of the alert feline, and seizing his wrist said quickly:

"Listen, Teddy, I will not hold you to what has happened. We are out of our senses, you and I. We are crazy—crazy. You must not see me for a while—two days at least—until we know what we are doing. Go, now, please—"

Then, suddenly remembering that the same Hargrave had been the innocent cause of a little pain to him, she went quickly to the table and took up the offending play, and with that fine instinct of a woman to give even the smallest revenge to the man she loves, said:

"Take this. Give it to Hargrave yourself. Say I cannot see him."

"I shall see you tomorrow."

"No, no; but telephone tonight."

She listened a moment, her ear toward the hall like a child, and then sprang into his arms, and this time it seemed to him that it was she, not he, who dominated the embrace.

CHAPTER XXIII

At half-past five, Beecher, his brain in a whirl, arrived breathlessly at the office of McKenna. As luck would have it, only Gunther and the detective were there.

"My friend is a little late," said McKenna, with a quick, jerky glance at the clock.

"Where's Garraboy?"

"Twirling his thumbs in another room," said Gunther, laughing. "In a cussing bad humor, too."

For the second time, McKenna glanced nervously at the clock. Beecher was struck with the mood of restlessness that obsessed him. He passed aimlessly from desk to window and back again, apparently oblivious to their presence, immersed in some calculation that left its outward mark in a deep furrow between the eyebrows, while the cigar between his lips had gone out unperceived.

"Mr. Beecher," he said suddenly, stopping short, "I'm not sure but what I've gone off on a ridiculous tangent—it may be—it may be. Have you still got that envelope I gave you?"

"Yes, in my pocket—here," said Beecher, surprised, laying his hand on his coat.

"It was a ridiculous thing for me to do," said McKenna quickly. He made a movement of his hand as though to take it, but repressed it, saying: "All I ask is, don't open it until I ask you." Then, still ruffled, he turned away, saying to himself: "Guessing—humph! I'd fire a man for doing that."

The telephone rang with a message from the outer office and a moment later, to the amazement of both young men, Mapleson, of the firm of Sontag & Company, came in smiling and businesslike.

"How are you, McKenna?" he said affably, shaking hands. "Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?"

He was a slender, dark young man of forty-two or three, very graceful, pleasant in voice and fluent in manner, with a sure instinct for ingratiating himself where it best could serve.

"How do you do, Mr. Beecher," he said on being introduced. "I am very glad to know you, Mr. Gunther. I have the pleasure of knowing your father slightly. The country owes him a great debt for what he's done in this panic. Well, is there any mystery I can clear up for you?"

He accepted a chair, crossed his legs easily, brought out a gold cigarette-case, offered it with a wave and smiled at their declinations.

"Why, yes, Mr. Mapleson, you can give us a little information," said McKenna.

"Anything I can do for you, McKenna, glad to do it," said Mapleson.

"You may remember a ring that was sold by your firm a few months ago to Mr. John G. Slade," said McKenna directly; "a single ruby, valued, I believe, around thirty thousand dollars."

Mapleson did not avert his eyes from the glance of the detective, yet without a movement of his body an instant change came in his manner. He drew in a puff of smoke, let it out, nodded carefully and said:

"Yes, known as the Bogota ruby. I remember perfectly."

"I understand that that ring was brought back within the last ten days and pledged for a considerable amount."

"Indeed?" said Mapleson. He flung away the half smoked cigarette, and busied himself with selecting another. "Well, what do you want to know?"

"I want to know the name of the person—man or woman—who pledged it."

Mapleson changed his mind, shut the cigarette-case with a snap, clasped his hands in front of him, thumbs up and pressed against his teeth.

"Can you tell me a little more?" he said at last.

"No, I cannot," McKenna said frankly.

The eyes of the jeweler wandered from the detective and settled on the face of Beecher. The look made the young man flush. It was as though the smiling, affable confidant of feminine mysteries and intrigues was asking himself what part in all this he were playing.

"Can you tell me for whom you are acting, Mr. Beecher?" he said suddenly.

