“Hardly that,” demurred Keefe. “I believe there was what is called an understanding, but I’m assured it has never been announced. However, the lady will speak for herself.” “Go away, Jeff,” Maida pleaded; “please, go away.” “Not until you tell me yourself, Maida, what you are doing. Why does Mr. Keefe say these things?” “It is true.” Maida’s face was as white as Allen’s. “I am going to marry Mr. Keefe. If you considered me bound to you, I—hereby break it off. Please go away!” the last words were wrung from her in a choked, agonized voice, as if she were at the end of her composure. “I’m going,” Allen said, and went off in a daze. He was convinced of one thing only. That Maida was in the power of something or some person—some combination of circumstances that forced her to this. He had no doubt she meant what she said; had no doubt she would really marry Keefe—but he couldn’t think she had ceased to love him—her own Jeffrey! If he thought that, he was ready to die! He walked along half blindly, thinking round in circles, always coming back to the possibility—now practically a certainty—of Maida being the murderer, and wondering how Keefe meant to save her from the clutches of the law. He was perturbed—almost dazed, and as he went along unseeingly, Genevieve Lane met him, turned and walked by his side. “What’s Curtie Keefe doing with your girl?” she asked, for the rolling lawn was so free of trees, the pair beneath the sycamore could be plainly seen. “I don’t know!” said Allen, honestly enough, as he looked in the good-humored face of the stenographer. “I don’t want him making love to her,” Miss Lane went on, pouting a little, “first, because she’s altogether too much of a belle anyway; and second—because——” She paused, almost scared at the desperate gaze Allen gave her. “I hope you mean because you look upon him as your property,” he said, but without smiling. “Now, just why do you hope that?” “Because in that case, surely you can get him back——” “Oh, what an aspersion on Miss Wheeler’s fascinations!” “Hush; I’m in no mood for chaffing. Are you and Keefe special friends?” Genevieve looked at him a moment, and then said, very frankly: “If we’re not, it isn’t my fault. And—to tell you the bald truth, we would have been, had not Miss Wheeler come between us.” “Are you sure of that?” “How rude you are! But, yes—I’m practically sure. Nobody can be sure till they’re certain, you know.” “Don’t try to joke with me. Look here, Miss Lane, suppose you and I try to work together for our respective ends.” “Meaning just what, Mr. Allen?” “Meaning that we try to separate Keefe and Maida—not just at this moment—but seriously and permanently. You, because you want him, and I, because I want her. Isn’t it logical?” “Yes; but if I could get him back, don’t you suppose I would?” “You don’t get the idea. You’re to work for me, and I for you.” “Oh—I try to make Maida give him up—and you——”