"Last night, Dan"--she raised her glorious eyes to his--"last night, I ... I trusted you." His face hardened ever so slightly; yet when he took thought the tense lines about his eyes and mouth softened. And she drew a deep breath, knowing that she had all but won. "I trusted you," she continued softly. "Do you know what that means? I trusted _you_." He nodded, eyes to hers, fascinated, with an odd commingling of fear and hope and satisfied self-love. "Now I am unconnected with the affair. No one knows that I had any hand in it. Besides, no one knows me--that I--steal." Her tone fell lower. "The police have never heard of me. Dan!" "I--believe----" "I could get away," she interrupted; "and then, if they stopped you----" "You're right, by the powers!" He struck the table smartly with his fist. "You do that and we can carry this through. Why, lacking the jewels, I _am_ Maitland--I am even wearing Maitland's clothes!" he boasted. "I went to his apartments this morning and saw to that, because it suited my purpose to _be_ Maitland for a day or two." "Then----?" Her gaze questioned his. "Waiter!" cried Anisty. And, when the man was deferential at his elbow: "Call a cab, at once, please." "Certainly, sir." The rest of the corps of servants was at the other end of the big room. Anisty made certain that they were not watching, then stealthily passed the canvas bag to the girl. She bent her head, bestowing it in her hand-bag. "You have made me ... happy, Dan," came tremulously from beneath the hat-brim. Whatever doubts may have assailed him when it was too late, by that remark were effaced, silenced. Who could mistrust her sincerity?... "Then when and where may I see you again?" he demanded. "The same place." It was a bold move; but she was standing; the waiter was back, announcing the cab in waiting, and he dared not protest. Yet his pat _riposte_ commanded her admiration. "No. Too risky. If they are watching here, they may be there, too." He shook his head decidedly. The flicker of doubt was again extinguished; for undoubtedly Maitland had escorted her home that morning; her reference had been to that place. "Somewhere else," he insisted, confident that she was playing fair. She appeared to think for an instant, then, fumbling in her pocket-book, extracted a typical feminine pencil stub,--its business-end looking as though it had been gnawed by a vindictive rat,--and scribbled hastily on the back of a menu card: "_Mrs. McCabe, 205 West 118th Street. Top floor. Ring 3 times._" "I shall be there at seven," she told him. "You won't fail me?" "Not if I'm still at liberty," he laughed. And the waiter smiled at discretion, a far-away and unobtrusive smile that could by no possibility give offense; at the same time it was calculated to convey the impression that, in the opinion of one humble person, at least, Mr. Maitland was a merry wag. "Good-by ... Dan!"