His name had been uttered in no stern or menacing tone; rather its syllables had been pitched in a low and guarded key, with an undernote of raillery and cordiality. In brief, the moment that he recognized the voice as a woman's, he was again master of himself, and, aware that the result of his instinctive impulse to rise and defend himself, which had brought him to a standing position, would be interpreted as only the natural action of a gentleman addressed by a feminine acquaintance, he was confident that he had not betrayed his primal consternation. He bowed, smiled, and with eyes in which astonishment swiftly gave place to gratification and complete comprehension, appraised her who had addressed him. She seemed to have fluttered to the table, beside which she now stood, slightly swaying, her walking costume of grey shot silk falling about her in soft, tremulous petals. Dainty, chic, well-poised, serene, flawlessly pretty in her miniature fashion: Anisty recognized her in a twinkling. His perceptions, trained to observations as instantaneous as those of a snap-shot camera, and well-nigh as accurate, had photographed her individuality indelibly upon the film of his memory, even in the abbreviated encounter of the previous night. By a similar play of educated reasoning faculties keyed to the highest pitch of immediate action, he had difficulty as scant in accounting for her presence there. What he did not quite comprehend was why Maitland had used her so kindly; for it had been plain enough that that gentleman had surprised her in the act of safe-breaking before conniving at her escape. But, allowing that Maitland's actions had been based upon motives vague to the burglar's understanding, it was quite in the scheme of possibilities that he should have arranged to meet his protégée at the restaurant that afternoon. She was come to keep an appointment to which (now that Anisty came to remember) Maitland had alluded in the beginning of their conversation. Well and good: once before, within the past two hours, he had told himself that he was Good-enough Maitland. He would be even better now.... "But you did surprise me!" he declared gallantly, before she could wonder at his slowness to respond. "You see, I was dreaming...." He permitted her to surmise the object round which his dreams had been woven. "And I had expected you to be eagerly watching for me!" she parried archly. "I was ... mentally. But," he warned her seriously, "not that name. Maitland is known here; they call me Maitland--the waiters. It seems I made a bad choice. But with your assistance and discretion we can bluff it out, all right." "I forgot. Forgive me." By now she was in the chair opposite him, tucking the lower ends of her gloves into their wrists. "No matter--nobody heard." "I very nearly called you Handsome Dan." She flashed a radiant smile at him from beneath the rim of her picture hat.