“All right--just as you say.” He drew an envelope from an inner pocket. “But if you will not accept my fortune, you cannot escape Jack’s, for it is this moment automatically and legally yours.” From the envelope--it was the one Loveman had addressed in the car--he drew out three slips of paper and handed them to her. “There it is--three checks totaling one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. And you do not need to reveal yourself as Jack’s widow to get the money, since the checks are made out to ‘Cash.’ All you need to do is to deposit them.” She gazed at the checks, then looked up at him. “If Jack had had no wife, I suppose his fortune would revert to you.” “Naturally.” “You understand, I can make nothing out of this--nothing.” Slowly she tore up the checks. “I can be of no service to you?--or Jack?” “None. Except in ways you have refused.” She turned to Clifford. “Am I needed here?” Clifford shook his head. “Then I think I’ll be going back to town,” she said quietly. Morton held out his hand, which she took. “You are the strangest person I ever knew,” he said huskily. “Good-bye, Mary,--and--and God bless you!” “Good-bye,” said his daughter-in-law. She turned and went out. Clifford watched her as she passed through the broad hospital corridor and then disappeared down the wide stairway. “Mr. Morton,” said Clifford, “I’m not needed either--Lieutenant Kelly will remain in charge here. I’ll be going back to the city, too.” Mr. Morton gripped Clifford’s hand. “Thanks, Clifford--and good-bye.” The habitually hard face softened yet further, and his voice lowered. “And, Clifford,--you’re a lucky man, if it turns out the way I think it will!” * * * * * It did. In the deepening dusk of a month later, from an interior and out-of-the-way county seat whose records were rarely looked over by inquisitive eyes that had an interest in transmitting what they saw to New York City, Clifford was driving a small roadster at an easy pace, one passenger beside him. A few minutes before that passenger had undergone a change of name. In New York City, if all went as expected, it would merely be known that she had changed her name from Mary Regan to Mary Clifford. The marriage had been the ultimate achievement in privacy. No one had journeyed here with them. But one person, who had insisted on being taken into their confidence, had appeared discreetly and anonymously at the brief ceremony in the little court-house--Uncle George. And after the ceremony was over, he had kissed Mary with a simplicity, a sincerity, a tender dignity that sophisticated, cynical Broadway would have been amazed to see in its favorite.