Gordon’s heart seemed to contract, for he divined what was coming. “Yeppy, that’s so. Little Old Maurice wants a wifie—and—who do you suppose has caught my fancy?” “Who?” was the mechanical response. “Why, none other than the little Miss Mystery. Oh, yes, I know she is under a cloud—but I can get her off—I’m a bird of a lawyer, you know—and we’ll fix up all that. Then, I’ll elevate that little nonentity to the elevated position of the missus of Maurice Trask. Hey, my boy, how’s that?” Had Lockwood’s calm not been habitual with him, he could scarcely have maintained it through this scene. As it was, he was a boiling, seething furnace inside him, but his judgment told him that any exhibition of surprise or annoyance would only irritate the other man without doing any good. Moreover, if Trask were really a shrewd lawyer, and if he knew something that would make any trouble for Anita—and she had hinted that he did—then, Lockwood argued, he must keep friendly with Trask, at least until he found out more of the matter. So he said, lightly, “Has the lady agreed?” “Well—not yet; but—I say, Lockwood, you’re hit in that same direction, eh?” “I admire Miss Austin very much, yes.” “Well—you keep off—do you hear?” “I hear,” said Lockwood, in his imperturbable way, but when Trask looked up and caught the cold stare of his secretary, he dropped the subject and returned to the books. Since Doctor Waring’s death, Lockwood had formed the habit of going back to the Adams house for his luncheon. This, of course, in the hope of seeing something of Anita, and also, because his new employer preferred it that way. At luncheon, Trask took occasion to eulogize Miss Austin. Helen Peyton stood it as long as she could, and then broke out with: “I don’t see what you can find to admire in that thin, sallow little thing! And, beside, she is a wicked girl. I think she killed Doctor Waring, but even if she didn’t, she came over here to see him, secretly, late at night, and if that isn’t wrong-doing, I don’t know what is! But just because she puts up a helpless bluff, all the men fall for her!” “Jealous, Miss Peyton?” and Trask looked at her shrewdly. “No,” Helen tossed her head. “I’ve no reason to be. That girl is nothing to me, and the sooner she gets out of Corinth the better. If the police will let her go!” “Now then, Miss Peyton,” Trask began, in his most emphatic manner, “and Mrs. Peyton, too, once for all, I will hear no word against Miss Austin in my house. Put any meaning you like into that, but remember it. One word against Anita Austin, and the speaker of it goes out of my door never to return. Am I clear?” “Clear? Yes; but I can tell you—” “Hush, Helen,” said her mother. “We want to stay here, don’t we? Well, then, as Mr. Trask is evidently much in earnest, I insist that you obey his wishes—as I shall.” “That’s right, Mrs. Peyton. And if your daughter forgets my hints I trust to you to keep her reminded. That’s all about that.”