Clifford felt himself baffled. And then, suddenly, he remembered another possible source of danger to her—or at least of danger to that Mary Regan he had believed her to be. Could she, as the worldly-wise old Uncle George had suggested, have felt the pull of old associations, old points of view, and have reverted—
But even as he was thinking of this, she with her remarkable keenness had read his mind. “Don’t worry about that. I have no intention of going back to the sort of things I once tried to do, and you stopped me from doing.”
“I’m glad of that,” he said simply. And then he added, “But still I feel you are in some great vague danger.”
“What?” she queried as before. “I am here of my own choice. I go and come as I please. Whatever I may now be doing I do of my own free will.”
“Then you have a plan?”
She was silent a long moment, all the while gazing at him steadily. Then she replied, “I have.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“You have earned the right. As Robert Clifford, the man, you might not approve of it. As Robert Clifford, detective, you can find nothing wrong. Beyond this I can tell you nothing—now.”
He felt shut out—placed at a far distance—and felt the dizzy sickness once more come on him. He had met her again, after long waiting, after long search—and this was the poor ending of it all!
He saw her glance furtively at a gilded clock. Awkwardly he arose.