"He made me. Don't you know how some women succumb to cave-man wooing? I don't understand it myself, but his whirlwind love-making carried me off my feet, and I had promised him before I knew it." "If I had been here at the time, it would never have happened." "I think it would. I was fascinated by his very vehemence. Now, I know better. I want only your gentle, dear love, that will comfort and content me as he never could." "You poor little darling. I wish I could give it to you now. Mayn't I kiss you once--just once, Joyce?" "No, Eugene. Not yet. Some day--when I can't be patient any longer. When the hunger for your big, sweet affection becomes too intense--the craving too uncontrollable." She turned away from him and looked off toward the glowing richness of the autumn foliage. "When the robins nest again," she said, with a little pathetic smile at the quotation. "But now, dear, sit down, I've a lot to tell you. I'm glad you came over, I was going to send for you." And then, without further preamble, Joyce told him the whole story of Orienta and her revelations. Courtenay listened, his eyes growing dark with anxiety as the story progressed. "Who was the man?" he asked quietly, as she finished. "Why, I don't know. Not a tramp, of course. But, perhaps some blackmailer. You know--Eric's life wasn't spotless." "Listen, Joyce. The man, you say, was dark and with a pointed beard. He was in evening clothes, and wore no hat. He had reason to hate Eric Stannard. Do you know of any one who fulfils those conditions?" Joyce looked at him, and a cloud of fear came to her beautiful eyes. "Don't, Eugene," she cried, putting up her white hand, as if to ward off a blow. "Don't!" "I must, Joyce. And you must listen. When I left you, did you keep your head down on that pillow--or, did you raise it? Tell me truly, dearest." "I--I kept it down there. I was crying a little--after what--you know--what we had been talking about. I staid that way a long time." "Until you heard the sounds from the studio?" "Yes; until that." "Then some one could have passed you--you wouldn't have heard a soft step?" "No, I probably shouldn't--but, Eugene, it wasn't you? Say it wasn't you!" "It was not. But I have to prove this, Joyce--and it will be difficult." "Oh, does any one think it was you?" "Yes, the police think so." "The police! That Roberts man! Oh, why--_why_ did I ever have Madame Orienta come here? But we will prove it was not you, my Eugene--we will prove it." "Yes, Joyce, my darling, we will, for we must. To whom have you told this story of sitting with your face bowed in the pillow?" "To no one. Oh, yes, to the people in the house, of course. Barry and Beatrice, and, of course, little Natalie. Oh, Eugene, I was so glad when the Priestess' story seemed to clear Natalie and me of all suspicion of guilt. But if it has implicated you, that is a thousand times worse!"