e sank back once
more on the cushions, looking at him wildly for a moment, and then
averting her gaze. "Please don't stay another minute."

He could not stay. His mind was confused as to his duty. He knew that
he loved her and wished to remain; he knew he was under orders and must
go. Disturbed and with worry at his heart, he took her hand for one
brief pressure.

"Don't forget I'm your friend--and protector," he said. "Please don't
forget."

He took his hat, said good-by, saw her lips frame a brief, half-audible
reply, then slipped from the room, to avoid giving undue notice to the
Robinsons, went silently down the stairs to the door, and let himself
out in the street.

Aware, in a dim sort of way, that a "shadow" was once more lurking on
his trail, as he left the house, he was almost indifferent to the
fellow's intrusion, so much more disturbing had been the climax of his
visit with Dorothy.

The outcome of his announcement concerning her uncle's death had
affected Dorothy so instantaneously as to leave him almost without
hope. The blow had reacted on himself with staggering force. He was
sickened by the abruptness with which the accusing circumstances had
culminated. And yet, despite it all, he loved her more than
before--with a fierce, aggressive love that blindly urged him to her
future protection and defense.

His half-formed plan to visit the dealer who had sold the cigars
departed from his mind. He wanted no more facts or theories that
pointed as so many were pointing. Indeed, he knew not where he was
going, or what he meant to do, till at length a sign on a window
aroused him to a sense of things neglected. The sign read simply:

BANK. SAFE DEPOSIT VAULTS.

He entered the building, hired a box in the vault, and placed within it
the jewels he had carried. Then he remembered Wicks.

Instructions had been given to report, not only fully, but promptly.
He must make a report--but what? He knew he could not tell of the
horrible tissue of facts and circumstances that wound like a web about
the girl he loved. He would far rather give up the case. And once he
gave it up, he knew that no man alive could ever come again upon the
damning evidence in his possession.

He would say his work was incomplete--that it looked like a natural
death--that Scott had acted suspiciously, as indeed he had--that he
needed more time--anything but what appeared to be the sickening truth.
Later, should Dor