"So you did hear! I was sure of it. I telephoned about Clo. He was helping her, and so, indirectly, helping me, though I'd seen him only when he brought her here that Sunday night, after she'd been to his hotel. Oh, Roger, you don't know what that child has done for me! Not only did she get back the envelope, and now the pearls--which Peterson stole--but she has gone through an ordeal terrible enough to kill most women, or drive them mad--that delicate girl! She may be in danger still--for she dropped the pearls in a bag out of a window in a shabby boarding-house where she has been watching a thief. Miss Blackburne has just told me. My one comfort is that a man, answering Justin O'Reilly's description, got out of a motor car in front of the house, as Miss Blackburne came away. Clo tricked O'Reilly, and stole from him, and yet--I think she bewitched him. I think he'd risk his life to keep her from harm. I pray that he may bring her here, safe and sound." "He's not likely to come to my house," Roger said. "I've just caused him the greatest disappointment of his life. I wanted to hurt him--and I found a way. By this time he must know what I've done. There's an old mansion in Gramercy Square built by O'Reilly's great-great-grandfather. Years ago there was a forced sale; and ever since Justin O'Reilly was a boy he has wanted to buy the house back. I have bought it. But I wish to heaven he would fall in love with this Clo of yours and marry her. I'd give them the deed of sale as a wedding present!" Roger had sprung up, released by Beverley, and almost shouted the words of his inspiration. He had forgotten everything and everybody in the world except his wife, the girl who had helped her, and his own late enemy, whom he would now gladly welcome as his dearest friend. A knock brought him back to realities with a start; yet he felt half dazed as he opened the door, to face Leontine. "The butler begged of me to come," said the Frenchwoman. "Is it the wish of Monsieur and Madame that dinner be still longer delayed?" Roger turned and looked at Beverley, his hand on the door. "What shall we say?" he asked. "Shall I go down without you? Shall I explain that you've a headache----" "No," Beverley answered. She stood up, tall and very beautiful, though deadly pale. "I have no headache. I am quite well. Leontine, tell Johnson dinner may be served." XXXIX ON THE ROAD TO NEWPORT Through the blue dusk of the June night a big gray limousine car bowled smoothly over the velvet road surface, with the moon overhead, and the sea making distant music. Turning a corner with a swing the limousine came upon another car, stationary and in trouble. A man in evening dress was holding an electric lamp for the chauffeur to peer under the bonnet, and standing beside him was a woman in black, wearing a filmy purple cloak. "Want any help?" O'Reilly called from the window, while his chauffeur slowed down.