“Oh, how generous we are!” said Greenaway, laughing. “You mean you knew you would be happier on Blackwell’s Island with her than you would on Fifth avenue with any other woman.” “I see you know how it is,” said young Brookes, with a grin of sympathy. “You are in love yourself, old boy, or you couldn’t speak so feelingly.” “I admit it,” said Greenaway, a sad look crossing his face. “I’m in love all right, but that is all the good it will ever do me.” “Who is she?” asked Brookes, with a sudden keen interest. The frown deepened on Greenaway’s face and his voice fell lower as he answered: “Her name is May Osgood, and she is an actress,” he said, slowly. “I have loved her for some time—I can’t seem to get over it.” That there was a reason why he should get over it was very apparent by his words, but Reginald Brookes was too cultured to dream of asking his secret. “Well, my little sweetheart is only seventeen,” he said gayly, “and, between you and I, she has not accepted me yet, so you see I have a double reason for wishing to be near her.” As they parted at the L station, Greenaway spoke rather suddenly. “I’ll turn my life insurance over to you if anything happens, Reg; but, by the way, what is your sweetheart’s name? I seem to have a feeling that I ought to know it.” Reginald Brookes glanced at him in a little surprise. “Her name is Marion Marlowe,” he said, very slowly, then, as Greenaway ran up the stairs, he looked after him curiously. “He’s a funny chap,” he muttered, uneasily. “Now, why the deuce did he feel that he ought to know my little sweetheart’s name? Confound the fellow! He has no business with such feelings!” CHAPTER II. A WORD OF WARNING. Augustus Atherton, attorney-at-law, was seated in his office looking over some papers. Suddenly he tapped a bell upon his desk and his office-boy entered. “Tell Sands to bring me a copy of Halstead’s testimony, Bob,” he said, shortly, “and tell him to hurry; I want it this minute!” “Mr. Sands is out to lunch, sir, won’t be back for half an hour,” said the boy, respectfully, “but Miss Marlowe has the copy; shall I tell her to bring it?” “Yes, at once,” said the lawyer, wheeling around in his chair. In less than a minute his “typewriter girl” entered the office. “Here is the paper, sir,” said a sweet, low voice. Mr. Atherton looked up and then stared a little. It was the first time he had really taken a good look at the new copyist. The young girl who stood before him was very beautiful. She had a sweet, oval face, lighted by violet eyes, and her rippling golden hair shone like threads of sunshine. Her figure was plump, but exceedingly graceful, and every curve was enhanced by the charming simplicity of her garments. “Oh, thank you!” he said politely, as she laid the papers upon the desk, and at the same time he looked admiringly at her small white hand and taper fingers.