“I dreaded attracting attention by engaging a carriage. I thought Forrester might have someone on the watch.” “His watchers were scarcely trustworthy,” said Kenyon, grimly. “You need not have been afraid. He must have instructed some of them to be on hand if his visitors offered him violence; but they failed him. I had no trouble about entering the house secretly; and I suppose you had none, either.” “No; and when I heard Anna and Mr. Forrester approaching the room that I had entered, I hid in a sort of closet that was at the upper end.” “Ah! that was when you went tip-toeing so cautiously across the floor.” “You did not see me?” “No; but Austin did. But, of course, he did not know who you were. But, tell me: How did you learn that Forrester had gone to that particular place?” “The young man from Saginaw telephoned me. You see, I had left word with him to keep me informed as to anything that he might discover.” “Of course, of course! I remember, now, his telling me of that, at the Hotel Suisse.” There was a short silence. He was looking at her, and there was the same question in his eyes that had been there in one form or another ever since he had first seen her that night in the hansom cab. All the other problems that the case had presented, he had approached with a native and nonchalant boldness. But as he came to this one, he was aware of a strange timorousness, a quick, short thumping of the heart, an odd lack of control of the situation that was most unusual. “There is a thing,” said he, with a little effort, “that has had me wondering since our first meeting. I have often thought it over, but could never make anything of it.” There is nothing more certain in the world than an agitated mind’s communicating its unrest to a neighboring one that is in any way sensitive. This was now plainly the case. She instinctively seized the thought before he had put it into words; the rich color flooded her face; her heavy, dark lashes hid her eyes. “Why were you so scornful that night?” asked he, leaning toward her. “But no! When I come to think of it, it was not scorn, really; it was contempt!” “Oh, please!” she begged, lifting her eyes, imploringly. “Tell me,” insisted he. “There was a reason for it. You had never seen me before. And it could hardly have been a sudden aversion. It was too complete for that.” The color was still deep in her face; her slim hands were clasping and unclasping nervously. But while her voice was low and her manner confused, her eyes were brave. “It was because of your friend, Balmacenso. When Mr. Austin wrote the letter urging you to come to New York, the man answered asking what was to be his--his reward.” “And your guardian replied--?” eagerly. If it were possible the exquisite color in her cheeks deepened.