We talked together, we tried to devise some plan of action, we reached no settled conclusion. The minutes passed. I never ceased listening for the familiar footstep on the stairs. Of one thing only was I perfectly sure: whatever happened, I intended to take charge of it all myself. I would deal with Boyde in my own way. The principle lay clear and decided in me; I meant to frighten Boyde as severely as I possibly could, then to give him another chance. Anticipation made the minutes crawl. Grant talked a good deal. “He spotted you and Kay from the start,” I heard Grant saying. “He saw your ignorance of the town, your inexperience, your generosity. He felt sure of free lodging anyhow, perhaps a good deal more----” A faint thud sounded from downstairs. “There he is,” I said instantly. “That’s the front door banging. He’s coming. Keep quiet.” I told Grant to get into the cupboard and hide. He was only just concealed in the deep cupboard and the door drawn to, when the other door opened quietly and Boyde came in. CHAPTER XVII Boyde was in cheerful, smiling mood. He put some grapes on the bed, asked how I felt, and told me about his trip to Patterson and his failure to get the organist job. “It’s bitterly cold,” he said. “I _was_ glad of your overcoat. You _have_ been a brick,” he added, “but I’ll make it all up to you when my luck turns.” He crossed over to the sofa and sat down, stretching himself, obviously tired out. “Never mind, old chap; we shall get along somehow. Probably Kay will send us something more before long. He’s always faithful. Let’s see,” I went on casually, “when was it we heard from him last?” “A week ago,” said Boyde quite naturally. “Toronto, wasn’t it? Or Buffalo--no, no, Toronto.” We laughed together. “So it was,” I agreed carelessly. Then I pretended to hesitate. “But that was nearly a fortnight ago,” I suddenly corrected my memory; “surely we’ve heard since that. Only the other day--or did I dream it?” Boyde stared at me lazily through the cigarette smoke. “No, I think not,” he said quietly. “There was only the one letter.” He showed no sign of disturbance. I lay still, pretending to think back a bit, then heaved myself slowly up in bed. “But, Boyde, I remember the letter,” I exclaimed with conviction, staring into his face, “I’m certain I do--another letter. Why, of course! I remember your showing it to me. There was a cheque in it--a cheque for seventy-five dollars!” His easy laugh, his voice and manner, the perfect naturalness of his reply made me feel sure that I was in the wrong. He knew absolutely nothing of the cheque and letter. He was innocent. It was not _his_ doing, at any rate. “You must have been dreaming,” he said, looking me full in the face with his big, honest blue eyes. “It’s too good to be true.” He gave a wry little chuckle that only a clear conscience could have made possible.