"He said that it was like you. That you always played fair."
"Good-by!" Fancy said, and suddenly breaking through the reserve that had so far constrained her, she laid her cheek for a moment to Clytie's.
Clytie kissed her. The two walked down-stairs arm in arm. At the front door Fancy paused and said:
"Take my advice, Miss Payson, and don't explain. Never explain. If you once get into that habit you're lost. It only wastes time. Get right down to business and stay there. Your head belongs on his shoulder, remember that. All Frank will want to know is what you're going to do next. Keep him guessing, my dear, but never explain! Now, I'm going to try and get home before it rains."
She turned up her collar, gave a quick toss to her head, and walked rapidly down the garden path. At the gate she turned, gaily gave a mock-military salute, a relic of her old vaudeville manner, then ran down the steps.
Clytie watched her till she had disappeared. Then she went up-stairs and changed her frock.
Fancy's sage advice was wasted. There were explanations, a torrent of them, when Francis Granthope came, explanations voluble, apologetic, impetuous, half-tragic, semi-humorous. The equilibrium of Clytie's mind was completely overturned and its readjustment came only after a prolonged talk. Every trace of the priestess, the princess, the divinity was gone forever, now. She was more like a mother rejoicing at the restoration of a lost child, for whose absence she blamed her own neglect and carelessness. It was all too delightful for Granthope to wish to cut it short. He was hungry for her.
He, too, had his explanations and his news. For two weeks his hands had been tied. Clytie had disappeared from his ken, and he had had no way of tracing her, for it was useless to telephone to the house or to ask of her father. There had been nothing for it but to wait in the hope that whatever had caused the interruption would come right of itself. He had never really felt sure of Clytie—her acceptance of him had seemed too wonderful to be true, a fortune to which he was not really entitled, and which he might lose any instant. Whether or not Vixley or Madam Spoll had effected the separation, he had no way of determining.
He told then of his trip to Stockton where, by establishing his identity by means of the finger-prints, he had succeeded in obtaining possession of the money he had deposited there so many years ago. This had amounted, with interest, to several thousand dollars. He had gone immediately to Vixley to seal the bargain they had made, but the Professor had absolutely refused to accept any payment for leaving town. Indeed, he had hinted that he had schemes on foot which would bring him an income that Granthope could not hope to rival. How matters stood between Mr. Payson and the mediums, neither Granthope nor Clytie knew. They had not yet heard of the materializing séance, and the situation was, so far as they knew, the same as before. It was agreed that there must be another attempt to rescue Mr. Payson, and this time through Doctor Masterson, who was probably venal.
Granthope, meanwhile, however, had perfected his plans. He had sufficient money, now, to warrant his devoting himself to the study of medicine, a project he had so long contemplated that, with the start he had already made, would make it possible for him to practise in two or three years. He had, therefore, abandoned all idea of going upon the stage. Clytie approved of this with considerable relief. The prospect of reviving gossip by Granthope's appearance as an actor had caused her much dread. They had already been much talked about. Society had discussed them until it had grown tired. Nothing was sensational enough to last long as an object of curiosity in San Francisco, and a half-dozen other affairs had caused them to be almost forgotten.