matter would have been
simple enough.... But he loved her, loved her still, though he knew the
shame that had clouded her life, knew the motive that had led her to
accept him as a husband. More--by a sublime audacity, he declared that
she loved him.

There came a thrill in her heart each time she thought of that--that
she loved him. The idea was monstrous, of course, and yet---- Here,
as always, she broke off, a hot flush blazing in her cheeks....
Nevertheless, such curious fancies pursued her through the hours. She
strove her mightiest to rid herself of them, but in vain. Ever they
persisted. She sought to oust them by thinking of any one else, of
Aggie, of Joe. There at last was satisfaction. Her interference between
the man who had saved her life and the temptation of the English crook
had prevented a dangerous venture, which might have meant ruin to the
one whom she esteemed for his devotion to her, if for no other reason.
At least, she had kept him from the outrageous folly of an ordinary
burglary.

Mary Turner was just ready for bed after her evening at the theater,
when she was rudely startled out of this belief. A note came by a
messenger who waited for no answer, as he told the yawning maid. As Mary
read the roughly scrawled message, she was caught in the grip of terror.
Some instinct warned her that this danger was even worse than it seemed.
The man who had saved her from death had yielded to temptation. Even
now, he was engaged in committing that crime which she had forbidden
him. As he had saved her, so she must save him. She hurried into the
gown she had just put off. Then she went to the telephone-book and
searched for the number of Gilder's house.

* * * * *

It was just a few moments before Mary Turner received the note from the
hands of the sleepy maid that one of the leaves of the octagonal window
in the library of Richard Gilder's town house swung open, under the
persuasive influence of a thin rod of steel, cunningly used, and Joe
Garson stepped confidently into the dark room.

A faint radiance of moonlight from without showed him for a second as he
passed between the heavy draperies. Then these fell into place, and he
was invisible, and soundless as well. For a space, he rested motionless,
listening intently. Reassured, he drew out an electric torch and set it
glowing. A little disc of light touched here and there about the room,
traveling very swiftly, and in methodical circles. Satisfied by