"I won't trouble you, Mary. I won't ask any more questions, but--I meant what I said. You must have seen it coming. You must have known--oh, you beautiful, dear, wonderful girl, I love you. I want you to be my wife, Mary. My----" "No, no, Donald! Stop, oh, stop," she gasped. "Don't--don't--not to-night----" Her breath came short and quick. "I'm to blame--to blame. I--I don't know what to say to you. I don't know whether to----But no. You could never ... oh, I can't talk! Not to-night! It's been a long season, and I'm tired--so tired." There was no hint of fatigue in her poised figure, but in her voice was all the way-worn wistful weariness of the ages. The cab reached Washington Square, turned to the left, and stopped, and a grimy hand stretched leisurely back and opened the door. "Wait," said Donald Morris, briefly, as he alighted and gave his hand to the woman who quickly followed him. Silently he received her keys, unlocked and opened the door of the dark vestibule and the door of the hall. A faint light burned inside, and by it he could just distinguish the white oval of her face, the wild, bitter tragedy in the curving lips and great shadowed eyes. He closed the door and caught both her hands in his. "Let me come up with you, Mary," he cried, "if only for a moment. I can't leave you like this. Your sister will be waiting up for you?" "She--she hasn't gone to bed yet. It isn't that," Mary replied in a shaken voice. There was always a strange note in her voice when she was forced to speak of her sister. It was there now, stronger than ever. Subconsciously, it registered itself on Morris's mind, though at the moment he paid no heed. He was to remember it later. "You're trembling, Mary! You're shivering as if you were frightened," he cried, anxiously. "What is it, dear?" Again she shuddered, and drawing one hand away, covered her face. "It's nothing, nothing, Donald." She tried to laugh. "Someone walking over my grave, perhaps," she added, lightly. Then, under her breath, "Over my grave ... I wonder...." She caught her lip between her teeth and swiftly pulled herself together. "Good-night, Donald. Thank you for all your kindness--your--everything. And leave me now. If you--care--go now, at once, while I have----" For a flash her eyes were upon him. What he saw in them took his breath. With a cry he caught her close in his arms and held her fast. Wildly heart beat against heart, conquering lips pressed lips which yielded in passionate surrender. But only for a moment, though that moment seemed a lifetime to both. With shaking hand she pushed him from her, and without another word sped up the shadowy stair. CHAPTER II AN UNSTAMPED LETTER Followed, for Donald Morris, two sleepless nights. The first was spent in living over again, moment by thrilling moment, the events and emotions of the previous evening.