"Yours?"

"I've told you of Mrs. De Peyster's attitude toward married--"

"Then leave her, my dear. Even though it wouldn't be safe for you to
be with me till the police resume their interrupted nap--still, you
can have your own flat and your own bank account. Nothing would make
me happier."

"Understand this, Mr. Bradford,--I'm going to have nothing to do with
you!"

For a moment he sobered. "Come, Clara: give me a chance to make
good--"

"Will you turn straight?" she caught him up sharply. "And will you fix
up the affair of the Jefferson letters?"

"That last is a pretty stiff proposition; I don't see how it's to
be done. As to the first--but, really, Clara,"--smiling again
appeasingly,--"really, you take this thing altogether too seriously."

"Too seriously!" She almost choked. "Why--why--I'm through with you!
That's final! And I don't dare stay here another minute! Good-bye."

"Wait, Clara." He caught her hand as she turned to go, and spoke
rapidly. "I don't think I'm so bad as you think I am--honest. You may
change your mind; I hope you do, dear; and if you do, write me, 'phone
me, telegraph me, cable me, wireless me. But, of course, not to me
direct; the police, you know. Address me in care of the Reverend