“Now see here, my friend, you take my advice and drop this pretence,” he said gravely. “You will deceive nobody--though I can understand why you have not given up hope--and you may get yourself into very serious trouble. If I had my way, you would be in that position at this moment, but my cousin, for an excellent reason, has refrained from handing you over to the police. That generosity ought to be appreciated by you.” Gordon set his teeth, cast broom and brush to the devil and leapt up. “I don’t care--I will tell the truth,” he said doggedly. “In spite of everything--in spite of all appearances, I am Gordon Selsbury.” He looked round: Superbus was at the door, a buff envelope in his hand. It was no use; he went down on his knees and groped for the dustpan. He was beaten. “A wire for you, ma’am. I never knew they came on Sunday.” She took the envelope and tore it open. “Another! ‘Aberdeen. Very good journey and looking forward to my return. Gordon.’” Bobbie gaped. “What an artist!” he said. She turned on him with a frown. “I say, what a nasty journey!” corrected Bobbie. She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Do you know, I’m beginning to feel quite different toward Gordon,” she said. The sweeper sat up on his heels expectantly. For a second she became conscious of his presence. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked coldly. “Nothing--nothing.” The despairing man stooped to his task. “Where is your--your accomplice?” she asked. Gordon turned his head. “She’s reading--‘How to be Happy though Married,’” he said cynically. Kindness was wasted on such a man. “What are you going to do with Dempsi?” asked Bobbie, leaning across and dropping his voice. She made a little face. “I’m in despair, Bobbie. I can’t count on his losing himself again. The only thing he shows any signs of losing is his head--and I never knew him when he had one worth losing. Well?” It was Superbus again. She wished he wouldn’t put his hand on his heart before he bowed. “That parson gentleman’s called again,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “He’s the Vicar of Banhurst.” Superbus was country-bred and was schooled in the values of ecclesiastical rank. The Vicar of Banhurst was a person of eminence. To Diana he was part of the marriage trap. The steel grille that would cut her off from freedom. She was panic-stricken by his very presence in the house. “Tell him I’m ill,” she said frantically. “Tell him--I’m--I’m very ill. Ask him to come to-morrow. And please, please don’t tell Mr. Dempsi he is here.” “He said if you’d call him up--” Superbus offered tentatively the clerical card. She waved it away. “I don’t want his address--I don’t _want_ it!” Mr. Superbus did his bow and went out. Her face was the picture of woe. “Bobbie, what am I to do? That’s the third time he’s called to-day.” “Who is he?”