He said no word but lighted a match and held it for her. She drew a breath of tobacco and half concealed a cough. It was plain to see that she was making a struggle to enjoy it, and plainer for the men to note that she failed. “What deliciously mild tobacco you smoke,” she cried. Suddenly she stretched out her hand for the pouch. “Do let me see.” But Denby did not pass it to her. He looked her straight in the eyes. “I don’t think a look at it would help you much,” he said slowly. “The name is, in case you ever want to get any, ‘without fire.’” “What an odd name,” she cried. “Without fire?” “Yes,” he answered. “You see, no smoke without fire.” Without any appearance of haste he put the pouch back in his pocket. “You don’t believe in that old phrase?” “Not a bit,” he told her. “Do you?” She turned to ascend the stairs to her room. “No. Do make another break sometime, won’t you--Dick?” [Illustration: “DO MAKE ANOTHER BREAK SOMETIME, WON’T YOU--DICK?” _Page 186_.] “I most probably shall,” he retorted, “unless Monty warns me--or you.” She turned back--she was now on the first turn of the staircase. “I’ll never do that. I’d rather like to see you put your foot in it--you seem so very sure of yourself--Steve.” She laughed lightly as she disappeared. Monty gripped his friend’s arm tightly. “Who is that girl?” “Why, Ethel Cartwright,” he rejoined, “a close friend of our hostess. Why ask me?” “Yes, yes,” Monty said impatiently, “but what do you know about her?” “Nothing except that she’s a corker.” “You met her in Paris, didn’t you?” Monty was persistent. “Yes,” his friend admitted. “What was she doing there?” Denby frowned. “What on earth are you driving at?” “She was behind that door listening to us or trying to.” “So you thought that, too?” Denby cried quickly. “Then you do suspect her of being the one they’ve got to work on the inside?” Monty retorted triumphantly. “It can’t be possible,” Denby exclaimed, fighting to retain his faith in her. “You’re dead wrong, old man. I won’t believe it for a moment.” “Say, Steve,” Monty cried, a light breaking in on him, “you’re sweet on her.” “It isn’t possible, it isn’t even probable,” said Denby, taking no notice of his suggestion. “But the same idea occurred to you as did to me,” Monty persisted. “I know,” Denby admitted reluctantly. “I began to be suspicious when she wanted to get hold of the pouch. You saw how mighty interested she was in it?” “That’s what startled me so,” Monty told him. “But how could she know?” “They’ve had a tip,” Denby said, with an air of certainty, “and if she’s one of ’em, she knows where the necklace was. Wouldn’t it be just my rotten luck to have that girl, of all girls I’ve ever known, mixed up in this?” “Old man,” Monty said solemnly, “you are in love with her.” Denby looked toward the stairway by which he had seen her go. “I know I am,” he groaned.