by and I had not accomplished a thing. My rival was yet unknown to me.

"Excuse me, Arthur," I said quietly, after a long pause in which he paced the floor uneasily, "your experience with women," I looked him keenly in the face, "will tell you that I—I—am—am—out of sorts."

"What do you mean, Elsie?"

No one could have better feigned surprise I told myself. Arthur Ravener must be an accomplished actor. There was the genuine astonishment, caused by a revelation, upon his face.

"You know what I mean," I answered.

"I do not. I swear it."

"You do," I cried, trying unsuccessfully not to ruin my cause by bitter denunciation. "You do"—more quietly. I walked over to him, grasped his arm, and looked into his face. "Now," I said, "tell me honestly, and as a man, that you do not know what I mean."

He shook me off. He was growing angry. "I will tell you nothing," he said, not glancing at me, "until you have explained yourself."

"Very well. Listen. When a young girl