Mr. Morton seemed to swallow something--something so large that it would hardly go down. Then he spoke. “Miss Gilmore, I’ve done all I can to save Jack--but I’ve failed. The Broadway life seems to have got him at last. Here is what he seems to have come to.” He drew apart the curtains of the little dressing-room, revealing the huddled form of Jack, and then let the curtains swing together. “As Mr. Clifford has said, I see that there is only one chance left, and that you are the only chance. Will you be willing to undertake what you offered to do that night down in front of this café?” The moment of Mary’s great test--her great opportunity, if she saw it as such--had arrived. Clifford watched her--waiting--his whole being taut. Her face had become a mask; she looked with cold, direct eyes upon the man on the adroit winning of whose favor she had for months striven to build her great worldly dreams. “I suppose you mean undertake it on the conditions that were then mentioned,” she said quietly--“that it is to be what you once termed the ‘usual Riverside Drive affair’? That we are to be Mr. and Mrs. Grayson?” “Of course, I’ll make it worth your while.” “No, thank you,” she said quietly. “But I will give you any present allowance you may desire,” he urged, “and will make any permanent settlement upon you that is in reason.” “I do not care to run--” “But, Mary--Miss Gilmore,” gently interrupted Loveman. This affair was taking an amazingly different turn from what he had expected. After all, bewildering as it was, matters were falling out in a way to make his original plan seem once more possible. “Mr. Morton’s offer is fair. Take it.” Mary did not heed him, but spoke directly at Mr. Morton. “I do not care to undertake to conduct a sanitarium for one person for pay--and then have the patient removed as soon as a cure is effected.” “But if you were willing to do it before, why not now? I don’t understand!” “It is no concern of mine if you do not understand.” She spoke calmly, coldly. Clifford’s eyes were fixed upon her, trying to pierce her brain and heart. Morton stared at her discomfited, desperation growing in his face. There was another moment of silence, against the background of the dance music which twanged stridently without. Mary spoke again. “If that completes what you wish to say to me, Mr. Morton, then good-night.” She turned to leave. Her hand was on the knob, when Morton spoke up, his voice now husky.