With a startled gasp, Helen's hand jerked away from the fondling caress of his fingers and, clenched, went to her mouth. Her eyes became wide with something that was more than either surprise or bewilderment. Her gaze was fixed upon his face with a fascinated stare, and the smile that she attempted was only a sickly grimace. "Why, Kirklan! In--in New York? How silly! You know very well that I drove the car to Tuxedo." Kirklan Gilmore's blood was suddenly ice; his eyes were no longer smiling. "Great Lord!" he whispered. "It's true. Atchinson was right. Helen, you've lied to me; you----" "No!" she cried in a desperate frenzy of denial. "I swear to you----" "I see guilt in your face. I know now; I know that you were the woman Atchinson saw in New York this afternoon. What does it mean, Helen? These lies, this deceit--what does it mean?" Helen laughed hysterically. "Don't--don't be so tragic--over nothing. I wasn't in New York; you just startled me, that's all. Please don't be so silly. Atchinson was mistaken; some one who looked like me, perhaps." But, as much as he wanted to believe her, Kirklan Gilmore could not convince himself; her face had betrayed her. The blood was pounding in his brain, and he felt that the mystery of it, the doubts, the suspicions would certainly drive him mad. CHAPTER V VICTOR SARBELLA The next morning, after a sleepless night, found Gilmore haggard and hollow-eyed. There were moments when his wife's persistent denials almost convinced him that it was all a horrible mistake; for a beautiful woman in tears can be most plausible at dissimulation; and then, when trying hardest to believe her, there would come before him, with photographic clearness, the memory of her startled face, the sudden guilty terror in her eyes, and credulity would crumble. He was up hours before the rest of the household, although the cook was stirring and brewed him a cup of coffee, which he gulped mechanically and then fled to the solitude of his studio, thinking that he might relieve the tension by forgetting himself in his work. That, of course was ridiculous; there was no possibility of mental detachment with his brain in such a riotous tumult. Sheet after sheet of paper he drew before him to receive his thoughts, but, instead of smooth sentences flowing from his pen, he found himself tracing meaningless lines. He gave up any attempt at creation and tried correcting, ironing out rough spots in the manuscript, where he had left off three weeks previous, but in his present frame of mind all spots were rough, just jumbled words. He tossed down his pen with a violent force that crumpled the gold point and sent a spray of ink spattering across the desk top. Then he leaped to his feet and began to pace the floor like a caged beast.