Morton glowered at Clifford. “If that’s the case, of course, I apologize. But the question is, where’s he been all this time?” “It seems to me,” put in Mary in the same quiet voice, “that the most important question is, what are you going to do with him?” “Do with him?” demanded Morton, staring at her. “What’s in your mind?” Clifford had been, and still was, asking himself those same questions. Mary, standing between the two men, gazed very calmly at Mr. Morton. “You’ve had Jack in charge for twenty-five years--and in there you see your work. He was with me awhile; during that short time he tried to be, and was, a man. It’s up to you to choose.” Morton stared--blinked his eyes--drew a deep breath. “Am I getting you right? Are you suggesting that Jack come back to you?” Clifford now began to understand; though he had no idea--nor perhaps did she, for that matter,--of the degree to which she was moved by the tearful figure of Maisie Jones, breathing, “You are big--wonderful!” “I think I might make a man of him,” she said. “You mean to resume on the old basis--the discreet Riverside Drive affair--and all that?” “Just that. I’ll do my best for him--provided he comes with your knowledge and consent.” He gazed at her intently. “You’re a new kind to me!” Then, dryly: “No, thank you.” “I shall never ask you for a single thing,” she urged. He gazed at her, hesitating. It was not given to any of the trio to see then what a moment of great crisis this was. It was like the apex of so many of Life’s crises--very quiet, very composed. “No, thank you,” Mr. Morton said with decision. “I have other plans for him. I shall now handle him myself.” “Just as you say. But remember, I made you an offer.” Her calm expression did not change by a flicker. “Under the circumstances, the simplest arrangement would be for us merely to exchange taxis. I suggest that you take my taxi with your son. With your permission I’ll take your cab. Good-night.” She turned about, with her composed air of finality. “Will you please help me in, Mr. Clifford?” Clifford did so. Over his shoulder he had a glimpse of the handsome, elderly man standing, loose-jawed, staring after her. As Clifford settled beside her and the car sprang away, there was a sharp, breaking choke from her, and she dropped her face into her hands. After that she gripped herself and sat silent, rigid, as the car spun on. Clifford, gazing on her, wondered thrillingly what was happening within that taut figure ... wondered what might happen in the days to come.... CHAPTER XXIII LOVEMAN’S FINAL PLEA As the taxi-cab spun northward through the two-o’clock streets, Clifford continued to gaze at the taut figure of Mary Regan, and at her white, set face. It had certainly been an hour to try her soul, that experience ending a few minutes since at the Midnight Café.