The sinister significance of her attitude flashed over him, all doubt vanished, all the comedy of their encounter was gone in an instant. Over him swept a startled sequence of emotions--bitter contempt for Dysart, scorn of the wretchedly equivocal situation and of the society that bred it, a miserable desire to spare her, vexation at himself for what he had unwittingly stumbled upon. The last thought persisted, dominated; succeeded by a disgusted determination that she must be spared the shame and terror of what she had inadvertently revealed; that she must never know she had not been speaking to Dysart himself. "If I tell you that all is well--and if I tell you no more than that," he whispered, "will you trust me?" "Have I not done so, Jack?" The tragedy in her lifted eyes turned him cold with fury. "Then wait here until I return," he said. "Promise." "I promise," she sighed, "but I don't understand. I'm a--a little frightened, dear. But I--believe you." He swung on his heel and made toward the lights once more, and a moment later the man he sought passed within a few feet of him, and Duane knew him by his costume, which was a blue replica of his own gray silks. "Dysart!" he said sharply. The masked figure swung gracefully around and stood still, searching the shadowy woodland inquiringly. "I want a word with you. Here--not in the light, if you please. You recognise my voice, don't you?" "Is that you, Mallett?" asked Dysart coldly, as the former appeared in the light for an instant and turned back again with a curt gesture. "Yes. I want you to step over here among the trees, where nobody can interrupt us." Dysart followed more slowly; came to a careless halt: "Well, what the devil do you want?" he demanded insolently. "I'll tell you. I've had an encounter with a mask who mistook me for you.... And she has said--several things--under that impression. She still believes that I am you. I asked her to wait for me over there by those oaks. Do you see where I mean?" He pointed and Dysart nodded coolly. "Well, then, I want you to go back there--find her, and act as though it had been you who heard what she said, not I." "What do you mean?" "I mean exactly that. The girl ought never to know that what she said was heard and--and _understood_, Dysart, by any man in the world except the blackguard I'm telling this to. Now, do you understand?" He stepped nearer: "The girl is Sylvia Quest. _Now_, do you understand, damn you!" A stray glimmer from the distant lanterns fell across Dysart's masked visage. The skin around the mouth was loose and ashy, the dry lips worked. "That was a dirty trick of yours," he stammered; "a scoundrelly thing to do." "Do you suppose that I dreamed for an instant that she was convicting herself and you?" said Duane in bitter contempt. "Go and manufacture some explanation of my conduct as though it were your own. Let her have that much peace of mind, anyway."