"Why, it is sealed and addressed to me!" she cried, in surprise. "The package hasn't even been opened." "I never said it had," said the man in the overcoat, removing his hat. "I didn't want to read the stuff, Patty." The package fell to the floor amid the fluttering bills. Patricia's knees trembled and she would have fallen had not a pair of strong arms gone about her and held her up. "It's only Mort, Patty," said a voice. "Don't you understand? It's all been a deception and mistake. There isn't any John Doe. It's only your husband----" "Oh, how could you, Mort?" sobbed Patricia. "How could you be so hard--so--so cruel?" Crabb's answer was to push the veil back from his wife's face and kiss away her tears. She did not resist now and sank against him with a restful sigh that told him more than any words could do the full measure of her penitence. But in a moment she started up pale and wide-eyed. "But this office--these people--do they know----" "Bless you, no," laughed Crabb. "Fairman's a sort of business associate of mine. I only borrowed his private office for an hour or so. He thinks it is a practical joke. It was--is--a cruel one----" "But he'll guess----" "Oh, no, he won't," laughed Crabb. Patricia's gaze fell quietly upon the floor where the bills and the package still lay in disordered confusion. "And the letters--you never even read them?" "Oh, Patty," said her husband, "I didn't want to read 'em." "Can you ever forgive me, Mort?" She broke away from him, bent to the floor, picked up the package, and broke the seal. "But you _shall_ read them, Mort," she cried, her face flaming, "every last silly one of them." But Crabb's hands closed over hers and took the package gently from her. His only answer was to throw the papers into the fire. "Oh, Mort," she murmured, horrified, "what have you done--you might believe _anything_ of me now." "I shall," he chuckled, "that's your penance." "Please, Mort--there's time yet--just read a few----" Crabb poked vigorously at the fire. "Oh, Mort, it's inhuman! You only knew Heywood Pennington----" "Sh----" said Crabb, putting his hand over her lips. "No names----" "But he----" "No, no." And then, after a pause, "He wasn't even a might-have-been, Patty." She said no more. They sat hand in hand watching the record of Patricia's foolishness go up in smoke. And when the last scrap had vanished, he sprang cheerfully to his feet and picked up the scattered bills. "Come, Patty, luncheon! And after that"--Mortimer Crabb stopped again and blinked quizzically at the fire--"hadn't we better keep your engagement--with Madame Jacquard?" CHAPTER XVII