"Not Curtiss--but then he's desperately in love. Maybe he'll be willing to recede a shade or two from his ideal." "He won't have to recede," I asserted confidently. "She's spotless, whatever the secret." "I hope so," agreed our junior slowly. "Well, they'll have to fight it out together when they meet on the other side. If I were Curtiss, I'd be mighty shaky about that meeting." "And I. Of course," I added, "the whole mystery hinges on that letter from New York. Godfrey imagined he knew the contents, but the event showed how wide he was of the mark. He had a theory that the letter was written by a disreputable, blackmailing husband of the girl, whom she'd believed dead. That was his theory from the first--the only possible explanation, he called it. Then, when he found that a picturesque stranger had asked the way to the Kingdon cottage, he immediately concluded that the letter had appointed a rendezvous, and that Miss Lawrence had kept it. All of which was afterwards shown to be mere moonshine." "Not the first part of it," Mr. Royce objected. "There's been nothing to disprove that." "Nor anything to prove it." "True--but it has a certain speciousness." "Yes--all of Godfrey's theories have that. Do you remember what a perfect one he built up in the Holladay case, and how it fell to pieces? Well, I believe this is wilder yet. A look at Miss Lawrence's face will show you she hasn't any past of that kind. Godfrey himself admits that now." My companion ran his fingers savagely through his hair. "Of course I don't know anything about it," he said, "but I've already told you how the affair affects me. Trust me, Lester, there's some terrible secret just below the surface. I wanted to say as much to Curtiss, but didn't quite dare. That's why I shiver at the thought of that meeting. I pity him when he comes face to face with it. That reminds me--I found an old photograph of him the other day." He turned to his desk and, after a moment's search, brought out a card. "He gave it to me when we were chums together at college," he added, and handed it over to me. It showed Curtiss as he was at twenty or twenty-one. The face was plumper than I knew it, and the skin much fairer. The hair was worn longer and the absence of beard or moustache revealed fully the singularly pure lines of the lower portion of the face--a poetic face, yet full of fire and vigour. "We used to call him 'The Beaut.'," went on my companion. "I told you that he was rather girlish-looking. Well, see here--here he is as the soubrette, in a burlesque we got up in senior year." He handed me a group picture including the whole company. The central figure was a charming girl, with admirable arms, hands, shoulders--an inimitable way of holding the head.... "Great Scott!" I shouted, springing to my feet. "Don't you see it? Don't you see it, man?" "See it? See what, Lester?" repeated Mr. Royce, in amazement. "What's the matter, old fellow?"