“Then let me help you out some more,” he urged. “Murder, arson, forgery, bigamy, anything you wish. I’m an outlaw, anyway, and a crime or two makes no difference to me.” Underneath his lightness, she divined the deeper wish to be of service. “Take off your disguise,” she said quietly, “I want to look at the real you.” He obeyed, and endured the scrutiny of her intent eyes, smiling. “Yes,” she decided. “You’d be a real friend. I could trust you. And I want to. Oh, I do want to. I’m in an awful mess.” “Probably it isn’t nearly as bad as it looks. Trot it out, and let’s examine it.” “But it isn’t my secret, alone. I’ve got a—a partner.” “The ‘wicked partner’?” “She _isn’t_ wicked.” “Oh, it’s a she! The shadows deepen.” “And I’ve promised a hope-to-die promise.” “Beg off from it.” She jumped up, clapping her hands like a child. “I’ll try. You go home now, and don’t touch your telephone, for it’s a party wire and I’m going to phone a night letter to my partner.” This is the night-letter which went to Gloria Greene. Will you release me from promise and let me tell one person, very near to you, who can help? Also, may I tell same person that I know about you two? Darcy The entire telegram puzzled the recipient more than a little, particularly the last portion. Not understanding, she took the wisest course and played safe by wiring a veto. The wording of her reply caused much painful puzzlement in the virginal breast of the lady telegraph operator who, on the following morning, thus ’phoned it to Miss Darcy Cole: “This the Farmhouse?... That Miss Cole?... I gotta telegram f’r you, Miss Cole, an’ I d’knowz I ken make it all out. Sounds queer t’ me. Shall I get a repeat?... Give it t’ you first? All right. Jussuz you say. Ready?...’_Miss Dassy Cole, The Farm, Boulder Brook. No. Don’t dare trust you with the truth. You do too well with the other thing_’ Get that?... yes’s funny, ain’t it? There’s funnier comin’. Ready?... ‘_Keep it up till you hear from me by following letter._’ Now comes the queer part. ‘_Don’t be a damp hool._’ Get that?... Yes; hool... Me? don’t know what a hool is. Spell it? D-a-m-p; got hat?... H-double o-l. Got that? Well, mebbe it is funny, but _I_ don’t get no laughter out of it. What?... Oh, yes; of course. Signed _Gloria_. Want me to get a repeat? No. Jussuz you say; I’m sat’sfied if you are. But theh ain’t no sech a word in _my_ dictionary. I jest looked it up.” Miss Darcy Cole, gazing out into a worldful of rain, mused upon the message, with its definite inhibition. For a moment she was tempted to derive some compensating mirth from the telegram by calling up the telegraph lady, advising her to re-read the cryptic sentence which had so disturbed her professional calm, by dividing the two words after the _m_ instead of the _p_—and then listening for the reaction to the shock. But this she dismissed as not worth while. “But I think I _am_ one,” she reflected drearily, “not to make Gloria release me, anyway.”