Yes, it was just what he had expected. He gazed fixedly at the typewritten lines before him--lines which were like heavy doors swinging to and locked between him and that of which he had dreamed. Then he became conscious that the big round eyes of little Peter Loveman were gazing at him curiously. Silently he handed the telegram to the lawyer. Loveman glanced the telegram through. “The devil!” he cried. Then he read it again, this time aloud:-- Married quiet place ten miles from here. Everybody will keep it secret. Happy you bet. J. Loveman stared at Clifford. “And it’s addressed to you!” he exclaimed. “Say, this means you’ve crossed yourself! What the devil are you up to?” Clifford did not answer. There was a moment of silence, then Loveman whispered to himself: “And I just promised Nina Cordova!” Again Clifford did not answer; he did not hear Loveman. Such of his senses as were not numbed by the finality of which that telegram was the token were directed into that unfinal future which human vision could not penetrate. How was it all going to work out for Mary Regan? Was experience going to do for her what he had failed to do, or was experience going to stimulate to complete and final dominance her worldliness? And had he played into Peter Loveman’s hands? And what would Loveman do? But these were questions only Life could answer. He had stepped aside to give Life full play, to let human impulses move unhindered by him toward their destiny; and he must wait until Life was ready to speak. He was subconsciously aware that Loveman’s round eyes were fixed upon him sharply, and he was subconsciously aware that the keen brain behind that round face was working swiftly, ranging in every direction. But without looking at Loveman again, or speaking to him, he rose heavily and went down the broad marble stairway, muted with rugs, out into the winter twilight. These questions that engaged his mind were none of his affair. Mary Regan, as far as she touched his personal life, was now become an episode that was closed. He had other affairs to fill his life; he must turn himself to them. And yet, as he walked away ... he wondered.... CHAPTER X THE GOLDEN DOORS The hour was eleven-thirty of that same night. Clifford sat in the Gold Room at the Grantham, and kept a careful eye upon the proceedings across the great room at the little corner table known among the waiters as “Mr. Loveman’s table.” Clifford watched many persons speak briefly to Loveman. He tried to guess what the shrewd little lawyer might now be up to. Among those who came to Loveman’s table he particularly noted a dark, perfectly tailored young man, of perhaps thirty, with the lithe slenderness of the expert dancing male. Clifford knew him by name and reputation, and already he had set him down as one he must watch, together with Loveman and Bradley.