“Understand, there was no question of marriage. I do not claim anything at all except that—he did care for me.” She put her hand to her throat as if she found it difficult to continue, and added proudly: “I am the sort of woman, Mr. Barrison, who demands nothing of a man—except love. I believed that he gave me that. There were other women; there was one woman especially. She wanted him to marry her. She did not love him, as I understand love, but she did want to marry him. She had lived a selfish, restless life for a good many years—she is as old as I, though no one knows it—but she had never settled down. She is the type that eventually settles down; I am not. She wants to be protected and supported; I don’t. She is a born parasite—what we call a grafter; I am _not_. Perhaps you can guess whom I mean.” “Perhaps I can,” conceded Barrison, remembering what Carlton had said about Kitty Legaye and Alan Mortimer. “Ah!” She smiled faintly. “Very well. Here am I, flung aside from my part—and from him. She is left in possession, so to speak. That is almost enough to send a woman’s small world into chaos, is it not? But there was something more left for me to endure. Another woman came into the little play that I thought was fully—too fully—cast. I don’t mean Mr. Carlton’s play; I mean the one that goes on night and day as long as men and women have red blood in their veins and say what they feel instead of what is written in their parts! Another woman was engaged—or practically engaged—to take my place.” “Yes, I know. Miss Merivale.” “Miss Merivale.” She repeated the name slowly and without heat. “She is fresh and young and charming. I do not hate her as I do the other, but I am more afraid of her. She is just what he cannot find in the rest of us. She will win him. Yes, I know quite well that she will win him.” “But I don’t think she wants to win him,” said Barrison, recollecting the scene in which the “tag” had been prematurely spoken. He had a mental picture of Sybil, scarlet of cheek and indignant of eyes, shrinking from Mortimer’s kiss. But Miss Templeton looked at him almost scornfully. “He can make her want to,” she declared positively. “Don’t contradict me, because I know!” Miss Templeton paused a moment and then continued: “Mr. Barrison, do not detectives occasionally undertake the sort of work that necessitates their following a person and—reporting on what he does—that sort of thing?” “Yes, Miss Templeton.” “And would you undertake work of that kind?” Her fine eyes pleaded eloquently. “No, Miss Templeton; I’m afraid not.” “But why not? You’ve said detectives do it.” “Plenty of them.” “Do you mind telling me, then, why not?” Jim hesitated; then he decided to be frank. “You see,” he said gently, “I don’t do this entirely as a means of livelihood.” “You mean you’re an amateur, not a professional?”