tic duties below; Mr. Pyecroft
withdrew; and Mary, the sympathetic Mary,--Mary who had no worry, for
the cabinet-maker below would in due time complete his routine work
and take himself away,--Mary remained behind to apply to the invalid
the soothing mental poultice of "Wormwood." But "Wormwood" did not
torment Mrs. De Peyster as it had done in the forenoon. She did
not hear it. She was thinking of the cabinet-maker below. But Mary
faithfully continued; she did not cease when Mr. Pyecroft reentered.
There was a slightly amused look in that gentleman's face, but he
said nothing, and seated himself on the foot of the bed and gazed
thoughtfully at the wall of scaling kalsomine--and Mary's loudly
pitched voice went on, and on, and on.

They were thus engaged when Matilda returned. She was all a-tremble.
Behind her, holding her arm, was a smallish, sharp-faced young man.

"He--he came in with the roast," Matilda stammered wildly.

Mr. Pyecroft had sprung up from the bed.

"And who is _he_?"

"Mr. Mayfair, of the 'Record,'" answered the young man, loosing
Matilda and stepping forward.

Mrs. De Peyster shivered frantically down beneath the bedclothes, her
see-sawing hopes once more at the bottom. Mary leaned limply back in
the shadow and hid her face.

"He tried to question me--and he made me bring him--" Matilda was
chattering.

"May I inquire what it is you wish, Mr. Mayfair?" requested Mr.
Pyecroft--and Matilda fled.

"You may," rapidly said the undeceivable Mr. Mayfair. Mr. Mayfair
had learned and made his own one of the main tricks of that method of
police inquisition known as the "third degree": to hurl a fact, or
a suspicion with all the air of its being the truth, with bomb-like
suddenness into the face of the unprepared suspect. "I know Jack De
Peyster has made a runaway marriage! I know he and his wife are living
secretly in this house!"

"Why, this news is simply astounding!" exclaimed Mr. Pyecroft.

"Come, now. Bluffing won't work with me. You see, I'm on to it all!"

"I presume it's a newspaper story you're after?" Mr. Pyecroft inquired
politely.

"Of course!"

"Then"--in the same polite tone--"if you know it all, why don't you
print it?"

"I want the heart-story of the runaway lovers," declared Mr. Mayfair.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Mayfair," Mr. Pyecroft suggested gently, "that you
are the one who is only bluffing. You have a suspicion, and are trying
to find evidence to support it."

"I know, I