McKenna made a gesture of warning, interrupting:

"I'm sorry—we cannot."

"Have you a warrant?" continued Mapleson seriously. "In other words, is this a friendly meeting, or a legal procedure?"

"There is no warrant as yet. It is a case we particularly desire to keep out of court," said McKenna.

"It is very embarrassing," said Mapleson frankly, "very. I don't know quite how to act. Of course, McKenna, considering your relations with our firm, I should always be glad to assist you in any way—you understand that. The present case is different. The ring was not pledged with Sontag & Company, but with me personally. It is a personal matter and a very delicate one."

"I understand that," said McKenna, frowning. "And yet I must inform you that I shall probably have to proceed in the usual manner."

"Of course, if I'm brought into court on a summons," said Mapleson thoughtfully, "that is different. If I am faced by the fact that a theft has taken place, I can do nothing else but aid the law."

"But now—"

"At present? No, McKenna, I cannot give you the name of the person that pledged the ring with me. The case seems very complex to me—much more than you may believe; and as nothing is legally charged I prefer to keep my relations confidential."

"Mr. Mapleson, can you answer this?"

"What?"

"Is your refusal because you believe the intention of the person who pledged it is to restore it to its owner?"

Mapleson turned the question over a long time, whistling softly to himself. Finally he said:

"I don't know. I know nothing."

"Can you tell me the amount you advanced on the ring?"

"Yes; I think I can tell you that," he said, after a moment's thought. "I advanced twenty-eight thousand dollars."

"Twenty-eight?" said McKenna, lifting his eyebrows. "Twenty-eight on a ring worth only thirty thousand?"

"It was not a business transaction—entirely," said Mapleson stiffly.

"Then Sontag & Company knew nothing about it?"

"No."

"Was the ring pledged the day before Majendie committed suicide?"

"Yes."

"In the morning?"

"Early in the morning."

"One final question. The ring is still in your possession?"

"No."

"It is not in your possession?" said McKenna, with a sudden clearing of his forehead. "Mr. Mapleson, you are answering this because you feel bound—"

"Not at all," said Mapleson quickly. "The ring was redeemed this morning. I know nothing more about it."

The speculations which were occasioned by this disclosure were suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come!" said McKenna sharply.

An assistant entered the room with two letters. McKenna looked at the first and nodded, and then seeing the address on the second looked up quickly, saying:

"How did this come—this letter for Mr. Beecher?"

"It was sent down from his apartment, I believe, sir. Mr. Beecher's man brought it, I think."

"Very well."

McKenna dismissed him with a gesture, but instead of opening his letter thrust both of them into his pocket.

"That's all, Mr. Mapleson," he said with incisiveness. "I'm sorry to have troubled you. It's quite possible, as you perhaps believe, this case will be settled out of court."

"Let's hope so," said Mapleson non-committally. "I'm always at your service, you know. It's I who should apologize. Mr. Gunther, remember me to your father. Mr. Beecher, I hope to meet you soon again."

He shook hands warmly with Beecher, as though the young man had acquired a new value in his eyes, and went out.

The moment the door had shut, McKenna had the two letters out of his pocket.

"Two letters from the same lady," he said, tossing one to Beecher. "Both messages the same, too, I'll bet. Of course!"

He laughed and extended the letter to Gunther, who read:

DEAR MR. MCKENNA:

The ring has just been returned. Can I see you at once? Take no further measures.

RITA KILDAIR.

McKenna was a changed man. All the indecision had left him. His eyes were sparkling with pleasure and he was laughing to himself, as he took up the telephone.

"Here, give me Clancy," he cried impatiently. "Hello. What's the matter with Brady; hasn't he come back with that information yet? He has? Well, why the devil—send in the figures! Quick!"

A moment later a slip was in his hand and he was gazing at it eagerly.

"Mr. Beecher, give me half an hour's start—no, better, three quarters of an hour. Wait—have you got a car? Good. Drive me up to Mrs. Kildair's as fast as you can get me there."

