“Yes. Nobody is to blame. Everything was done with the best intentions. But there it is.” “But I don’t understand.” Rollo explained. Mary listened pallidly. “Are you sure?” she gasped. “Quite sure,” said Rollo, gravely. “The arrowroot tasted rummy.” “But arrowroot always does.” Rollo shook his head. “No,” he said. “It tastes like warm blotting-paper, but not rummy.” Mary was sniffing. “Don’t cry,” urged Rollo, tenderly. “Don’t cry.” “But I must. And I’ve come out without a handkerchief.” “Permit me,” said Rollo, producing one of her best from his left breast-pocket. “I wish I had a powder-puff,” said Mary. “Allow me,” said Rollo. “And your hair has become a little disordered. If I may--” And from the same reservoir he drew a handful of hairpins. Mary gazed at these exhibits with astonishment. “But these are mine,” she said. “Yes. I sneaked them from time to time.” “But why?” “Because I loved you,” said Rollo. And in a few moving sentences which I will not trouble you with he went on to elaborate this theme. Mary listened with her heart full of surging emotions, which I cannot possibly go into if you persist in looking at that damned watch of yours. The scales had fallen from her eyes. She had thought slightingly of this man because he had been a little over-careful of his health, and all the time he had had within him the potentiality of heroism. Something seemed to snap inside her. “Rollo!” she cried, and flung herself into his arms. “Mary!” muttered Rollo, gathering her up. “I told you it was all nonsense,” said Mrs. Willoughby, coming up at this tense moment and going on with the conversation where she had left off. “I’ve just seen Letty, and she said she meant to put you out of your misery but the chemist wouldn’t sell her any poison, so she let it go.” Rollo disentangled himself from Mary. “What?” he cried. Mrs. Willoughby repeated her remarks. “You’re sure?” he said. “Of course I’m sure.” “Then why did the arrowroot taste rummy?” “I made inquiries about that. It seems that mother was worried about your taking to smoking, and she found an advertisement in one of the magazines about the Tobacco Habit Cured in Three Days by a secret method without the victim’s knowledge. It was a gentle, safe, agreeable method of eliminating the nicotine poison from the system, strengthening the weakened membranes, and overcoming the craving; so she put some in your arrowroot every night.” There was a long silence. To Rollo Podmarsh it seemed as though the sun had suddenly begun to shine, the birds to sing, and the grasshoppers to toot. All Nature was one vast substantial smile. Down in the valley by the second hole he caught sight of Wallace Chesney’s Plus Fours gleaming as their owner stooped to play his shot, and it seemed to him that he had never in his life seen anything so lovely. “Mary,” he said, in a low, vibrant voice, “will you wait here for me? I want to go into the club-house for a moment.”