“He didn’t do it, Harry. He is innocent,” she began triumphantly, and Antrim could see her eyes shining behind the veil. “I have known that all along,” he interrupted impatiently. “What then? What about the papers?” “Oh, dear, I forgot all about them! I can’t talk about it, Harry; not here in the street. But there is one thing I must tell you”--the hot blush came again and its attendant emotion threatened to stop her, but she went on bravely--“it is about--Mr. Brant and--and Isabel. I was just dreadfully, horridly, stupidly mistaken. Isabel meant--that is, it’s not Mr. Brant; it is somebody else. There is nothing at all between them, and there never has been. I----” Antrim waited to hear no more. There was an idle carriage standing at the curb, and before she knew what he meant to do he had put her into it, slammed the door, and swung himself up to a seat beside the driver. “To Judge Langford’s house, over in the Highlands. I’ll show you the way if you don’t know it,” he said briefly; and then, “The quicker you make it the more money you’ll earn.” In an incredibly short time he was helping Dorothy out at the Hollywood gate. “Fix it some way so that I can have ten minutes alone with Isabel,” he begged as they hurried up the walk, “and then I’ll be ready to hear all about Brant. You will do that much for me, won’t you, Dorothy?” Fortunately, it needed not to be arranged. Isabel met them in the hall, and Dorothy had but to dart quickly into the library and so leave them alone together. Two weeks of utter neglect had humbled Isabel rather more than she would admit even to herself, but they had also made her affectionately vindictive. Hence she gave him no more than a cool little “Good evening, Harry. Won’t you come in?” “I am in; and I’ll stay to dinner if you will ask me,” he retorted promptly, penning her into the corner between the door and the stairfoot. “But first I want to say something that I am going to repeat every time we meet, regardless of time, place, or present company. I love you, Isabel, I have always loved you, and I am always going to.” “Indeed!” said Isabel with sweet sarcasm. “Yes, in deed, and in thought, and in word. More than that, I know now that you love me--oh, don’t take the trouble to deny it; it’s wrong to tell fibs. You told Dorothy you did, and she gave it away without meaning to. So you see it is no use, and you may as well give me that kiss I asked for the last time you told me the biggest fib of all the----” “Not now--or ever!” she retorted, slipping under his arm and darting down the hall to the drawing-room door. He caught at her as she eluded him, and then ran after her. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Keep your distance, or I vanish!” she threatened. “Stand right there where you are and tell me why you went off in a dudgeon that night; and why you froze me out two weeks ago; and why you haven’t been back since; and why----”