"Suppose I marry; suppose I bring my--suppose I bring OEnone (I can hardly call her a 'wife') over to America for a change of air, a tonic. She'd like that. She's always wanted to travel, but her father had no time; and she wouldn't have been happy with paid guardians. I'd paint a glowing picture of California--or Arizona: they say it's great out there for tubercular people. Even OEnone's own father would approve of such a trip if--if Marise were supposed to be out of the running. Don't speak! I'm going to explain! What I mean is this.... "Old Con is the opposite of a mole. He knows I've been a different man this last year. He ferreted out the truth somehow--did it himself, or with a detective's help. Probably himself: he's that kind. He doesn't trust his secrets to others. He didn't object openly to my American mission. In a way, it was an honour. But, of course, he learned that I was sailing on the ship with you two. He hasn't given me a day's rest since we landed. I wired I'd had 'flu. (I did get a cold last week!) Then he took a leaf out of my book. Now he's developed the disease! If Marise were acting in New York and touring the States, he'd smell a rat if I prescribed America for my bride's health. But if Marise were married to another man, and had left the stage----" "Good heavens!" Mary bounded on the sofa, and gasped aloud. But Severance pressed her down with a strong arm. "You promised to let me finish!" he urged. "Now you'll begin to understand why I wouldn't say all this to Marise alone. Asking you to be with us proves my respect for her--for you both. This isn't only the plea of a desperate man--though it's that first of all! It's a business proposition. The day I marry OEnone Ionides, I become master of a million pounds. That's five million dollars. One million of those five million dollars I would offer to a--dummy husband for Marise. Let me go on! A man who'd understand that he was to be a figurehead, and nothing more. You'd say--if you'd say anything--that only a cur in the gutter would take such a position, and a cur in the gutter would be of no use to us. To rise above suspicion--even old Con's suspicion!--He'd have to be a decent sort of chap to all appearances, a man who might attract a girl--even a girl like Marise. He'd have to have some money of his own already, and some sort of standing. With that in his favour, the world and my uncle would accept him as a husband Miss Sorel might choose. Such a person could be found--for a million dollars. I know men of all sorts, and I guarantee that. With a million dollars behind her, Marise could give up the stage--she'd do that, anyhow, if she married me. She could travel west with her dummy husband (and her mother, of course, that goes without saying!) By that time, I'd be over here again with poor OEnone. We could all meet--by accident. In England, even that might make talk. England's too small for us. But over here, in a big free