"You, least of all. Mrs. Faulkner is a dear, but she is so unwilling to admit she suspects anybody--I mean, anybody we know. She insists it was some stranger--and, it wasn't--I mean--oh--what am I saying? Joyce, I shall go crazy." Natalie looked distraught. Her eyes had a wild look, as of a hunted animal. Her little fingers plucked at the silk of her robe, and her slippered foot tapped the rug continuously. "You didn't love Eric, did you?" and Joyce looked at the girl, as if seized with a new idea. "No! I hated him! Forgive me, Joyce, but I can't help it. He was almost repulsive to me. Not physically--he was handsome, and most correct-mannered, and all that. But I was afraid of him. I've only posed for a few artists, but they were all--you know--impersonal in their relations with me. But Eric made love to me from the first." "I know it. I saw it." "And you didn't resent it?" "I felt more pity for you than jealousy of you. I know Eric, and oh, Natalie, I tried so hard to be good, and to do my duty--but Eugene was always around, you know--and, must I confess it? I was rather glad that Eric's attention was taken up with his model." "I know. I saw all that. But you see, I care for Barry. And Eric told me----" "What, Natalie?" "No, I can't tell you. Oh, Joyce, I am in danger. I can't ward it off, and I can't meet it. What shall I do? What can I do?" "May I come in?" and Barry appeared at the door of the boudoir. "Yes," Joyce answered. "Come on in. This child says she is going away." "She isn't!" and Barry slammed the trunk lid shut, turned the key, removed it and put it in his pocket. "Oh," cried Natalie, forced to smile at this high-handed piece of business. "There's a lot of things in there I want!" "Can't have 'em," returned Barry, "unless you promise to put 'em back in that very empty wardrobe I see yawning at us." "Barry, I _must_ go away. I've--I've good reasons." Joyce had left the room, and Barry sat down beside the trembling little figure and put an arm round her. "Don't speak of going away, Natalie. Don't think of it. It would look like confession." "Have you heard about the will?" she asked, an awestruck note in her voice. "Yes, but never mind about that. When we can get married, all my half the fortune will be yours anyway. That item of seven thousand or seventy thousand makes no difference to us." "But you don't think I--forged it--do you, Barry?" "Of course not, darling. I don't think you ever did a wrong thing in your life, of any sort or description--and I wouldn't care if you had." "Wouldn't you care if I had committed--crime?" "Oh, if you put it that way, I suppose I'd care--but I'd love you just the same." "_Just_ the same?" "Just exactly, darling." "And you don't think I changed that will?" "I do not." "Who did, do you think?" "How do you know anybody did?" "Joyce says so." "Well, never mind about it. If I know who did it, I won't tell you--and you needn't ask."