“It means that I am the victim of a most unfortunate misunderstanding,” he spoke up quickly. “Mr. Clifford believed, mistakenly, that I had come wrongfully by some five thousand dollars in my possession, and he took the money from me and placed me under arrest.” “It’s none of my business, I suppose,” Mr. Morton said, “but is this correct, Mr. Clifford?” Clifford remained silent for a moment. In a flash he saw that for him to answer with the full truth would lead to Mary’s instant ruin: this after he had declared that he had stepped out of her life, that he was going to leave to experience and her own decisions the shaping of her fate. “The last part of his statement is correct,” replied Clifford--“that I took the money from him and placed him under arrest.” “But he declares the money is his. If not, whose is it?” In the passing moment Clifford had decided to put it squarely up to Mary, to thrust the tangled threads of her destiny into her own hands. But Hilton beat him to the very reply he intended making. “Ask Mrs. Grayson whose money it is,” cried Hilton, and, wheeling, he gave Mary a meaning look. But Mr. Morton’s eyes waited on Clifford. Clifford turned and gazed at Mary. “Yes, ask Mrs. Grayson,” said Clifford. “Mrs. Grayson,” said Mr. Morton, “the ownership of this disputed money seems to rest on your word.” She hesitated. Clifford read beneath that white, calm face: realized that she was on the thinnest of thin ice--if indeed she were not already through it and in the black waters. He believed, and was certain she believed, that Mr. Morton already knew of the marriage--but did he know of the other things? “Whose is it, Mrs. Grayson?” prompted Mr. Morton. She indicated Hilton with a nod. “The money is his; give it to him, Mr. Clifford,” she said. Clifford quickly weighed his conflicting responsibilities. To give Life the chance to test Mary out to the end of this experience weighed more important than the mere capture of Hilton. “Here it is,” he said; and thrust the bills into one of the handcuffed hands--and as he did so, out of the tail of his eye he caught a look of dismay on Loveman’s face. “Since your affairs seem to be adjusted,” put in Mr. Morton, “I dare say you’d like to be saying good-afternoon.” Clifford removed the handcuffs, Loveman gave Hilton his hat and cane, and the professional entangler of women, though ruffled somewhat as to the perfection of his apparel, bowed himself out with exquisite manner. There was a moment of silence--a strain upon all except Mr. Morton, who had the light, easy bearing of a man of the world at an afternoon tea. If he knew or guessed anything, he did not show it--and his pleasant surface made him seem all the more dangerous. He gave Mary a slight but gracious bow. “I hope you’ll forgive my dropping in so informally. But I had learned your address by chance, I happened to be in the neighborhood, and I wished to advance my acquaintance, begun when you were Miss Gilmore.”