“When was that?”
“That night at—at the Doctor’s lectures. I sat behind you, I changed my seat to do so—and I counted the buttons on your dear little gray frock—that was one way I discovered your presence in the study that night.” He spoke gravely now. “And there was another way. I heard you talking. Yes, I heard your blessed voice—remember, I loved you then—and I heard Waring talking to you. I could make out no word—I didn’t try—but now I wish I had—for it might help you.”
“I wish you had, Gordon,” she returned, solemnly, “it would have helped me.”
“But you can tell me, dear, tell me all the conversation. Surely you trust me now.”
“I trust you—but—oh, as you say, there’s no time. It’s a long story—a dreadful story—I don’t want to tell you—”
“Then you shan’t. I’ve promised you that, you know. Not until you want to tell me, will I ask for a word of it.”
“Now, here’s another thing,” and Anita blushed, deeply, “if we go away—as you say—what about—about money?”
Lockwood stared at her. “I have money,” he said; “why do you ask that?”
“But—but the awful detective people—said you—you were terribly in debt.”
“Brave little girl, to say that. I know you hated to. Well, my darling, those precious bills that those precious detectives dug up in my desk, are old bills that were owed by my father—his name was the same as mine—”