“The rest of it?” Her brows were raised in dainty puzzlement, but her eyes refused to meet his. “Where is Veyze?” “On his way back to the East, I understand,” said Darcy carefully. “When is he coming over?” “Not at all.” “Are you going over there—to England?” “No.” “You’re not looking me in the face.” “I—I don’t want to look you in the face. You’re not pretty when you make a—a catechism of yourself.” “Darcy,” said Remsen, “there’s been something queer about this Veyze business from the start. As long as I could help I did, didn’t I?” “Yes,” said the girl quite low. “And I asked no questions?” “No,” she said, even lower. “But now I’ve got to know. I’ve got a right to know.” “Why?” It was the merest whisper. “Because I’ve come back loving you more than when you left me. I wouldn’t have believed it possible. But it’s so. Every hope and wish of my heart is bound up in you. Darcy, is it broken off between you and Montrose Veyze?” She raised her eyes to his. The color flushed and trembled adorably in her face. She spoke, clear and sweet as music. “There never was anything between me and Sir Montrose Veyze.” “You mean,” said the astounded Remsen, “that you were only acquaintances?” “If Sir Montrose walked into the room this minute I shouldn’t know him.” “But, how—” “I made it up. All. Every bit of it.” She put her hands together in a posture of half-mocking plea. “Please, sir, do I have to tell you the whole shameful story?” He caught the hands between his. “There’s only one thing you have to tell me, Darcy. Shall I tell you what it is?” There was no need. The hands stole to his shoulders, and then around his neck. “Oh, I do! I do!” she breathed. “There never was any Veyze, or any engagement, or anything or anybody—but—just—you.” “But, Darcy, love,” he demanded, holding her close, “why wouldn’t you give me a chance, when we were at Boulder Brook?” “I—I—I thought it was G-g-g-gloria with you, all the time.” “You didn’t! How could you miss seeing that I was mad about you from the first? Why didn’t you tell me what you thought?” With her cheek against his and her lips at his ear, she confessed, between soft, quick catchings of the breath: “Because I was afraid—of letting you see how much I cared. I—I’ve been such a little fool, Jack, dear. And—and about the Veyze thing—I’m a cheat—and an awful little liar—and—and—and—and a forger, I guess. But it never hurt anybody but myself—and I’ve been loving you all the time—until my heart—almost broke.” “I’m pretty good at those crimes myself,” returned her lover comfortingly. “And worse. I’ve robbed a mail-box. When did you ever descend to such desperate depths as that?” “I tried to kill my trainer,” retorted Darcy proudly; “and he’s the best friend I ever had except Gloria. He’s the one that made me presentable.”