“I don’t know what it’s going to be yet--but it’s going to be something mighty soon.” He spoke with nervous incisiveness. “With you and Hilton and Nan Burdette and Nina Cordova, there’ll be plenty of people. Your first job will be to keep Mary Regan covered night and day, so we can act the minute we’re ready. I’ll have something doped out by morning, and I’ll let you know. Come on, let’s see if there isn’t a cold bottle in the ice-chest.” Clifford stole swiftly and noiselessly out. Fifteen minutes later he was calling his name through Mary Regan’s door; and after a ten minutes’ wait he was in her presence. During those minutes he had done much thinking. “Do you still control the lease to the apartment you had in the Mordona?” he asked quietly. She was bewildered. “Yes. Jack and I took it until the first of October. Why?” “Then you still have a key to the apartment?” “Yes.” “How much baggage do you have here? Not much, I hope.” “A steamer trunk, and a bag.” “Pack them. In half an hour you move back to the Mordona.” “Back to the Mordona!” she exclaimed. “What for?” He told her something of the formless danger in which she stood. “To be safe for the present, you’ve got to be where no one will find you. And the Mordona is about the last place any one will look for you. I’ll get a car from Headquarters to move you, and you’ll leave no trail from here.” There was rapid packing--a silent carrying-down of baggage--a ride through the night in a car that could be traced from no taxi station--and Mary Regan was once more in the apartment in the Mordona, where, months before, her glowing dream had changed to a sober, patient, cautious struggle to re-make Jack Morton into a man. CHAPTER XXV A FATHER’S HOPE The next day the first open move in this struggle was made--a minor development, perhaps signifying no more in the unfolding of events than their delay. Clifford learned of it when he dropped into the Grand Alcazar the following evening on the chance of finding Uncle George. “Hello, son--sit in with me on a little drink of this here wine drowned in seltzer,” said the old man. And when Clifford was seated, he drawled on, a solemn eye on his glass. “Son, I’ve been tapering fast toward prohibition. In another month I’ll be a bone-dry state. But I’m such a weak creature of habit, son, that I know I’ll just keep on tapering. I’m a worried man, and here’s what’s worrying me: after I’ve reached water, and am still tapering, what am I going to drink next? What’s the answer? I tell you what, son, it’s an awful problem I got to face single-handed and single-livered and all alone in the world--this getting good so sudden and so fast that I can’t stop myself. Why, man, when I hit heaven, I’m afraid I’ll have up so much speed that I’ll shoot clean through.” Clifford made no response; he knew none was expected. He gave solemn gaze for solemn gaze. Then Uncle George permitted his bald left eyelid to droop in a slight wink.