And now his reverie was broken in upon by Olive, who entered hurriedly, saying: "Doctor Vaughan, are you here alone? I thought Claire was with you." He made no answer to this remark, but said, as he took her proffered hand: "I ran down to tell you that I have taken the detectives off. Jarvis is still in our pay, in case of emergency. He has sent his report to Davlin, and a scant one it was. Of course, Davlin is glad to have him withdraw; that is, if he knows, as he must, that the papers are not in Percy's hands." "Then all depends upon Madeline now?" "All depends upon Madeline." "Poor Philip," sighed Olive, "what would he say if he knew that his fate rests in the hands of a mere girl?" "If he knew of that 'mere girl' what we know, he would say that his fate could not rest in better hands. No man ever had a more efficient champion, nor one half so brave and beautiful." They had not dared to tell Philip of the hope that was daily growing stronger in their hearts; if they failed, he should be thrust back into no gulf of black darkness because they had cheated him with a false hope. CHAPTER XLIV. A FRESH COMPLICATION. On leaving so abruptly the companionship of Dr. Vaughan, Claire rushed straight to her room. Closing and locking the door, she flung herself down upon a couch and indulged in a hearty cry. She was at once happy and sorry, angry and pleased. Presently, Claire sat up and began to review things more calmly. "What a wretched little dunce I am!" she soliloquized. "And what must he think of me! Well!" with a little sigh, "the worse his opinion of me, the better for Madeline. And here I am this minute, in spite of myself, actually rejoicing in my heart because he has not done the very thing I have resolved that he should do. But he never will know it. Neither shall any one else. I won't give him another chance to talk to me; no, not if I have to take to my heels ten times a day. It's only right that I should give him up; I, indeed, who fancied myself in love with a white-handed, yellow-haired villain." At this point in her meditations, some one rapped softly at her door. "Claire, dear," said a soft voice, "open your door; I want to come in." It was Mrs. Ralston, and Claire advanced slowly and turned the key in the lock. "I--I thought it was somebody else," she said, hypocritically. "Come in, Mrs. Ralston." Thus invited, the lady entered. Without making a comment on the disturbed appearance of her young friend, she crossed to the window, and sitting down in a cosy dressing-chair, said: "Come directly here, young lady, and sit down on that ottoman." Looking somewhat surprised, the girl obeyed. "Claire, my child, I have a confession to make. I was in the library while you sang: 'When sparrows build.'" The girl's cheek flushed and then paled; but she made no answer. "And," pursued Mrs. Ralston, "I heard more than your song." No reply. "And more than your words!" "More than--my--my words?"