"He says," she continued, with a note of weariness in her voice, "that he is not a rich man, and cannot give me the comforts and luxuries to which I have been accustomed, and that therefore it is only right for him to release me."

"Of course you didn't accept his generous sacrifice," I said; and my own hopes ran riot as I listened for her answer.

"I told him I was willing to share poverty with him," she said, with a quiet dignity, as if telling an impersonal tale, "but he insisted that the engagement should be broken."

"And is it?" I asked eagerly, almost breathlessly.

She gave me that look which always rebuked me - always put me back in my place - but which, it seemed to me, was a little less severe than ever before. "It's left undecided for a day or two," she said. Then she added hurriedly "I must see if he needs me. Do you suppose this story of Mrs.

Cunningham's will in any way - well, affect him?"

"It may," I replied truthfully. "At any rate, he must be made to tell where he was and what he was doing Tuesday night. You have no idea, have you?"

Florence hesitated a moment, looked at me in a way I could not fathom, and then, but only after a little choking sound in her throat, she said "No, I have no idea."

It was impossible to believe her. No one would show such emotion, such difficulty of speech, if telling a simple truth.

Yet when I looked in her troubled eyes, and read there anxiety, uncertainty, and misery, I only loved her more than ever. Truly it was time for me to give up this case. Whatever turn it took, I was no fit person to handle clues or evidence which filled me with deadly fear lest they turn against the one I loved.

And yet that one, already suspected by many, had been proved to have both motive and opportunity.

And I, I who loved her, knew that, in one instance, at least, she had been untruthful.

Yes, it was high time for me to give this case into other hands.

I looked at her again, steadily but with a meaning in my glance that I hoped she would understand. I wanted her to know, that though of course justice was my end and aim, yet I was sure the truth could not implicate her, and if it did implicate Mr. Hall, the sooner we discovered it the better.

I think she appreciated my meaning, for the troubled look in her own eyes disappeared, and she seemed suddenly almost willing to give me her full confidence.

I resolved to make the most of my opportunity.

"Of course you know," I said gently, "that I want to believe all you say to me. But, Miss Lloyd, your naturally truthful nature so rebels at your unveracity, that it is only too plain to be seen when you are not telling the truth. Now, I do not urge you, but I ask you to tell me, confidentially if you choose, what your surmise is as to Mr. Hall's strange reticence."

"It is only a surmise," she said, and though the troubled look came back to her eyes, she looked steadily at me. "And I have no real reason even to think it, but I can't help feeling that Gregory is interested in some other woman beside myself."

Again I felt that uncontrollable impulse of satisfaction at this disclosure, and again I stifled it. I endeavored to treat the matter lightly. "Is that all?" I asked; "do you mean that perhaps Mr. Hall was calling on some other lady acquaintance that evening?"

"Yes, that is what I do mean. And, as I say, I hare no real reason to think it. But still, Mr. Burroughs, if it were true, I cannot agree with you that it is unimportant. Surely a man is not expected to call on one woman when he is betrothed to another, or at least, not to make a secret of it."

I thoroughly agreed with her, and my opinion that Hall was a cad received decided confirmation.

"My treating it as a light matter, Miss Lloyd, was not quite sincere. Indeed, I may as well confess that it was partly to cover the too serious interest I take in the matter."

She looked up, startled at this, but as my eyes told her a certain truth I made no effort to conceal, she looked down again, and her lip quivered.

I pulled myself together. "Don't think I am taking advantage of your confidence," I said gently; "I want only to help you.

Please consider me an impersonal factor, and let me do all I can for you. For the moment, let us suppose your surmise is correct.

This would, of course, free Mr. Hall from any implication of crime."

"Yes, and while I can't suspect him of anything like crime, I hate, also, to suspect him of disloyalty to me."

Her head went up with a proud gesture, and I suddenly knew that the thought of Hall's interest in another woman, affected her pride and her sense of what was due her, far more than it did her heart. Her fear was not so much that Hall loved another woman, as that his secrecy in the matter meant a slight to her own dignified position.

"I understand, Miss Lloyd, and I hope for the sake of all concerned, your surmise is not correct. But, with your permission, I feel it my duty to discover where Mr. Hall was that evening, even if to do this it is necessary to have professional assistance from headquarters."

She shuddered at this. "It is so horrid," she said, "to spy upon a gentleman's movements, if he is only engaged in his personal affairs."

"If we were, sure of that, we need not spy upon him. But to the eye of justice there is always the possibility that he was not about his personal affairs that evening, but was here in West Sedgwick."

"You don't really suspect him, do you?" she said; and she looked at me as if trying to read my very soul.

"I'm afraid I do," I answered gravely; "but not so much from evidence against him, as because I don't know where else to look.

Do you?"

"No," said Florence Lloyd.