He, too, had his explanations and his news. For two weeks his hands had been tied. Clytie had disappeared from his ken, and he had had no way of tracing her, for it was useless to telephone to the house or to ask of her father. There had been nothing for it but to wait in the hope that whatever had caused the interruption would come right of itself. He had never really felt sure of Clytie—her acceptance of him had seemed too wonderful to be true, a fortune to which he was not really entitled, and which he might lose any instant. Whether or not Vixley or Madam Spoll had effected the separation, he had no way of determining. He told then of his trip to Stockton where, by establishing his identity by means of the finger-prints, he had succeeded in obtaining possession of the money he had deposited there so many years ago. This had amounted, with interest, to several thousand dollars. He had gone immediately to Vixley to seal the bargain they had made, but the Professor had absolutely refused to accept any payment for leaving town. Indeed, he had hinted that he had schemes on foot which would bring him an income that Granthope could not hope to rival. How matters stood between Mr. Payson and the mediums, neither Granthope nor Clytie knew. They had not yet heard of the materializing séance, and the situation was, so far as they knew, the same as before. It was agreed that there must be another attempt to rescue Mr. Payson, and this time through Doctor Masterson, who was probably venal. Granthope, meanwhile, however, had perfected his plans. He had sufficient money, now, to warrant his devoting himself to the study of medicine, a project he had so long contemplated that, with the start he had already made, would make it possible for him to practise in two or three years. He had, therefore, abandoned all idea of going upon the stage. Clytie approved of this with considerable relief. The prospect of reviving gossip by Granthope’s appearance as an actor had caused her much dread. They had already been much talked about. Society had discussed them until it had grown tired. Nothing was sensational enough to last long as an object of curiosity in San Francisco, and a half-dozen other affairs had caused them to be almost forgotten. After this first flurry of talk, in which she had come down from that lofty spiritual altitude where she had dwelt for the last two weeks, she was sheer woman, thrilling to his words and to the sense of his nearness. As they had progressed in intimacy her maternal instinct had asserted itself more and more frankly towards him. She had treated him at times almost as if he were a boy whose education she was fondly directing. She had lost some of that feeling, now, in virtue of her mistake; she was curiously humble.