Mallory, and always thought that I loved him until--until--"

There was no answering light in Billy's eyes--no encouragement

for the words that were on her lips. She halted lamely.

"Then," she went on presently, "we became engaged after we

reached New York. We all thought you dead," she concluded

simply.

"Do you think as much of him now as you did when you

promised to marry him?" he asked, ignoring her reference to

himself and all that it implied.

Barbara nodded.

"What is at the bottom of this row?" persisted Billy. He

had fallen back into the decent pronunciation that Barbara

had taught him, but neither noticed the change. For a

moment he had forgotten that he was playing a part. Then he

recollected.

"Nothing much," replied the girl. "I couldn't rid myself of

the feeling that they had murdered you, by leaving you back

there alone and wounded. I began to think 'coward' every

time I saw Mr. Mallory. I couldn't marry him, feeling that way

toward him, and, Billy, I really never LOVED him as--as--"

Again she stumbled, but the mucker made no attempt to

grasp the opportunity opened before him.

Instead he crossed the library to the telephone. Running

through the book he came presently upon the number he

sought. A moment later he had his connection.

"Is this Mallory?" he asked.

"I'm Byrne--Billy Byrne. De guy dat cracked your puss fer

youse on de Lotus."

"Dead, hell! Not me. Say, I'm up here at Barbara's."

"Yes, dat's wot I said. She wants youse to beat it up here's

swift as youse kin beat it."

Barbara Harding stepped forward. Her eyes were blazing.

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