nk of
her as Tatiana Paulina. How, I did not know; I knew he had not been one
of the Houstons' week-end party; but he had done it somehow, and
spirited Paulette out to La Chance. As for the rest, a fool could have
told that he respected and believed in her. If it had been risky
bringing Marcia out into the wilderness with her, it had been clever
too, because it was so bold that Marcia had never suspected it. Even I
never would have, if Macartney had not brought up Miss Valenka's name. I
knew he had done it merely to get Dudley off his cracked idea that
Billy Jones might have murdered Thompson, but I was suddenly nervous
that Dudley's fool vehemence over a missing girl might have set
Macartney on the track of things,--and heaven knows that, except he was
a competent mine superintendent, I knew little enough how far it would
be safe to trust Macartney. But suddenly one thing I did know flashed
over me. Macartney and Marcia were a firm, or going to be; and I was
instantly scared blue that he might turn around and see that name
Paulette Brown had signed to her letter, lying plain under the
living-room lamp! I knew I had to wake Paulette up to what she had done
and shut up Dudley before he let out any more intimate details the
public had never known, like Van Ruyne's bandaged wrist. I yawned and
got up, with one hand on the table, and my forefinger pointing straight
to that black signature of Tatiana Paulina Valenka that ought to have
been Paulette Brown.

"I'm like Marcia, Miss Paulette; I'm going to bed unless you can turn
off Dudley's eloquence. Oh, I'm so sorry--I'm afraid I've blotted your
letter," I said. I tapped my finger on it soundlessly--and she looked
down,--and saw!

I said once before that my dream girl had good nerves; she had iron
ones. I need not have been afraid she would exclaim. She said quite
naturally: "No, it's all right. And it wasn't a letter, anyhow. It was
only something I wanted to make clear." She picked it up, folded it
small, gathered up the bits of paper she had written on and torn up, and
turned round to Dudley. "What are you talking about all this time?"

But if her glance warned him to hold his tongue, as heaven knows her
mere presence would have warned me, Dudley was too roused to care. "I
was talking about that liar, Van Ruyne," he said, glaring at Macartney.

"He may be a liar, all right," said Macartney rather unpleasantly.
"Only, if that Valenka girl didn't steal his emeralds, Mr.