“Yes,” Laura continued rapidly. “I don’t dare wonder what you’re going to think of me, considering how kind you’ve been and—and everything, but this is the truth.” She proceeded to tell it. Mr. Priestley listened with one ear, his other busy with the almost audible buzzing of his own brain. What was Laura working up to? What was he going to do when she had worked up to it? What—what—what? Laura went on, excusing nothing, glossing over nothing, pouring upon her own devoted head every drop of blame. “And now this other extraordinary affair crops up,” she concluded, and mentioned her telepathic theory. “That must be the explanation. It’s quite possible, isn’t it? Oh, Mr. Priestley——” “Matthew,” interjected Mr. Priestley automatically. “Matthew, will you ever forgive me?” Mr. Priestley looked dumbly at the contrite spectacle before him. He did not speak because every bone was busy telling him that this was not Laura’s climax. What was coming next he had not the faintest idea, but he did not wish to commit himself. “Of course,” continued Laura, unforgiven, “I know that if—if we were arrested we’ve only got to tell the truth, and we’ve got all the others to back us up; but what I don’t know is how long it would be before the authorities believed us. Naturally I’ve known all the time that we’re not in any _danger_, but, on the other hand, we certainly are in a mess. What your friend at the Foreign Office told you shows that we’re in for a terrible lot of bother, to say the very least.” “Yes,” said Mr. Priestley mechanically. “Very least.” What was she working up to? “And so,” said Laura, “considering that it’s all my fault, and—and I let you in for it all, I will, if it’s any use to you, I——” “Yes?” helped Mr. Priestley breathlessly. Laura gulped. “I will marry you to-morrow morning at the registry office if you really want me to,” she said with a rush. Something, stretched already to snapping-point, suddenly gave way inside Mr. Priestley. He didn’t know it, but it was his conscience. His face one large pink beam, he gathered the unready Laura into his arms and kissed her ardently. “You darling girl!” he exclaimed. “You dearest, darling, sweet girl!” “Matthew!” gasped the sweet girl. “You don’t mean that you——” “Love you?” beamed Mr. Priestley, far too excited to be self-conscious. “Indeed, yes. I’ve loved you ever since you let me stay in the bedroom that night. It was darling and sweet of you, like everything else you do.” For some obscure reason Laura made no effort to release herself. “And you don’t mind the—the other thing?” she asked, vividly conscious of certain of her actions with regard to Mr. Priestley which had been anything but darling or sweet. “The way I deceived you, and took advantage of your good nature?” “Dear me, no. Most natural. Charmingly high-spirited of you.” “Well,” said Laura a little dryly, “it’s rather lucky you like me, isn’t it? Considering we’ve got to get married apparently.”