s into his hand.

"Don't stand there talking about it!" he said. "Get your hat and hustle,
Wilkins! Take the first taxi you see and--and handle her gently! Felice
Moreau, Wilkins--remember that."

"I shall, indeed, sir!" said the faithful one; and, delicate
consideration in every finger, he lifted the trunk and walked into the
living-room, while Anthony Fry held his breath and followed every move
with fascinated eyes.

Through the room, then, went Wilkins and trunk together and to the door.
The sober black felt affair he had used these three years was on
Wilkins's head now, and he lugged the trunk onward--turned in the outer
hall and lugged it to the freight elevator--and now, as Anthony watched
from the doorway of his lately peaceful home, onto the freight elevator.

The door closed on the little car. The door closed on Anthony's
apartment, with Anthony inside--and again he was that stately,
dignified, reticent and austere being; the Anthony Fry of yesterday!

A trifle stiffly, perhaps, he moved to his pet armchair, and into it he
sank with an undeniable thud, grasping the arms fondly as one might
grasp a friend returned from a long and perilous journey, and staring
straight ahead.

Amazing! More than that, dumfounding!

Five minutes back he had been seriously resigned to ruin and death. Now
he was quite utterly all right once more!

Anthony looked about at all the familiar things; it seemed to him that
he had not seen them for a long, long time, and that they stretched out
welcoming hands to him. Weakly, he smiled and rested his head in the
well-worn spot on the back.

What a wonderfully capable little person she was! Why had none of them
thought of a trunk before? Or--what matter if none of them had, so that
Mary had gained the inspiration? She had saved herself and she had saved
Anthony--bless her little heart! She had saved everything, because she
was gone!

And she was perfectly safe in Wilkins's hands. Wilkins, faithful,
powerful soul, would carry her tidily into the room of the maid Felice,
wherever that might lie in Dalton's absurdly ornate pile, and between
Felice and Mary a story would be arranged to cover everything.
Momentarily, Anthony frowned, for he disapproved of mendacity in any
form--but there are some lies so much better than the truth that shortly
he smiled again and hoped from the bottom of his heart that Mary's lie
would be a winner.

And now that all was well--Anthony sat upright qu