"Is--is your name really and truly John Smith?" "Why should you doubt it?" It was just here that Smith was given to see another one of Miss Corona's many moods--or tenses--and it was a new one to him. She was visibly embarrassed. "I--I don't want to tell you," she stammered. "All right; you needn't." "If you're going to take it that easy, I _will_ tell you," she retorted. "Mr. Williams thought your name was an _alias_; and I'm not sure that he doesn't still think so." "The Smiths never have to have _aliases_. It's like John Doe or Richard Roe, you know." "Haven't you any middle name?" "I have a middle initial. It is 'M.'" He was looking her fairly in the eyes as he said it, and the light in the new offices was excellent. Thanks to her horseback riding, Miss Corona's small oval face had a touch of healthy outdoor tan; but under the tan there came, for just a flitting instant, a flush of deeper color, and at the back of the gray eyes there was something that Smith had never seen there before. "It's--it's just an initial?" she queried. "Yes; it's just an initial, and I don't use it ordinarily. I'm not ashamed of the plain 'John.'" "I don't know why you should be," she commented, half absently, he thought. And then: "How many 'John M. Smiths' do you suppose there are in the United States?" "Oh, I don't know; a million or so, I guess." "I should think you would be rather glad of that," she told him. But when he tried to make her say why he should be glad, she talked pointedly of other things and presently went back to her father's office. It was not until after she had gone out with her father, and he had made her wager good by steadfastly refusing to spend the week-end at the ranch, that Smith began to put two and two together, erroneously, as it happened, though he could not know this. Mrs. Baldwin's home town in his native State was the little place that her daughter had visited and where the daughter had had a lawn-party given in her honor. Was it not more than probable that the colonel's wife was still keeping up some sort of a correspondence with her home people and that through this, or some mention in a local paper, Corona had got hold of the devastating story of one J. Montague Smith? There were fine little headings of perspiration standing on the fugitive's forehead when the small sum in addition had progressed thus far. But if he had only known it, there was no need, as yet, for the sweat of apprehension. Like some other young women, Miss Baldwin suffered from spasmodic attacks of the diary-keeping malady; she had been keeping one at the time of her return from school, and the lawn-party in the little town in the Middle West had its due entry.