“Yes,” with an adorable upward glance and smile. “More than you loved Doctor Waring?” Their eyes met. Lockwood’s usually inscrutable face was desperately eager, and his deep eyes showed smouldering passion. He held her by the shoulders, he looked steadily at her, awaiting her answer. “Yes,” she said, at last, her lovely lips quivering. “That’s all I want to know!” he whispered, triumphantly, as he kissed the scarlet lips, and drew the slender form into his embrace. “You must know more—” she began, “and—and I can’t tell you. Oh, Gordon—” She hid her face on his broad shoulder, and he gently stroked her hair, as he said: “Don’t tell me anything now, dearest. Don’t ever tell me, unless you choose. And, anyway, I know it all. I know you had never known the Doctor before, and I’ll tell you how I know. I found in his scrap basket a note to you—” “A note to me!” Fresh terror showed in the dark eyes. “Yes—don’t mind. No one else ever saw it. I burned it. But it said, ‘Darling Anita. Since you came into my life, life is worth living’—or something like that—” “When—when did he write that?” “Sometime on that fatal Sunday. I suppose after he met you in the afternoon, and before you came that evening. Remember, Sweetheart, if ever you want to tell me all about that late visit to him, do so. But, if not, I never shall ask or expect you to. But that’s all in the future—our dear future, which we shall spend together—together, Anita! Are you glad?” “Oh, so glad!” and the soft arms crept round his neck and Miss Mystery gave him a kiss that thrilled his very soul. “Will you take care of me, Gordon?” “Take care of you, my little love! Take care of you, is it? Just give me the chance!” “You seem to have a pretty big chance, right now,” a smiling face reached up to his. “But—” she seemed suddenly to recollect something, “about a check—he didn’t give me a check—” Lockwood laid a hand over her mouth. “Hush, dearest. Don’t tell me things that aren’t—aren’t so. I saw the stub—a check for ten thousand dollars—made out to Anita Austin, and dated that very Sunday. Now, hush—” as she began to speak, “we’ve no time to talk these things over. I tell you the police are on your track. They will come here, they will arrest you—try to get that in your head. I am going to save you—first, for your own sweet sake, and also for my own.” “But, Gordon, wait a minute. Do you believe I killed John Waring?” Lockwood looked at her.