She stared at him for a moment as though suspecting his sincerity, and then turned away her head, a wild expression in the eyes that sought Satterthwaite’s face. He signalled back discretion. “Here’s your coat,” he said, holding it out. “Let me help you on with it.” Tremaine gazed at it, obviously puzzled, and then glanced down to his rolled-back shirt-sleeves. “Was there a row, then?” he asked, mystified. “A fight?” “There was a little trouble,” conceded Satterthwaite. “And you took me out of it, I suppose?” he said, with genuine gratitude. “I am exceedingly obliged to you, sir--going to this bother for a complete stranger.” “Not at all--not at all,” said Satterthwaite, easily. “Here, let me help you.” The assistance was accepted. Tremaine rose shakily to his feet, stood docilely while Satterthwaite guided his arms into the sleeves of his coat. There was a curiously subtle difference in his expression; quite another, a gentler, more courteous personality looked out of those features which were Tremaine’s with a placid smile such as Mrs. Tremaine had never seen. Close though his head was to Satterthwaite’s, he evinced not the slightest sign of recognition. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll get along now.” “Where do you live?” asked Satterthwaite, with a veiled glance at the young woman. She held her breath, on this opening threshold of the mystery of the past two years. “At the Newport Hotel,” he replied. He took a few steps and then stopped, his hand pressed to his brow. He turned to Satterthwaite. “I wonder whether you would mind my sitting here a little longer, sir?” he asked, apologetically. “I still feel somewhat faint and dizzy.” “By all means,” replied Satterthwaite. “You are quite welcome to stay until you are recovered.” The young woman marvelled at the quiet self-control of his voice. She felt as though she must shriek to break a nightmare. “You are very kind,” he said. “I am afraid my wife will be anxious about me----” His wife! The young woman choked back a cry. _His wife!_ Then---- “Is it too much to ask if you would telephone to her, sir?” he continued. “She would come and fetch me.” “Certainly I will,” replied Satterthwaite, his face an impassive mask. “My name is Durham--Room 363 at the hotel.” “Right. Come and sit down in here.” He led the way into the adjoining drawing-room. “Make yourself comfortable whilst I ring through to Mrs. Durham.” He hospitably settled his guest in the most luxurious chair of the elegantly furnished room, and then went out, closing the door after him. His wife was awaiting him outside. Her face was white. Her eyes, preternaturally large, implored him. She clasped her hands tensely against her breast. “Oh, Jack!” she cried, her voice nevertheless held too low to be overheard. “We can’t let him go like that! It is Harry--after all!” He moved forward, and she followed him to the telephone.