"What about Garraboy?" said Gunther. "Is he to go free?"

"Not by a damn sight!" said McKenna joyfully rushing them down the hall. In the office he stopped to say hurriedly: "Clancy, stick by Garraboy—feed him—but keep him close until I telephone you!"

CHAPTER XXIV

McKenna was not without that penetrating imagination that has in it the quality of vision, the power to invoke the figures of the past and to follow an idea into the recesses of the future. All that he had learned and all that he had tentatively surmised of the mysterious purposes of Rita Kildair, returned to him with renewed vividness as he entered the elevator saying briefly to a question:

"I'm expected."

In his long and profound pursuit of human lawlessness, the detective had formed a crude philosophy, built on the perception of the inequalities of justice. The beginning of all crime, if he could thus have phrased it to himself, was failure. For each man that he had sent to jail for embezzlement, in the capacious corridor of his memory he knew another who ethically was the greater rogue, and, as he had said to Beecher, each day he met one such, looked into his eyes, shook his hands and took his orders. For each woman upon whom public scorn had set the brand of adventuress, he knew another woman who stood enthroned by that same society. Confusedly in his mind he had shaped a crude analysis of life. For him only two classes existed, the strong and the weak. The strong was that brutal race which could not be held down by the restraints of society, who must rise, acquire power, dominate, obeying the natural instinct within them; the weak those who aided them in their upward progress, who served them when they had arrived, and who committed crimes in their names. It was not a moral view of life so much as it was a perception of the persisting law of all animal nature.

The engagement to Slade, following so dramatically his triumphant rise from threatened disaster, had made him realize that whatever methods she had dared to employ, Mrs. Kildair was one of those whom society would never scorn for her failure. Intrigued as he was over the details of the theft of the ring, what absorbed him most was the woman. And determined at all hazards to force the defenses of her reserve, he rang the bell.

Mrs. Kildair was at the piano, the riotous movements of an Hungarian Czardas filling the apartment. She broke off suddenly, rising as McKenna entered the studio. The mood of whirling ecstasy, suddenly cut off, was still in her flushed cheeks and excited eyes, as she glided rapidly toward him.

She was in evening gown, of some flame-colored, filmy material, with sudden trembling flashes of gold bewildering to the eye, provoking to the imagination. The bodice, extreme in its daring, was not one of those stiff cuirasses, in which women encase themselves; rather the effect was of a billowy scarf that had caught and wrapped itself languidly about her. The low throat, the graceful arms, the brilliant row of pointed teeth over the full under lip, all had an extraordinary quality of vibrant, awake, impatient vitality.

In seeing her thus, McKenna comprehended at once that she had prepared herself for Slade; but so daring was the effect of the seduction which she had barbarically planned to tantalize the financier, that McKenna himself felt the effect with a little nervous, conscious dropping of his eyes. The movement did not escape her, and not disdaining the tribute she smiled to herself a quick, feline little smile.

"You, McKenna?" she said. "You are prompt."

"I came immediately."

"I was waiting for you."

They stood a few feet apart in the middle of the studio studying each other, as two fencers take their measure before joining their swords.

"You were at your office then?" she said the first.

"Yes, I came up in Mr. Beecher's car."

"Mr. Beecher was with you?"

"Yes."

"I sent him—"

"A letter, yes. He received it at my office."

"But why didn't he come up with you?"

"I asked him to give me half an hour here with you."

"That was better," she said firmly.

All the undisciplined impulses that had been stirring, gradually seemed to subside as she watched him, warily drawing about her an invisible defense.

"Here is the ring," she said suddenly, extending her arm with a gesture that was no longer languid and feminine, but forceful and controlled.

"I'd like to see it," he said.

She drew it from her finger and held it out to him. He laid it in his palm and studied it profoundly.

"What is it worth?" he asked.

"Over thirty thousand dollars."

"Ah," he said quickly. "Beecher told me you said fifteen thousand."

She looked at him from under her eyelids.

"I have just learned its value."

