She paused in her restless pacing up and down the room, and looked at him. “Do you understand better now?” “No,” said Barrison flatly. “It is very pretty, and, I suppose, symbolic, but I have not the least idea, if you will pardon me for saying so, what you are driving at.” “Think it over,” said Miss Templeton, lighting another cigarette. “One more touch of symbolism for you. Suppose the—traveler—who showed him the real gourd of water should spill it, or drink it all himself, or—refuse to share it, after all? What do you think would be likely to happen then?” “I should think the thirsty man would be quite likely to shoot him!” said Jim laughing a little. She smiled at him. “Ah,” she said, “you see you understand more than you pretend. Yes, that’s just what might happen——Oh, by the by, Mr. Barrison, there was something else that I sent for you to say. You know I warned you in regard to Kitty Legaye?” “Yes, but it is out of the question,” said Barrison. “I am sure that Mortimer’s murder was an overwhelming surprise to her.” “Maybe so,” she said thoughtfully. “But I am sure that, when I rushed out of the theater last night in that darkness and confusion, I saw Miss Legaye’s face at the window of a taxicab at the front of the house.” “At the front of the house! But that would be impossible!” “I only tell you what I am certain I saw.” “Would you be prepared to swear that?” She considered this a moment. “No,” she admitted finally. “I would not be prepared to go quite as far as that. I felt very sure at the time, and I feel almost as sure now. But a glimpse like that is sometimes not much to go by. I only tell you for what it is worth. And now, Mr. Barrison, I have an engagement, and I am going to turn you out. You forgive me?” “I am disposed to forgive you anything,” said Jim, with formal gallantry, “after the help you have given me—to say nothing of the pleasure I have had!” She made a faint little face at him. “That sounds like something on the stage!” she protested. “I wish you would think over my—my——” “Allegory?” he suggested. “I was going to say my confession. I am sure, the more carefully you remember it, the simpler it will become. Especially remember your own suggestion as to what would happen to the niggardly rescuer who might refuse to be a rescuer, after all!” Barrison saw fit to ignore this. He shook hands cordially and conventionally. “Good-by,” he said. “And thanks.” “Good-by,” she returned briefly. As he went downstairs, his face was a shade hot. There were two reasons for it. For one thing, Miss Templeton’s attitude—the allegory of the mirage and the gourd of water—what did she mean by it? Was it possible that she—that she—Jim Barrison was not conceited about women, but he could hardly avoid being impressed with a subtle flattery in her manner, a flattery dignified by what certainly looked like rather touching sincerity. And on his part—well, he was not yet prepared to tell himself baldly just what he did feel.