They passed most of that evening in a boardwalk pavilion, ostensibly watching the sea and the crowd. They went up the thoroughfare in a catboat the next morning, and, strange as it seemed to them, were the only people out who caught no fish. The captain winked at his mate, who grinned. In the afternoon, while Morrow and Clara stood on the boardwalk looking down at the Salvation Army tent, along came that innocent eccentric “Professor” Walters in bathing costume and with his swimming machine. The tall, lean whiskered, loquacious “Professor” had made Morrow's acquaintance in a former summer and now greeted him politely. “How d'ye do?” said the “Professor.” “Glad to see you here. You turn up every year.” “You're still given to rhyming,” commented Morrow. “Yes, I have a rhyme for every time, in pleasure or sorrow. Is this Mrs. Morrow?” “No.” “You ought to be sorry she isn't,” remarked the “Professor,” taking his departure. Morrow and Clara walked on in silence. At last he said somewhat nervously: “Everybody thinks we're married. Why shouldn't we be?” She answered softly, with downcast eyes: “I would be willing if I were sure of one thing.” “What's that?” “That you have never loved any other woman. Have you?” “How can you ask? Believe me, you are the only girl I have ever loved.” That evening, after dinner, Morrow and Clara, the newly affianced, about starting from the hotel to the boardwalk, were at the top of the hotel steps when a man appeared at the bottom. Morrow uttered a cry of recognition. “Why, Haddon, old boy, I'm glad to see you. Let me introduce you to my wife that is to be.” Haddon stood still and stared. Clara, too, remained motionless. After a moment, Haddon said very quietly: “You're mistaken. Let me introduce you to my wife that is.” Morrow looked at Clara. She turned her gray eyes fearlessly on Haddon. “You, too, are mistaken,” she said. “I had a husband before you married me. He's my husband still. He's doing a song and dance act in a variety theatre in Chicago. I'm sorry about all this, Mr. Morrow. I really like you. Good-bye.” She ran back into the hotel and arranged to make her departure on an early train next morning. Haddon turned toward the boardwalk, and Morrow, quite dazed, involuntarily followed him. After a period of silence, Morrow said: “This is astonishing. A bigamist, and a would-be trigamist. She came here the night before you left. How did you find out she was here?” “I read it in the Atlantic City letter of _The Philadelphia Press_ that one of the Comic Opera singers daily seen on the boardwalk is Miss Clara Hunt, who is known to theatre-goers by her stage name, Lulu Ray. These newspaper correspondents know some of the obscurest people. If I had told you her real name, you would have known who she was in time to have avoided being taken in by her.” “Her having another husband lets you out.”