"Remarkable—a splendid stone. It has had quite a history," he said, handing it back to her and watching it return to her finger. "Let's hope it will stay there quietly for some time."

"You know its story?"

"From the beginning. It will interest you. I'll send it to you."

"Do."

The last replies she had given were mechanical, her whole mind focused on him, alert for any sudden turn to her advantage, seeking to penetrate the tactics he would employ.

"You kept away—on purpose," she said abruptly.

"That's so."

"Why?"

"Well, call it a matter of vanity," he said.

"In what way?"

"You excited my curiosity—you were a little too clever in our last interview."

"So you kept on with your investigations?"

"Yes."

"Successful?" she said lightly.

"Very."

"Indeed? Do you know who took the ring?"

"The first time? No."

She stopped, looked at him intently, and said:

"The second time then?"

"Yes, I know who took it the second time."

"Who?"

"You."

She laughed without confusion and, turning from him, went toward the fireplace, resting one bare arm on the mantel, the red splash of the ruby showing like a flare of anger against her cheek. She looked back at McKenna, who had not moved, saying with an admonishing shake of her head:

"McKenna, you are guessing."

"It's a good guess."

"Let me hear your theory."

"It is not a theory today."

"Indeed?"

"Yesterday it was a guess; today, I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because today I saw Mapleson," he said, watching her.

"Yes? Mapleson, of Sontag & Company? I know him very well," she replied with still no expression but amusement. "What then?"

"The ring was pawned with him, a personal matter, the morning after the theft, for the sum of twenty-eight thousand dollars. It was redeemed today."

"By whom?"

"By you, naturally," said McKenna, yet despite his absolute conviction, her composure was such that he was almost shaken in his theory.

"Mapleson never told you that."

"No; he refused to answer. It lay in my mind between you and Mrs. Cheever. The fact that he would not answer, gave me my strongest clue."

"In what way?"

"If it had been Mrs. Cheever, he would not have concealed it, because it would have been a theft. But as it was you who came to him, he refused to divulge the name, because he knew that no crime had been committed and that we had either no right to be investigating, or were doing so to be blinded by you."

"McKenna, you are guessing," said Mrs. Kildair again. "You are supposing that only Mrs. Cheever and I are on such terms with him that we could make such a personal transaction. As a matter of fact, not only Mrs. Bloodgood, but her husband and Miss Lille could have done the same thing."

"True," said McKenna, but he added obstinately: "No, the only reason Mapleson withheld the name was because no crime had been committed."

"Before we go on," she said with the same mocking smile, "would you mind telling me how you worked out this theory? Sit down. I really am interested."

If McKenna had not in his possession one bit of information which he had withheld, he would have felt the nervousness of a possible and ridiculous failure. At it was, a doubt flashed across his mind; but he allowed her to see none of this hesitation.

"I'm perfectly willing to let you know how it came about," he said, sitting down and speaking frankly. "I'm not laying claim to anything startling. I'll admit now that as to the details of how it was done, and why it was done, I don't know. I can guess; but I don't know. But as to tracing the ring and working back from that—that's A.B.C." Then, with a flash of intuition, he said abruptly: "Of course, Mapleson has just 'phoned you."

"Well, go on," she said without reply, drawn back a little, listening intently.

"The first thing I did was to locate the ring," he began. "You yourself know how easy it is to follow a stone worth thirty thousand. You know that, because the moment you found out I was on the case, you knew I would learn that Slade gave it to you. That's why you had me come here—to block it."

"That's true."

"Now, for a while, I admit I was in the dark, following several clues, and I don't mind saying here that until your engagement I was not at all sure it wasn't Mr. Slade himself who had taken that way of recovering it."

"That's strange," she said, startled. "Yes, I can see that was possible, too."

"Now, what I was working on," said McKenna, "was the strongest motive—that whoever took it up, took it because he had to take it to raise money, to pay a debt or to gamble on the market. So I investigated two ways—first, the back histories and the present standing of every one at your party; second, in the great jewelry shops, to find out if the ring had been sold or pawned."

"Of course."

