Clifford looked keenly at the little man’s round, good-natured face--behind which played an unmatched shrewdness. Clifford did not disbelieve Mary, yet it seemed to him out of the man’s character to play such a rôle as Mary had described. This was one more aspect of the whole situation which for the moment bewildered him. “I think, Peter, we’ll soon figure out just where you fit into this case,” he said shortly. He turned to his prisoner. “At any rate, I’ve got you for fair, Hilton,” he said grimly. “Loveman, kindly oblige Mr. Hilton by picking up his stick and hat.” “You may have me all right,” said Hilton, with a pale, twitching smile that he tried to force to be jauntily indifferent, “but when the evidence against me is produced in court what will happen to Mrs. Mary Regan Morton Grayson?” “Oh, I say, Bob,” Loveman spoke up quickly, “call it square if he gives the money back to--” But his words were cut off by the ringing of the apartment bell. They all suddenly became as fixed as so many statues. Then Mary spoke, and her words came rapidly:-- “It must be Jack, home from the office. He’s probably forgotten his key. Mr. Loveman, you go to the door and prevent his coming in. Say whatever you like.” Loveman slipped through the curtained doorway, and the next moment Clifford heard the outer door open. Then he heard an amazed voice exclaim:-- “Well, if it’s not Loveman! Now what the devil are you doing here?” Clifford and Mary both started. The amazed voice in the next room was not Jack’s voice. “I’m here--on a little business--with Mrs. Grayson,” stammered Loveman. “So am I,” said the voice. “But she’s engaged--I assure you--” “I’ll only take a minute or two. Come on; you shall introduce me. Don’t hang back.” The next moment Loveman was pushed through the door, and behind him appeared the tall figure of Mr. Morton, evening clothes showing beneath his overcoat. He stopped short at what he saw. “Why, Mr. Clifford!” he exclaimed. And then: “Why, I beg your pardon, Miss Gilmore! Or should I say Mrs. Grayson?” Clifford saw that Mary had gone almost white. He sensed, and he knew that she sensed, that one of the supreme crises of her new life--the life that was to make her or break her--was unexpectedly before them. Mary spoke calmly. “It is Mrs. Grayson now.” “How rapidly events do happen in New York,” Mr. Morton remarked politely, his keen gray eyes full upon her. “Miss Gilmore when I saw you at the Grantham--Mrs. Grayson within a week. He must be a young Lochinvar, Mr. Grayson, the way he does things.” Hilton had been standing beyond Clifford, blocked out of Mr. Morton’s first swift survey of the scene. He now shifted forward, and Mr. Morton saw him, the grip of Clifford fastened on his upper arm, and the glinting handcuffs on his wrists. “What’s this all about?” Mr. Morton exclaimed. Hilton was swift to see what advantage for him lay in the situation. He stepped nearer Mr. Morton.