foreign birth, her
carefully veiled coming debut, all this conspired to cover the
singular reticence of the diva as to her home life.

He never had demanded her whole heart confidence, for he had been
forced to veil from her his hopes of winning a fortune by one fell
swoop upon the astounded Worthington.

"And then," murmured the passionate, heated lover, "I can tell her
all. I can give her a home, the power of wealth to set my jewel
off, and there shall be nothing hidden between us."

From first to last he had concealed nothing from her, save the
mechanism of the short, sharp struggle which was to make him almost
a millionaire, if Jack Witherspoon's bold plan succeeded.

It had been for her sake as well as his own that the veiled star,
Irma Gluyas, had laughingly searched the map of New York and vicinity
to find places of safe meeting.

To avoid Robert Wade's spies, to preserve Irma's incognito, they
had exhausted the "lions" of every Long Island, Staten Island,
and New Jersey village. They had canvassed every place of resort
within fifty miles of New York City.

With a dumb fidelity Madame Raffoni had accompanied her beautiful
charge. There was a wholesome innocence in these strangely arranged
stolen interviews.

Clayton often searched that lovely face to read what malign influence
kept her from opening her whole life to him.

But it all seemed so clear. Her wild artist nature yearned for the
honors of a world's applause; it was agreed between them that, be
it opera season or concert tour, that, once success was achieved,
the eclipse of Love should hide her from the eager moths who flutter
around the risen star.

"She trusts me; I have not told her all. When I can give her
my whole life and a fortune," thought Clayton, "then I shall say,
'Irma, open the sealed books. There must be nothing hidden between
us.'"

With a serene confidence in Madame Raffoni, Randall Clayton always
came home alone and by circuitous routes, artfully varied, from
these strange trysts.

This stolen time seemed all too short to speak of their future,
gilded by a love which thrived strangely in the difficulties
besetting the strangely-met couple.

Clayton's mind was unclouded by suspicion. He had given his whole
destiny over to the keeping of the small blue-veined hands, which
lingered so lovingly on his heated brow. His watchfulness was only
turned upon Robert Wade's disgruntled spies.

From the heavily subsidized Einstein,