"Yes." This time there was no amplification. "So that was what you had in mind the other night when we were talking,--what you wouldn't tell me," commented Armstrong, a shade frostily. "One thing, yes." Roberts ignored the tone absolutely. "I was not at liberty to make the announcement at that time. The deal was just closed last night." Armstrong made no further comment, but his high spirits of the early evening had vanished not to return, and shortly thereafter Roberts arose to go. Promptly, seemingly intentionally so, Armstrong followed. In the vestibule, his hat in his hand, by design or chance he caught the visitor's eye. "Pardon me a moment," he apologized, "I--forgot something." Perforce Roberts waited while the other man returned to the tiny library they had just vacated. The girl was standing within precisely as when they had left and, as Armstrong did not close the door, the visitor knew to a certainty that his presence as listener and spectator was intentional. It was all a premeditated scene, the climax of the evening. "By the way, Elice," said the actor, evenly, "I've been considering that Graham offer carefully since I spoke to you about it the other night." He did not look at her but stood twirling his hat judicially in his hand. "I tried to convince myself that it was for the best to accept; but I failed. I told him so to-day." There was a pause. "Yes," suggested the girl. Another pause. "I hope you're not--disappointed, Elice." Still another pause, appreciable, though shorter than before. "No; I'm not disappointed," replied the girl then. At last Armstrong had glanced up and, without looking himself, the listener knew as well as though he had seen that the speaker was smiling steadily. "I'm not disappointed in the least, Steve." CHAPTER IV UNCERTAINTY It was ten minutes after three on the following afternoon when Stephen Armstrong, in the lightest of flannels and jauntiest of butterfly ties, strolled up the tree-lined avenue and with an air of comfortable proprietorship wandered in at the Gleason cottage. A movable sprinkler was playing busily on the front lawn and, observing that the surrounding sod was well soaked, with lazy deliberation he shifted it to a new quarter. As he approached the house a mother wren flitted away before his face, and at the new suggestion he stood peering up at the angle under the eaves for the nest that he knew was near about. Once, standing there with the hot afternoon sun beating down upon him, he whistled in imitation of the tiny bird's call; nothing developing, he mounted the steps and pulled the old-fashioned knocker familiarly.