“That night at—at the Doctor’s lectures. I sat behind you, I changed my seat to do so—and I counted the buttons on your dear little gray frock—that was one way I discovered your presence in the study that night.” He spoke gravely now. “And there was another way. I heard you talking. Yes, I heard your blessed voice—remember, I loved you then—and I heard Waring talking to you. I could make out no word—I didn’t try—but now I wish I had—for it might help you.” “I wish you had, Gordon,” she returned, solemnly, “it would have helped me.” “But you can tell me, dear, tell me all the conversation. Surely you trust me now.” “I trust you—but—oh, as you say, there’s no time. It’s a long story—a dreadful story—I don’t want to tell you—” “Then you shan’t. I’ve promised you that, you know. Not until you want to tell me, will I ask for a word of it.” “Now, here’s another thing,” and Anita blushed, deeply, “if we go away—as you say—what about—about money?” Lockwood stared at her. “I have money,” he said; “why do you ask that?” “But—but the awful detective people—said you—you were terribly in debt.” “Brave little girl, to say that. I know you hated to. Well, my darling, those precious bills that those precious detectives dug up in my desk, are old bills that were owed by my father—his name was the same as mine—” “The same as yours! How queer!” “Oh, not a unique instance. Anyway, those bills I am paying off as I can. I’m not legally responsible for them, but I want to clear my dad’s name, and all that. Now, all that can wait—while I take unto me a wife, and arrange for her comfort and convenience. But, is there—now remember, I’m not prying—is there any one whose permission you must ask to marry me?” “No, I’m twenty-one—that’s of age in any state.” “Why, you aged person! I deemed you about eighteen.” “Do you mind?” “No; you goosie! But—your mother, now?” “Oh—my mother. She doesn’t care what I do.” “And your father? Forgive me, but I have to ask.” “My father is dead.” “Then come along. Let’s begin to get ready to go.” “Wait a minute—Gordon—to get married—must I—must I tell my real name?” His eyes clouded a trifle. “Yes, dear heart,” he said, very gently, “yes, you must.” “Then I can’t get married, Gordon.” Miss Mystery sat down and folded her little hands in her lap, her whole attitude that of utter despair. “But, Sweetheart, no one need know except the minister and witnesses—” “And you?” “Yes—and I—” “Oh, I can’t marry you, anyway. I can’t marry anybody. I can’t tell who I am! Oh, let them take me away, and let them arrest me and I hope they’ll convict me—and—” “Hush, my precious girl, hush.” Lockwood took her in his arms, and let her stifle her sobs on his breast. He was bewildered. What was the truth about this strange child? For in her abandonment of grief, Anita seemed a very child, a tortured irresponsible soul, whose only haven was in the arms now around her.