door. Shirley stepped to the door, knocked, and then entered. Bryce
Cardigan, seated at his desk, looked up as she came in. His left arm
was in a sling, and he looked harassed and dejected.

"Don't get up, Bryce," she said as he attempted to rise. "I know
you're quite exhausted. You look it." She sat down. "I'm so sorry,"
she said softly.

His dull glance brightened. "It doesn't amount to that, Shirley." And
he snapped his fingers. "It throbs a little and it's stiff and sore,
so I carry it in the sling. That helps a little. What did you want to
see me about?"

"I wanted to tell you," said Shirley, "that--that last night's affair
was not of my making." He smiled compassionately. "I--I couldn't bear
to have you think I'd break my word and tell him."

"It never occurred to me that you had dealt me a hand from the bottom
of the deck, Shirley. Please don't worry about it. Your uncle has had
two private detectives watching Ogilvy and me."

"Oh!" she breathed, much relieved. A ghost of the old bantering smile
lighted her winsome features. "Well, then," she challenged, "I
suppose you don't hate me."

"On the contrary, I love you," he answered. "However, since you must
have known this for some time past, I suppose it is superfluous to
mention it. Moreover, I haven't the right--yet."

She had cast her eyes down modestly. She raised them now and looked