“I fear you have suggested it,” he interrupted pointedly. “If people confess do they get lighter sentences?” she asked with a quick breath. “Usually,” said the monocle-man. Jolly little pal pondered painfully. Perhaps she saw plainer than Bob how clear was the case against him. “Why don’t you?” she suggested. Bob smiled feebly. “The answer I make is the same one I gave to Miss Gerald when I last spoke to her.” A flame sprang to Gwendoline’s cheek. “You dare say that now—with all this evidence against you?” She showed herself keenly aware of his presence now. “I dare.” He stepped to her side and looked into her eyes. “My eyes are saying it now.” The girl’s breast stirred quickly. Did she fear he would say those words aloud, before all the others? He was reckless enough to do so. “Do you understand or shall I make it plainer?” he asked, swinging back his blond head. “I do not think that will be necessary,” she answered with some difficulty. “What _is_ it all about?” said the hammer-man, and there was a slight frown on his brow. “You ought to know,” returned Bob, as his eyes met swiftly the other’s. For a moment gaze encountered gaze. Bob’s now was sardonically ironical, yet challenging. The hammer-thrower’s was mystified. Then the latter shrugged. “Is he mad as well as a—” he spoke musingly. “Thief,” said Bob. “Say it right out. I’m not afraid of the word.” The hammer-thrower sighed heavily. “What are we to do?” he said to Miss Gerald sympathetically. “It is needless to say, you can command me.” “Isn’t that lovely?” Sotto voce from Bob. “I’m terribly afraid the affair has passed from the joke stage,” said Gwendoline Gerald and once more she appeared cool and composed. Again she made Bob feel he was but a matter for consideration—an intrusive and unwelcome matter that had to be disposed of. “What ought I to do?” “Arrest me, of course,” returned Bob. “I’ve been waiting for it for some time. And the funny part is, the affair hasn’t passed from the joke stage. You know that.” To the hammer-man. “Why don’t you chuckle?” “I suppose I may as well tell you I’m a bogus lord,” unexpectedly interrupted the monocle-man at this moment. “My name is not even a high-sounding one.” The hammer-thrower started slightly. “It’s plain Michael Moriarity. But I was once a lord’s valet.” He had dropped his drawl, though he still kept his monocle. “I am sorry to have intruded as a real personage among you all, although there are plenty of bogus lords floating through society.” “Oh, you didn’t deceive me,” answered jolly little pal. “I knew who you were.”