There was a curiously questioning look in her face as she spoke. Kenyon noticed, but did not understand it. At first he thought it might mean eagerness for the work in which she was engaged. But he dismissed that, instantly. The club and its welfare had no part in her thoughts at the present moment--he felt confident of that; it was other matters--the events of the night before, perhaps--that interested her. “And she is speaking by rote,” he told himself. “All that she’s saying are the self-evident things that require no attention.” While these things were passing through his mind she had continued on in the same strain, speaking rapidly and clearly, but wearing the same look of interest in something foreign to her subject. Suddenly this changed. His observant eyes saw it give place to a new eagerness that all but set her a-tremble. She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a book. “It is customary,” she said, “for visitors to sign their names here,” placing the book before him. “Complying with this does not indicate their willingness to contribute,” quickly; “it merely enables us to keep track of those who have shown sufficient interest to make inquiries.” She dipped a pen in the ink and held it out to him. “Will you write your name and address, please?” He took the pen, and a glimmer of humor appeared in his eyes. “I wonder what happens after I sign?” he asked himself. “It appears to be a lucky thought of some sort.” He spread his bold signature across the first blank line and placed the name of his hotel under it. Then she took the book and carefully blotted the page; watching her keenly he saw the fixed attention which she gave what he had written, and again saw the swift color sweep into her face. Then she placed the book carefully in the desk, once more, and leaning back in the office chair looked at him. He gasped in rapture; for she was smiling. “Do you know, Mr. Kenyon,” she said, “I cannot altogether get rid of the notion that you had other things in your mind that you have not mentioned, when you came here to-night.” “It is quite possible,” returned he, coolly. “Under certain circumstances one does not immediately plunge into the matters which interest one most.” “You came to ask certain questions, did you not?” She placed her elbows upon the desk and her chin in her palms. For the first time Kenyon noticed the beauty of her hands. “Questions upon matters on which you think information might be of service to you.” “Precisely.” His admiration blunted his observation; he did not notice that she was entertained by his even manner. “There is information which I fancy would relieve my mind to a greater or less extent. There are facts which have been dancing on ahead of me, so to speak, too elusive to grasp, but interesting enough to make it worth while to try.” “I think I understand. And it might be some balm to you to know that you have not been alone in this.”