“Oh, don’t fail me,” and Miss Mystery threw herself into the other’s arms. “I am so lonely and so friendless—” “Why are you? Where’s your folks?” Then Miss Mystery drew herself up, with a forlorn little attempt at dignity, and said, “I’d like to go to my room now, please.” Upstairs she went, slowly, and as she neared her own room Lockwood met her in the hall. “Count me your friend,” he said, simply, and held out his hand. “I will,” she replied, putting her little hand in his, and then, with one deep glance, each knew of the other’s love. Lockwood’s was written plain on his face, and his eyes, usually so calm and cold, were lighted with the intensity of his passion. This Anita read, and her own response was quick and involuntary. Perhaps it was a rebound from the awful proposals of Maurice Trask; perhaps it was a heart finding its mate—perhaps, remembering Miss Mystery’s ways, it was mere coquetry, but the glances were exchanged and they knew. Anita went on to her room, and throwing herself into a chair, sat long in thought. “What shall I do?” she asked herself over and over again. “What can I do? If only I hadn’t taken the money—and the pin. Why did I do it? And he said Truesdell! How did he know? My eyebrows, I suppose. That awful man! And he’ll tell—oh, yes, he’ll surely tell—and that will poison Gordon’s mind against me—oh, was anybody ever in such trouble as I?” A tap at her door announced the maid with a note. Alone again, Anita read it. It was from Lockwood and begged an interview. “Please let me see you alone,” it said; “I don’t know how best to manage it. Will you go for a walk with me now? There’s time for a short stroll before dark.” Hurriedly Anita flung on hat and coat, and opened her door. Lockwood was on the stair. “Going out?” he said, casually, “may I walk with you?” “Please do,” said Anita, and they started out together. “I’m sorry enough to do anything that seems clandestine,” said Lockwood as they walked, “but that feline lady, Miss Bascom, is watching your every move, and I can’t let her get anything to criticise you for.” A grateful look rewarded him, and then Gordon went on: “Tell me, did I read your eyes aright? Do you, can you care to know how I love you? How I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. Do you care, Anita? May I love you?” “But you don’t know me,” she said, in a soft little voice. “And you do know dreadful things about me.” “I don’t care for any of those things. If they’re dreadful, they’re not true.” “Yes—they are true—some of them. And there are more dreadful things to know—that you don’t even suspect—Gordon.” The last word, spoken in the lowest, tenderest of voices, completed Lockwood’s infatuation. Had she not said that, he might have been deterred by her statements, but that softly-breathed name, stirred his pulses, and in the deepening dusk he found her hand and said: