"No-o-o," with reluctance, "not altogether for him alone."
"Who else then?"
"I told you last night," she answered evasively.
"For me?"
"Ye-es," faintly. "I could not bear to see you lose your—your life."
Slowly she felt herself being drawn nearer to him. She struggled feebly, glad to be overborne by his superior strength. In another moment she was in his arms for the second time. Her head was bent down toward his waistcoat pocket. Holding her safe with one arm he put his hand under her chin, and turned her face upward. There were blushes on her cheeks, laughter and tears in her eyes. The interrupted kiss trembled upon her lips, and he—well, this time it was longer than the night before and more satisfying. As he kissed her her arms went around his neck again.
"There was no other man," she whispered, "there never was any one but you. I did wrong, very wrong, but my father and you—that was my excuse. And I loved you all the time."
When there was opportunity some moments later for articulate conversation, he endeavored to solve the mystery of her paternity, the understanding of which he had put by in the face of more pressing business—or pleasure.
"Then your name isn't Fanny Glen?"
"That's part of it."