"I didn't believe it had been done openly—that would have been too risky—but through some channel like Mapleson. But I wasn't thinking of Mapleson then. I couldn't locate the ring. I found out that Bloodgood, Cheever, Mrs. Cheever, Miss Lille and Garraboy had all speculated heavily on the market next day. That didn't help much. Now I come to my interview with you."

Mrs. Kildair nodded and leaned forward slightly.

"That worried me. After that, I did one thing and thought another. Down at the bottom, there was something that kept me thinking about you, something that bothered me. That's where the guess-work comes in, but I don't know as I'd call it guess-work. It's an instinct you get when you come in contact with a person—it's put me on the right track many a time. I saw you didn't want anything done, but what fooled me was, I thought it was—" He hesitated, and then said boldly: "Mrs. Kildair, no use talking unless we say what we mean, is there?"

"Quite right, be professional," she said with a quick nod. "You thought I wished to conceal what my true relations were with Slade? That's it, isn't it?"

"Yes, that was it," he said slowly. "And being wrong myself, I figured out a possible motive. I was dead sure you knew who had taken the ring. Don't ask how—that's instinct—but I knew. So I figured out it was blackmail you were afraid of, and I began looking around for the lady or gentleman who would know that the ring had belonged to Slade. Do you see?"

"Yes, go on. It's very plausible."

"It looked like Garraboy, and it looked like the Cheevers at times," he said. "Then Mr. Beecher told me of seeing Mapleson in Mrs. Cheever's box at the opera, and that you said you knew him. That's what started me on Mapleson. Likewise, I began thinking more and more about that interview with you. Then came your engagement and I flung over all my theories, and got down to work. I began to look you up, and when I found out the situation from Mapleson, I made up my mind then and there, for one reason or another, you yourself took the ring the second time."

"Is that all?"

"No, this evening I got the last link I'd been waiting for."

"What's that?"

"Your account with your broker, and the record of sales," he said, bringing out a slip from his pocket.

"Do you get convictions on such evidence as this?" she said steadily.

"No," he said frankly; "but I get confessions."

"Why should I take my own ring?"

"The situation was unusual. You probably learned of Majendie's failure and you plunged on the short side."

"But why not do so openly?" she said calmly.

He hesitated.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" he said finally.

"We are not mincing words."

"You were not engaged to Mr. Slade at that moment," he began.

"How do you know?"

"I do know. The one thing in your interview with me I particularly remember was your anxiety that Mr. Slade should know nothing."

She remained thoughtful, bracing her fingers against each other, carefully considering what he had shown he knew.

"And your theory is that I took the ring the second time," she said, "when whoever first took it had thrown it on the table, that I called in detectives to make Slade believe it had been stolen, so that I could gamble in Wall Street without being suspected."

"Exactly," he said. "I have no means of knowing who took it first, but I would gamble my soul you took it the second time. For another reason: any one who took it knew he faced a search—that it was almost impossible to get it out of the room. The only person who could take it without being suspected was yourself."

"McKenna," she said at last, but without the amusement that had formerly been in her eyes, "you are still guessing."

He rose impatiently and went across the room, his hands behind his back.

"Then, Mrs. Kildair," he said, turning, "do you wish me to report what I have just told you to my client, Mr. Beecher—as a guess?"

She stood up at once, fully alert.

"Mrs. Kildair, I am not an enemy," he continued, with a sudden change of manner. "I may not know all—but I know too much. Now, I'll tell you right out why I want your confidence. You marry John G. Slade. Slade is going to be one of the biggest figures in the country; I know that. I've had his business; I want to keep it. It's going to be ten times what it was before. More, I want his backing. I want several big jobs other agencies have got—The Bankers' Association, for one. Now, from what I've seen of you, the force back of Slade will be Mrs. Slade. Tell me yourself what I already know and I know I've got you as a friend. Keep it from me, and I know you'll supplant me with your husband. There may come a time when I can serve you—you never can tell. It's worth trying. I repeat I know too much. The only way to guard against it is by full confidence."