"Oh, that would be all right," she answered, apparently amused at my misconstruing her meaning. "I am sure, Dick, that you would be good to any girl. I have already heard of your spoiling two or three girls, and giving them presents they had no right to accept from you--eh?" she asked mischievously. I am afraid I turned rather red, for, to be candid, I am something of a fool where women are concerned. At the same time I was surprised at her knowing the truth, and I suppose she guessed this, for, before I had time to speak again, she went on-- "You must not forget that I am a modern girl, my dear old Dick. I know a great deal that I suppose I have no business to know, and when I hear things I remember them. Don't for a moment flatter yourself that I think you perfect. I don't. My frank opinion of you is that you really are an awfully good sort, kind, sympathetic, unselfish--singularly unselfish for a man--generous to a fault, and extravagant. In short, I like you far, far better than any man I have ever met, and I love you very much, you dear old boy--but there it ends." "I should rather say it did!" I answered. "If you really think all that of me, I am more than satisfied." "On the other hand," she continued quickly, "I don't pretend to think-- and you needn't think I do--that you are not just like most other men in some respects, in one respect in particular." "What is the one respect?" "You are dreadfully susceptible--oh, yes, Dick, you are! There is no need for any one to tell me that. I can see it in your face. Your eyes betray you. You have what I once heard a girl friend of mine call, `affectionate eyes.' She said to me: `Never trust a man who has "affectionate eyes," and I never have trusted one--except you.'" "I am flattered dear. Then why not do what I suggest?" I asked, raising her soft hand to my lips. "It wouldn't be safe, Dick, it really wouldn't. We must wait until-- until Paulton is dead." "Until Paulton--is--until he--is dead!" I gasped. "Good Heavens! that may not be for years!" She smiled oddly. "He may live for years, of course," she answered drily. "What do you mean?" I asked, staring at her in amazement. "I mean," she said, looking straight at me, and her voice suddenly grew hard, "that when he is dead, the world will be rid of a creature who ought never to have been born." Her eyes blazed. "Ah! Dick--Ah! Dick!" she went on with extraordinary force, sighing heavily, "if you only knew the life that man has led--the misery he has caused, the horrors that are traceable to his vile diabolical plots. My father and mother are only two of his many victims. He is a man I dread. I am not a coward, no one can call me that, but--but I fear Dago Paulton--I fear him terribly." She was trembling in my arms, though whether through fear, or only from emotion, I could not say. Nor could I think of any apt words which might soothe her, except to say--