im.

L---- is at his flat. You know the address.

By Jove! This was a facer! Could I bring the thing off? But I simply
_must_. I knew Jim well enough to be sure that the clock of fate had
been wound up by him, ready to strike, and that it wouldn't strike if I
didn't obey orders.

I pondered for a minute whether or no to tell Joyce, but quickly decided
_no_. The request must first come from Robert.

I braced myself with hot coffee, and thought hard. Then I asked Joyce
for writing materials, and scribbled a note to Robert. I wrote:

There is a reason why you _must_ get us invited by Miss Reardon to
the last seance she gives before leaving. When I say "us," I mean
_Joyce_ as well as myself, and the man I've just promised to marry.
I know this will seem shocking to you, perhaps impossible, as you
agreed not to see Joyce again, "_voluntarily_." But oh, Robert,
trust me, and _make_ it possible for the sake of a brave girl who
once saved your life at the risk of her own. Seeing her this time
won't count as "voluntary" on your part. It is necessary.

When the note was ready I said to Joyce that I'd just had news of Robert
Lorillard from a great friend of mine who was much interested in his
welfare. This news necessitated my writing Robert, and as I was still in
bed I must request her to send the letter by hand.

"Go out to the nearest post office yourself, and have a messenger take
it," I directed.

While she was gone I got up, bathed, and put on street dress for the
first time since I'd been "playing 'possum."

I felt much better, I explained when Joyce came back, and added that,
later in the day, I might even be inclined "for a walk or something."

"If you're so well as that, you'll be ready to let me go to India soon,
won't you, dear?" she hinted. No doubt my few words about Robert, and
the sight of his name on a letter, had made the poor girl desperate
under her calm, controlled manner.

I was desperate, too, knowing that her whole future depended on the
success of Jim's plan. If it failed, I should have to let her go, and
all would be over!

"You must do what's best for you," I answered. "But don't talk about it
now. Wait till to-morrow."

Joyce was dumb.

Hours passed, and no reply from Robert. I began to fear he'd gone
away--or that he was hideously offended. We'd got through a pretence of
luncheon, when at last a messenger came. Thank heaven, Robert's
handwriting