I hesitated.
"A lady. You—you put me at a disadvantage."
"What is her name?" she insisted.
"Marcia Van Wyck," I muttered.
"Marcia! Surely—" She stopped. A look of bewilderment came over her face, ending with a frown of perplexity.
"No," she murmured. "He wouldn't understand Marcia. I—" And then with a gasp, "And you want me to interfere? Mr. Canby, I—"
"Just a moment, please. I ask nothing that you cannot do. I have thought of a plan. We are alone at the Manor. I ask you to meet Jerry as you met him there last summer along by the Sweetwater. I am going to arrange to have him fish up the stream on Saturday afternoon. Will you come, Miss Habberton, come to the wall and meet him there inside the broken grille? I know his mind. It is curiously affected by facts of association. It is the only thing. I have—"
The words died on my lips as she rose, her slim figure straight in its sudden dignity, and I knew that I had failed.
"Your proposal is preposterous, Mr. Canby," she said coolly, moving toward the door.
"You refuse?"