“Can you not answer?” she demanded, catching her breath with excitement. “You are not Henry Wilton.” “Well?” I said half-inquiringly. It was not safe to advance or retreat. “Well--! well--!” She repeated my answer, with indignation and disdain deepening in her voice. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?” “What should I say?” I replied quietly. “You make an assertion. Is there anything more to be said?” “Oh, you may laugh at me if you please, because you can hoodwink the others.” I protested that laughter was the last thing I was thinking of at the moment. Then she burst out impetuously: “Oh, if I were only a man! No; if I were a man I should be hoodwinked like the rest. But you can not deceive me. Who are you? What are you here for? What are you trying to do?” She was blazing with wrath. Her tone had raised hardly an interval of the scale, but every word that came in that smooth, low voice was heavy with contempt and anger. It was the true daughter of the Wolf who stood before me. “I am afraid, Miss Knapp, you are not well tonight,” I said soothingly. “What have you done with Henry Wilton?” she asked fiercely. “Don't try to speak with his voice. Drop your disguise. You are no actor. You are no more like him than--” The simile failed her in her wrath. “Satyr to Hyperion,” I quoted bitterly. “Make it strong, please.” I had thought myself in a tight place in the row at Borton's, but it was nothing to this encounter. “Oh, where is he? What has happened?” she cried. “Nothing has happened,” I said calmly, determining at last to brazen it out. I could not tell her the truth. “My name is Henry Wilton.” She looked at me in anger a moment, and then a shadow of dread and despair settled over her face. I was tempted beyond measure to throw myself on her mercy and tell all. The subtle sympathy that she inspired was softening my resolution. Yet, as I looked into her eyes, her face hardened, and her wrath blazed forth once more. “Go!” she said. “I hope I may never see you again!” And she turned and ran swiftly up the stair. I thought I heard a sob, but whether of anger or sorrow I knew not. And I went out into the night with a heavier load of depression than I had borne since I entered the city. CHAPTER XIII A DAY OF GRACE