s and
old magazines, piled carelessly. Yesterday she had seen here a fairly
recent novel the title of which promised her an interesting story. A
glance showed her the book, lying open, where Pollard had evidently been
reading it. And in the same careless glance she saw something else which
sent the blood into her face and made her turn swiftly, apprehensively,
toward the door.

There, beside Pollard's chair, was his waste paper basket, filled to
overflowing with crumpled papers. And, thrusting upward through the
papers, catching her eye because the papers were white and it was
another colour, was a long, yellow envelope. An envelope exactly like
the one in which Mr. Templeton had put the bank notes she was to carry
to her uncle!

Obeying her swift impulse she stepped to the basket and drew the
envelope out. It was not only like the one she knew, yellow and cloth
lined, but it was the same one! She knew that beyond a hint of doubt.
For she remembered how, while sealing the thing for her, Mr. Templeton
had laid it down on his table, upon his ink-wet pen, how he had
carelessly blotted it. And here was the blot!

She came swiftly around the table. Her back was toward the open door.
And....

Henry Pollard was standing behind her, watching her! She did not see
him, she could not be sure that she had heard his soft step on the hall
carpet, but she knew that he was there. She seemed to sense his presence
with the subtle sixth sense.

CHAPTER XXIII

WARNING

She felt her heart beating wildly ... if at that second he had spoken to
her she could not have found immediate voice in answer were it to save
her life. But further, she knew that if he gave her one second longer
she could control herself. For the first time it came upon her in a
flash that she had a personal interest in what these men did. They
sought to play her for their dupe, their fool; they counted upon making
her a sort of innocent accomplice, they dared to count upon her to help
them. To make their own positions safe they were dragging her into the
dirty mess that they had made.

Her anger steadied her. Her brain had gone hot with it; now it went
cool, cold. She was holding the envelope in her hands when Pollard came
to the door; now she tossed it back to the basket carelessly and still
kept her back to the door. She was humming a little song softly when she
picked up the book she had come for and turned with it in her hand as
though to leave the