"Who came back then?" he asked eagerly. She shook her head. "I can not tell you—at least, not now. There are reasons why it would not be quite fair," she said. Then, seeing his irritation, she tapped him on the arm and added: "Listen, Teddy. It is too late to talk over things. Run away now. Come in tomorrow at five." "I want to help, you know," he said, taking her hand, guiltily conscious of the smile with which she examined him—a smile that seemed to convict him of treason. For the moment, however, the memory of the younger woman was dimmed. He was conscious only of the indefinite lure of mystery which Rita Kildair always exerted over his curiosity the moment they were alone. "Look here, Rita," he said impulsively, "I should think, in a case like this, you’d want all the help you can get!" Her smile disappeared. She looked at him a moment with almost a masculine penetration, and then, her smile returning, said quietly: "It’s curious, but each person who came back here tonight came back just to—help." Not only her words, but her manner, struck him with a sense of discomfort. "Come in tomorrow," she said, pushing him gently toward the door. She made a quick little motion with her fingers, looked at him with a penetrating seriousness, and disappeared, leaving him thoroughly confused and irritable. "Why, she acts as though she suspected me!" he said, remembering her continual examination. "Who the deuce came back then? What’s Garraboy in all this? Does he suspect me, too, and has he been saying anything to Rita? What is terrible in such a situation is that any one may be suspected." Suddenly he perceived that he had repeated the very words that Nan Charters had used in the coupé. "By George, what a rotten mess! I feel like a pickpocket already," he said, with a sudden cold horror in his back. "Why shouldn’t Rita suspect me as well as any one else? This is no pleasure party; this is serious—dead serious. I’ve got to work it out!" *CHAPTER VI* Teddy Beecher was a fair representative of the second generation. He still retained the rugged democracy of the father who had fought his way to a moderate fortune in the troubled regions of the coal-fields. To him a man was a man, whatever the quality of his coat. Left an orphan at fourteen, he had passed victoriously through boarding-school and college without seriously troubling the peace of mind of those who were competing for scholarship honors. He was liked because he liked every one, not with a politic assumption, but from a veritable enjoyment of life and men.