“What more can I do?” she asked. “You have satisfactorily answered every question that I have asked.” “You might ask one more,” suggested Kenyon, coolly. “And what is that?” “My name.” He could feel her searching his face with those beautiful eyes once more. But there was no doubt in them now; neither was there any abatement of the anger that glowed in them. “Why should I ask your name?” she asked. “I know it already.” “I question that,” said Kenyon, confidently. “It is written upon the check which you hold in your hand.” As they passed a street lamp, Kenyon held up the check so that the light would fall upon it. She had spoken the truth! In a cramped, quavering hand he saw that it was drawn to the order of Steele Kenyon! Once more he settled heavily back against the cushions of the cab. He was lost in astonishment. But almost at the same instant the vehicle pulled up and the apron was flung open. “And now,” remarked the girl, evenly, “if you have made up your mind that everything is right we will get out.” He sprang down and helped her to alight. It was an instinct that prompted him to do so, however, for his mind was groping in a maze of wonderment. The strangeness of the whole incident was beating sluggishly in his brain; and try as he would he could make nothing of it. She knew his name! She knew of Nunez, of Rio, of everything. And, now, incredible as it seemed, there was little doubt but what he was actually the person wanted. He could not intelligently grasp any part of it, and with military abruptness ceased trying. “Let it work itself out as it will,” he muttered, “I’ll not say another word in protest.” So when the girl opened a heavy door with a pass-key, he asked no questions; and when she closed the door softly behind them, he followed her down the wide, dimly lit hall without a word. The house was soundless. The girl opened the door of a room off the hall; a single gas jet burned lowly within; she motioned for him to go in. “Please sit down,” she said. “You will not be kept waiting long.” Even in the uncertain flicker of the low-turned light, her way of carrying herself pleased him. She was tall and straight, her outlines were soft and womanly; and then there was the proud lift of the head which he had noticed before. There was a suppleness in her movements that one could not help observing; but her air of youthful distinction was what impressed Kenyon most of all. But there was no lessening of the scorn in her manner; and as she made a movement as though to leave the room, a sort of quick regret flashed over him. “Somehow,” he murmured, after she had gone, “I wish she had stayed. I’d like to be better acquainted with her; I’d like to have a chance to convince her that I don’t deserve such treatment as she’s been giving me.” He sat down and stared at the door which had closed upon her a moment before.