"It's only me, dearie," said Mrs. Shultze in honeyed accents. She tried the door, and finding it locked, added more sweetly still, "Won't you let me in?" There was no answer except the sound of a key turning in a lock. Mrs. Shultze cast a warning glance at the two men, opened the door and stepped quickly inside, leaving it ajar. "How are you to-night, dearie?" "I'm very well, I think. I'm not sure. What is it you want? You've been here before about something, but what is it, I can't remember." At the first words Donald started again, convulsively. He stepped close to the door and listened intently to that voice, that beloved voice, now so uncertain, so strangely altered, yet the same--the same. "Oh, forget it, dearie," Mrs. Shultze had responded at once, with exaggerated cheerfulness. "We won't talk about that now. I've brought a friend to see you, sweetie. That's the way little Trudie looks out for them she takes a fancy to. I've brought an old friend----" There was a low murmur and the woman, evidently replying to it, said: "You look all right, dearie. He won't mind." Donald knew that she had turned toward the door, for her voice was louder as she added, "Come in, Mr. Morris." "I'll stay here," whispered O'Malley in Donald's ear. "Leave the door open. I'll keep out of sight." Scarcely hearing, with heart beating wildly, Donald pushed open the door. "Mary," he cried, chokingly. "Mary! At last!" She was seated on the other side of a small table, leaning slightly forward, her cheek resting on her right hand, in a position poignantly familiar; but the exquisite face--oh, how changed and ravaged it was! Only the great, gold-gray eyes burned with the old fire. Donald cried out again, "Mary!" and threw himself on his knees beside her. Mrs. Shultze, keeping herself well in the background, watched with calculating eyes. O'Malley, in the hall, saw the woman at the table draw back, turning sidewise in her chair. "I--I don't understand----" The voice was sweet, low, and troubled, "Ought I to know you? I can't think----" She passed her hand across her forehead, pushing back the lovely curves of soft dark hair. "Oh, Mary," there was heart-break in the tone, "don't you remember? It's Donald. Donald. You must----" "I can't remember," she said, gently drawing her rather worn silk négligée closer about her. "There was someone--someone once, who spoke to me like that.... But it was long ago--long ago, I think." She looked at the upturned face steadily, trying to thread her way back through the darkness of her mind. "Who was it? There have been so many--so many faces.... They come and go--in dreams--but they have no names.... They're like scenes in a play. The curtain comes down ... and it's all dark--all dark----" The beautiful voice trailed off into silence, and again she dropped her cheek on her hand. "But, Mary, Mary----" Donald strove, in agony, to regain her attention by the reiteration of her name.