But even as this picture was revealed, Clifford sprang toward Hilton; while Mr. Morton blinking from the darkness, started, bewildered, toward the two. “Look out!” warningly cried Loveman--but too late, for as the bright fang touched Mary’s arm, Clifford’s fist caught Hilton under the jaw. Hilton, fairly lifted from his feet, went spinning and fell in a loose heap. Clifford whirled upon Loveman, but Loveman was backing away, a pasty smile on his full face, and his hands held up. “I’m not doing a thing, Bob,” gasped the little man--“honest, not a thing!” “Better keep on doing it!” said Clifford, and blew his whistle. “What’s--what’s happened?” panted Mary. “Nothing--except some parties have just tried to kidnap you, first trying to shoot a hypo into you.” “Kidnap me! What for?” “To shut you up--get you out of the way--later, to frame you to suit their own purpose. But you’re bleeding!” Clifford whipped out a handkerchief and bound the arm. Then he picked up from the floor the syringe that had fallen from Hilton’s hand and examined it. “It’s still loaded, so you got nothing more than a scratch of the needle.” At this moment Jimmie Kelly entered, answering Clifford’s whistle. With Jimmie’s help Clifford put handcuffs first upon Loveman and then upon Hilton and Bradley, who had both begun to revive. “For the present, we’ll line ’em up against the wall,” said Clifford--which they did. “Later we can decide what to do with them.” “But what’s all this about?” demanded Mr. Morton. “Explanations can wait until later,” returned Clifford. “The first thing is your business with Miss Gilmore. Miss Gilmore, I believe you started to tell us something.” Once more Clifford looked at Mary keenly--back again in that mood of palpitant suspense as to what lay in her heart--as to what she was about to say and do--she who this moment held her dream-world in her hands! Morton, silent, awaited her speech. From the wall Loveman, Bradley, and Hilton looked on in varying degrees of fear, chagrin, and glowering wrath. When at length Mary spoke, she spoke quietly. “The first thing I wish to tell you, Mr. Morton, is comparatively of no importance. I wrote you that letter, yes. That was weeks ago. I wrote it the very night you refused to entrust Jack to me. I was angry. I was determined you should suffer, too. I was going to lead you on--get you caught in a predicament that would make you writhe--and then would come public humiliation.” “What kind of a predicament?” asked Mr. Morton. “It doesn’t matter now. But I had my plan--and I think I could have made it work. You got only that one letter, Mr. Morton. That was because, when I calmed down, I changed my mind. I did not want to do what I had planned to do.” Somehow--though Mary Regan could mean nothing in his life--this statement brought great relief to Clifford.