"Always the same flatterer," she said softly. Suddenly her face grew pensive. "Does it really seem that long to you? I’ve often wondered. Men have so many things to occupy them—especially such men as you. A woman has only her remembrances to treasure zealously, and bring out now and then to gloat over. And memories are rather barren things sometimes." For an instant Lawrence stood aghast. What did she mean? Certainly he could recall nothing of a tender nature having passed between them, and her words were decidedly significant. He pulled himself together with an effort; but, before he could speak, she broke the silence. "Your voice puzzles me," she said abruptly. "It doesn’t seem possible that you can have been long enough in America to have lost every trace of accent. Of course, it was never very noticeable; but one who knew you well could always tell." Barry’s jaw dropped, and his face took on an expression of utter astonishment. His accent—again! What in the world did it mean? Was it possible that she was taking him for—— "You were talking about that summer at Southampton, of course?" he managed to ask in an odd voice. "Southampton?" she exclaimed, her eyes fixed intently on his face. "I don’t understand. You don’t mean that you’ve forgotten—Cannes?" Lawrence stood as one in a trance. "Cannes!" he muttered hoarsely, wondering whether his brain was giving way. "I have never been in Cannes in all my life." Then, as the belated memory came to him at last, he gasped out: "Aren’t you Miss Vera Pell?" The woman’s face turned white, and one slim, gloved hand stole upward to her lips. Her eyes, wide, almost black with the emotion which was rending her, were fixed on his face with a look of absolute bewilderment. "Are you jesting?" she managed to gasp at last. "You know that I am Mrs. Walbridge Gordon. You could never forget—it is impossible." As Barry did not answer, a look of utter horror flashed into her face. She swayed a little, and put out one hand to steady herself. "Who—are—you?" she asked, in a low, trembling voice. Then swiftly she laughed an uneven, hysterical sort of laugh. "You are jesting with me. It is impossible that there should be two men so absolutely alike on earth. You must be——" She broke off abruptly, and her eyes flashed past Barry’s shoulder to the door. The next instant a spasm of fear ripped swiftly across her face, and her white teeth came together over her lips with a cruel force which brought forth a tiny fleck of blood to glisten there. "Go!" she whispered in a harsh voice. "My husband is coming. He must not see you here." "But—who?" Lawrence managed to mutter. "Go, I tell you—quickly!" she repeated. She was trembling violently; and that look of fear had come back into her face to stay. "You must—for my sake."