“I’ll give her a little advice!” exclaimed Merry, as he prepared to go. “I shall talk plainly to her. But it may be some actress who is out of an engagement and wants a position.” He went out, leaving Bart and Ephraim in the room. Frank was not in the most agreeable mood possible, for he had been annoyed by the letters. He made his way straight to the ladies’ parlor. In a corner a woman was sitting. No other person happened to be in the parlor at the moment when Frank entered. As Frank came in, the woman rose quickly and came toward him. He paused when he saw her face fairly. “Great Scott!” was his mental exclamation. “It is the one who threw the flowers from the box!” The woman was handsomely dressed, and she showed some signs of agitation. Frank surveyed her quickly. He saw at a glance that she was a person who seemed more attractive at a distance than on closer view. Still she was of the type that most men might call handsome. There was a look of mingled boldness and hesitation about her that was rather bewildering. Her voice was not unpleasant. “Mr. Merriwell!” she exclaimed. “You wish to see me, madam?” said Merry, rather frigidly. “Yes, yes!” she exclaimed. “I am here.” There was nothing in Frank’s manner to encourage familiarity. “You—you—don’t you recognize me?” The situation was far from agreeable to him, and he resolved to discourage her at the very start. “I have not had the honor of being presented to you,” he said, with a faint bow. She made an impatient gesture. “But you recognize me? I threw you flowers—from the box. There—there—was a—a note attached.” “Indeed?” “Yes, yes.” “Madam, permit me to tell you it was very foolish for you to write a note to an utter stranger.” “But you—you did not seem like a stranger. You—why, it seemed that I had known you always!” She half extended her hand, as if to rest it on his arm, but he drew back. A shadow came over her face, and a look of pain seemed to leap into her large dark eyes. Very expressive eyes they were. At first they had seemed full of innocence, but somehow there was something uncertain and shifty about them—something that gave their wide-open innocence the lie. “Yes,” said Frank, regretting the necessity of speaking thus, yet feeling that he must, “it was very rash of you. You could know nothing of me. For all you knew I might be a rascal.” “Oh, no, no, no!” she cried. “I knew you were not that! A rascal could not play the part of _Dick Trueheart_ and make it so natural—so noble. I knew you had a good and noble heart. I knew you were the one man in all the wide world whom I could love!” It was becoming more embarrassing for Merry. Somehow, there was a mingled timidity and unspeakable boldness about the woman that mystified him not a little. He wondered if she could be just right, mentally. “Madam,” he said, “will you tell me at once what you want of me. My time is limited.” “Now, don’t speak to me like that!” she almost sobbed. “It hurts me—here!”