the assured and perfect gentleman without collar, or scarf, and with his clothes and boots spattered with mud and rain, than any of her other friends could ever appear; or whether it was merely the confident, insolent smile of his full lips behind his small, close-clipped mustache, she could not tell. At any rate she motioned him into the library without speaking; but when they were alone and she had closed the door, she burst upon him.
"Well, Howard? Well? Well, Howard?" breathlessly.
"Then you have not sent any word to the police, Ethel?"
"I was about to—the moment you came. But—I have not—yet," she had to confess.
"Or to that—" he checked the epithet that was on his lips—"your friend Caryl?"
She flushed, and shook her head.
He drew his revolver, "broke" it, ejecting the cartridges carelessly upon the table, and threw himself wearily into a chair. "I'm glad to see you understand that this has not been the sort of affair for anyone else to interfere in!"
"Has been, you mean;" the girl's face went white; "you—you caught him this time and—and killed him, Howard?"
"Killed him, Ethel?" the man laughed, but observed her more carefully. "Of course I haven't killed him—or even caught him. But I've made myself sure, at last, that he's the same fellow that's been trying to make a fool of me all this year—that's been after me, as I wrote you. And if you remember my
