With the philosophic sigh of the man to whom the world has taught patience, he fell upon the remainder of his half of the guinea-hen. Clifford saw him rub his napkin twice across his mouth, place it upon his knees, from where it slipped to the floor--which may or may not have been a signal. But, at any rate, the next moment a waiter, who had been standing close at hand, opened the door of the nearest cabinet particulier. “Did you ring?” he said, and stepping inside left the door open. Mary’s gaze, wandering from her table-mate, went through the doorway, and she saw, what Clifford also saw from his retreat: Jack Morton, his features soddenly loose, leaning in a stupor against the shoulder of a woman. She stared fixedly at this picture so unexpectedly enframed by the doorway; then involuntarily there burst from her lips:-- “Good God--look!” Loveman raised his eyes from his guinea-hen, and followed her gaze. “Well--of all things!” The waiter, coming out, closed the door, and the brief picture was gone. Then Loveman turned on Mary, his big eyes wide with amazement. “That certainly is some jolt! Not that I’m surprised at the fact--only surprised at our coming on it like this.” Clifford saw that he regarded her keenly. She was very pale and strained, but said nothing. “Well, who guessed right?” he ventured after a moment. Then, more confidently: “That ought to settle matters, Mary. There’s nothing else to it--you’re coming in on the new line.” Again Mary did not speak. But for Loveman there was no need for her to speak. Clifford easily guessed what was passing in his mind. The danger which she represented to Loveman was now averted; the plans which he was going to carry out with her were already successes. His active brain was leaping months, even years, ahead. This was one of the big moments of his life--one of those few moments when a series of great achievements become suddenly possible. But Clifford could not see into the soul of Mary Regan; tensely he wondered what was passing therein--and waited. CHAPTER XXII MARY MAKES AN OFFER Mary, gazing at that little door, was, for all her composed exterior, sick of soul: contrary emotions and impulses clashed within her. A fury suddenly possessed her. She had lost--been defeated in her great plan by the invertebrateness of one man. Well, Jack could go his champagne-bottled way to the inevitable end of such as he! She was through!... And then she remembered Maisie Jones, admiring tears in her proud eyes, and she recalled her trembling words of belief: “You can do what I can never do--you’ve proved that you can make a real man of Jack.” She rose quickly. “I’m going to get him,” she breathed huskily. “Wait--you mustn’t!” cried Loveman in alarm, starting up and clutching at her wrist.