“I can imagine what he is—now,” observed Bob meditatively. He was turning over in his mind what she had said about that substituted brooch. The some one Bob had imagined he had seen in the hall, after leaving Miss Dolly’s room, might not have been the real thief, after all; it might have been the monocle-man on the lookout for the thief. And perhaps the monocle-man had seen Bob. That was the reason he was “coming for him.” Bob could imagine dear old dad’s feelings, if he (Bob) got sent to Sing Sing. What if, instead of rustling and rising to the occasion, in that fine, old honorable Japanese way, Bob should bring irretrievable disgrace on an eminently respectable family name? He could see himself in stripes now, with his head shaved, and doing the lock-step. Perhaps, even at that moment, descriptions of him were being sent broadcast. And if so, it would look as if he were running away from the officers of the law, which would be tantamount to a confession of guilt. Bob shivered. The temperamental young thing did not share his apprehensions. “Of course, Lord Stanfield only _thinks_ he has evidence enough to convict you,” she said confidently. “But you’ll meet him at every point and turn the laugh on him.” “Oh, will I?” said Bob ironically. “And you’ll make him feel so cheap! Of course, you’ve got something up your sleeve—” “Wish I had,” he muttered. “Something deep and mysterious,” she went on in that confident tone. “That’s why you acted so queer toward some people. You had a purpose. It was a ruse. Wasn’t it now?” she concluded triumphantly. “It was not.” Gruffly. “Fibber! every time you fib, you’ve got to—” She put up her lips. “This is getting monotonous,” grumbled Bob. “On the contrary!” breathed the temperamental young thing. “I find it lovely. Maybe you’ll learn how sometime.” “Don’t want to,” he snapped. “Oh, yes, you do. But as I was saying, you got yourself put in that sanatorium to mislead everybody. It, too, was a ruse—a part of the game. It’s all very clear—at least, to me!” He stared at her. And she called _that_ clear? “When did you leave Mrs. Ralston’s?” he demanded. “About three hours ago. Said I’d a headache and believed I’d go to my room. But I didn’t. I just slipped down to the village and hired a taxi. Maybe we’d better keep our marriage a secret, at first.” Irrelevantly. “Maybe we had,” answered Bob. And then he called out to the man in front. “Stop a moment.” Before Miss Dolly had time to expostulate, the driver obeyed. Bob sprang out. “You aren’t going to leave me, are you?” said the temperamental little thing. “If so—” She made as if to get out, too. “No; I’m not going to leave you just yet,” answered Bob. Then to the driver: “See here! Your blamed machine is turned in the wrong direction. You know where you’re going to take us?” “New York.” “No; back to Mrs. Ralston’s. You take the first cross-road you come to and steer right for there.”