“Why didn’t you go before!” cried Mary; and then, seizing his arm, “Wait, you mustn’t go now!”
“Why?”
“It would be misunderstood.”
“Then you know who that is?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Peter Loveman?”
“No.” Her dark eyes gazed at him very straight; she spoke rapidly. “You are an old acquaintance—you met me in Paris before the war broke out—that’s all you really know about me. Except that my name is Mary Regan.”
“I’ll play the part,” said Clifford.
“Sit there by the window.”
Clifford obeyed, more dazed than ever, and wonderingly watched Mary. She stood in the middle of the room, tensely composed. The maid had answered the bell, and Clifford now heard a man’s voice in the hall—a familiar voice. The next moment the visitor was through the doorway, and Clifford beheld that likable young man-about-town, Jack Morton.