"Am I too late to ask for the first dance?" inquired Forrester, as he approached Mary Sturtevant after dinner. "I’m sorry," she replied, smiling, "but you were very late in arriving. A New Yorker seems to be popular in Chicago." "Depends greatly upon the New Yorker," returned Forrester. "You haven’t changed a bit since Thursday, have you?" cried the girl. "How many dances do you wish?" and she extended her card. "I’m afraid," declared Forrester, a doleful note creeping into his voice as he glanced over the card, "that I shall have to forego any. I must leave before you have completed this long list of engagements." "Oh, of course," she exclaimed. "I had forgotten. You have a _most_ important engagement yourself at ten-thirty." Forrester looked at her sharply. "How do you know?" he asked. Miss Sturtevant looked surprised. "Why, you told me—and it has been in all the papers." "Not the exact hour," returned Forrester, his eyes still observing her keenly. "Oh," she murmured, flushing, "wasn’t it? Well, then, I must have heard it somewhere." "Over the telephone, perhaps," suggested Forrester. "One hears gossip in so many ways, it is hard to remember the source," she returned, easily. "If you won’t have time to dance, we can at least chat until the dancing starts. Let’s look for a quiet corner." It was an opportunity which Forrester welcomed. He guided her carelessly toward one of the large windows that opened out on the lawn. The musicians, concealed among palms and flowers at the other end of the room, were playing a tender little air—one that seemed to throw a mantle of romance about them. Forrester looked down at the girl in silence. It seemed hard to believe that she could in any way be linked with the abominable men who had committed so many murders, and now, threatened his own life. Yet her actions had been strange, and her slip of a few minutes before seemed inexplicable. In spite of his misgivings Forrester longed for the girl. Love at first sight had always seemed a mere trick of the novelist to Forrester. As he stood there beside Mary Sturtevant he knew that in his case at least it was a fact! Whoever or whatever she was, he wanted her! If she had made a mistake—well, then he would save her from herself. "I thought we came here to chat," and she smiled mischievously up at him. "I think we have been chatting," he returned, and added, "with our minds." Once more Mary Sturtevant flushed slightly. "You could never guess what I was thinking," she declared, watching him with a peculiar smile. "I wish I could," he replied, earnestly. "It might solve my greatest problem." "Sometimes you say such strange things," she asserted. Then, as the music for the first dance started up, she added, extending her hand impulsively, "There, I must go. I wish you the best of luck tonight."