There in the white light in spite of the shadows of her lashes which turned violet eyes to great pools of satin shadow, he caught the flare of mischief behind half-closed lids, before she tilted her head back and laughed softly, with utter joyous abandon straight up into his face. "He--he didn't deliver it," she stated naively. "It wasn't his fault entirely, though, Denny--although I did give him lots of chances, at first anyway. I almost made him tell--but he--he's stubborn." She stopped and laughed again--giggled shamelessly as she remembered. But her eyes grew grave once more. "I think he didn't quite approve of my attitude," she explained to him as he bent over her. "He thought I wasn't--sorry enough--to deserve it at first. And then--and then I never gave him any opportunity to speak. I would have stopped him if he had tried. You--you see, I just wanted to--wait." Head bowed she paused a moment before she continued. "But--but I sent him to you--two days ago, Denny. I sent something that I asked him to give you--when--when it was over. Didn't you--get it?" He fumbled in the pocket of his smooth black suit after she had disengaged herself and dropped to the ground at his feet. With her ankles curled up under her she sat in a boyish heap watching him, until he drew out the bit of a spangled crimson bow and held it out before him in the palm of one big hand. Then he swung down to the ground beside her. "I thought it must have been Old Jerry who brought it. I didn't see him, and no one could remember his name or knew where he had gone when they thought to look for him. They--they just described him to me." He turned the bow of silk over, touching it almost reverently. "Some one gave it to me," he continued slowly. "I don't know exactly how or when. It--it was just put into my hand--when I needed it most. I wasn't sure Old Jerry had brought it, but I knew it came from you, knew it when I didn't--know--much--else!" She was very, very quiet, content merely in his nearness. Even then she didn't understand it--the reason for his going that night, weeks before--for the papers which had told her a little had told her nothing of his brain's own reason. The question was on her lips when her narrow fingers, searching the shadow for his, found that bandaged wrist and knuckles. Almost fiercely she drew that hand up into the light. From the white cloth her gaze went to the discolored, bruised patches on face and chin--the same place where that long, ugly cut had been which dripped blood on the floor the night she had run from him in the dark--went to his face, and back again, limpid with pity. And she lifted it impulsively and tucked it under her chin, and held it there with small hands that trembled a little. "Then--then if you haven't seen Old Jerry--why--why you--he couldn't have told you anything at all yet, about me." The words trailed off softly and left the statement hanging interrogatively in midair.