The cab came to a sudden stop at a point of congested traffic. The change from the detachment and quiet of its smooth forward motion to the confusion and roar of the busy crossing brought Donald, with a jerk, back to himself. He glanced at Clancy a trifle confusedly, and as the cab went on, took up his story in a more normal tone. "Everybody wanted to be presented to her after the performance was over, but she would meet no one except the family, Francis Atterbury and myself. She received us, for a few moments, on the stage, after the curtains had been drawn. She was gracious and charming, but insisted on leaving at once. She had told Helena that it would be necessary for her to do this, that she was very tired. She allowed me to take her down to her cab, and I said 'Good-night' to her in the dark street.... The next night I went to the theatre and sent my card to her, between the acts. She let me come behind the scenes, and I talked to her a few minutes in the wings.... After that I saw her with increasing frequency. We dined together rather often, in some quiet place. The thought of attracting any attention to herself, when she was off-stage, was most distasteful to her--amounting almost to an obsession. That's a strong word, perhaps, but it almost seemed like that. She lived very quietly, and never introduced me to any of her friends. I don't even know who her friends are. I know absolutely nothing of her past life, except that it was a very unhappy one. I could not force her confidence and she volunteered nothing, not even when she must have known--must have seen----" He hesitated, and Peter met his look with a slight, comprehending nod. "I understand, Mr. Morris," he said, gravely. "But didn't you think it was strange, don't you think it was strange now?" "Yes," Donald admitted. "But it doesn't matter. I don't care how strange it all is. I don't care who she is, or who her people were, or what sad or even terrible thing she is keeping from me. She is beautiful to me--in body, mind, and soul--a wonder-woman! There is no one like her in all the world, and I ask nothing of God but to give her back to me. I can trust her. I can be content to know nothing.... Only find her for me, Clancy! Find her for me!" He clenched his hands and his eyes burned deep. Peter turned away his face. "I'll do my best, Mr. Morris," he said with grave sincerity. "What's possible to do, I pledge my word shall be done. By the way," he added, in a changed tone, "do you know Miss Blake's manager personally?" "Frederick Jones? Yes," answered Morris, quickly. "I've met him often." "He'd be willing to do you a favour, perhaps?" "Yes--yes, I think he would." "I may want to have a little talk with him," said Peter, reflectively. "Think you could fix it?" "I'll give you a card," said Donald, at once, and drawing a case from his pocket, he wrote a few lines and handed the card to Peter.