“Oh, don’t say danger—I don’t like the word. But, your name will be bandied about—will be in the papers—unless you quash the thing in the beginning. You haven’t admitted you were there, but, suppose it is proved that you were, and suppose you tell of this man, of whom Mr Gleason spoke to you—spoke to you at that very time—and suppose your story is that you were there about six—that you left soon after—and that Mr Gleason was even then fearing the arrival of this enemy of his.” Again Phyllis looked him in the eyes. Pollard was a magnetic man, his face inspired confidence, but more than that, the girl read in the deep, dark eyes a troubled care for herself—for her own safety and well-being. She knew Pollard admired her—most of her men friends did, but only now was she aware of his passionate love. “It’s a terrible thing that I’m advising,” he said, in a whisper, “but I realize the gravity of the situation. Phyllis—I care so much—so much—and I can’t help seeing how things are tending. You know I have no shadow of suspicion of you—my beautiful—my darling—but others will—others will be swayed by the Hayes story, and—though you left the place before Mr Gleason was killed—yet it must have been only shortly before—and somebody did come in and kill him—so, why not say——” “I see your point, I see how I am endangered—even if I’m innocent. If I’m innocent.” “Why do you say that?” Pollard looked at her wonderingly. “At least, don’t say it to me! And forgive my abruptness, but I must tell you how I love you. I must ask you if you can’t love me—oh, Phyllis, even a little? Do you, dear?” “Please, Mr Pollard—please don’t say those things now—I’m so-worried——” The soft eyes filled with unshed tears. “I know it, my little girl—I know it—and that’s why—I want to be in a position to help you—I mean I want to have a right—to let the world know I have the right, to protect you. Will you give it to me—Phyllis—will you?” The big man leaned toward her, his attitude reverently affectionate, and Phyllis felt wonderfully drawn to him. He was so capable, so efficient, and though she felt a sense of potential mastery in his manner, she did not resent it, but rather rejoiced in it. “Oh,” she breathed, looking at him, with startled, shining eyes, “oh—I can’t say—now. Don’t ask me now.” “Yes, I shall—now—my beloved, my queen! Oh, you beautiful girl, you may not love me yet, but I’ll make you—I’ll make you!” The smile that accompanied the words took away any hint of tyranny, and the pleading in Manning Pollard’s eyes was hard to resist. But Phyllis hesitated. She didn’t know him so very well, and, too, she had a feminine notion that to say yes at once would make her seem too willing. Moreover, she wanted to think it over, alone, by herself. She had always thought she loved Phil Barry—but somehow, in a moment this insistent wooer had pushed Phil to the background.