“Wait a minute—Gordon—to get married—must I—must I tell my real name?”
His eyes clouded a trifle.
“Yes, dear heart,” he said, very gently, “yes, you must.”
“Then I can’t get married, Gordon.”
Miss Mystery sat down and folded her little hands in her lap, her whole attitude that of utter despair.
“But, Sweetheart, no one need know except the minister and witnesses—”
“And you?”
“Yes—and I—”
“Oh, I can’t marry you, anyway. I can’t marry anybody. I can’t tell who I am! Oh, let them take me away, and let them arrest me and I hope they’ll convict me—and—”
“Hush, my precious girl, hush.” Lockwood took her in his arms, and let her stifle her sobs on his breast. He was bewildered. What was the truth about this strange child? For in her abandonment of grief, Anita seemed a very child, a tortured irresponsible soul, whose only haven was in the arms now around her.