“Good-bye—I won’t bother you any further.”

Sick, bewildered, and with as great a fear as when he entered, Clifford started out. But at that moment there was a ring at the doorbell.

“Why didn’t you go before!” cried Mary; and then, seizing his arm, “Wait, you mustn’t go now!”

“Why?”

“It would be misunderstood.”

“Then you know who that is?”

“Yes.”

“Is it Peter Loveman?”

“No.” Her dark eyes gazed at him very straight; she spoke rapidly. “You are an old acquaintance—you met me in Paris before the war broke out—that’s all you really know about me. Except that my name is Mary Regan.”

“I’ll play the part,” said Clifford.

“Sit there by the window.”

Clifford obeyed, more dazed than ever, and wonderingly watched Mary. She stood in the middle of the room, tensely composed. The maid had answered the bell, and Clifford now heard a man’s voice in the hall—a familiar voice. The next moment the visitor was through the doorway, and Clifford beheld that likable young man-about-town, Jack Morton.

[44]But Jack Morton saw only Mary, and his face flushed with delight. “Mary!” he cried and crossed to her with open arms. Without hesitation she stepped forward and her lips met his.

[44]

Clifford experienced such a swift onrush of dizziness and sickness that he barely kept his seat.

After a moment Mary drew away from Morton. “Jack, I want to introduce an old acquaintance to you—Mr. Clifford.”

“Bob Clifford—you here!” cried Morton. “You know Miss Regan?”

Clifford remembered his lines. “I met Miss Regan in Paris before the outbreak of the war.”

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