There was racing and chasing on Saintsbury lea the next morning. The office of the Samovar was besieged by people who wanted to know whether the charge against Clyde was a campaign lie, a poor joke, or a startling truth. Reporters and inquiring friends camped on Clyde\'s doorstep, blockaded his office,--and insisted on extracting some information from his lawyer! Information is a valuable commodity which a lawyer is trained not to give away for nothing, so my visitors went away not much wiser than they came.

"Has Clyde been arrested?" was asked everywhere.

Apparently not.

"But why didn\'t Burleigh, in the interests of justice, give his information to the police before publishing it broadcast and giving Clyde a chance to get away?"

Probably Burleigh cared more for a Samovar scoop than for the interests of justice, and more for helping the campaign against Clyde than for either. Possibly, also, he did not care to take upon himself the responsibility of lodging a formal accusation against Clyde. He might, in that case, be held responsible for it.

"But how had Clyde got the warning?"

Nobody knew. He had simply disappeared.

Of course his disappearance was considered equivalent to a confession of guilt. The wires were hot with his description, and the noon editions had columns of conjecture and reassuring reports that the police were in possession of valuable clues which could not be made public.

I could barely get time to run through my accumulated mail. A good part of this related to Alfred Barker. I had started inquiries backward along the shadowy track of that slippery gentleman\'s career, hoping that I might come across some trail of Diavolo\'s in that direction. So far as results went, Mr. Barker might have been the most commonplace and harmless of mortals. He had lived here, he had done business there, he had been through bankruptcy and he had been promoter of several business schemes that were little better than bankruptcy, but chiefly he had managed to be unknown for long intervals. How some of those intervals were filled, I could in a manner guess. Probably his venture as business manager for Diavolo was an instance. And that one had not been particularly successful financially, except in the deal with Jordan, if I might regard Barker\'s note-book as an accounting of the profits.

I was busy in an inner office, trying to assimilate my mail, when Fellows, my clerk, brought me word that Miss Thurston was waiting to see me. As I knew we should be liable to interruptions in the outer office, I had him bring her in.

I saw at a glance that this was a different woman from the self-possessed woman of the world I had known. She was human, womanly. Her eyes met mine with a shy appeal for sympathy.

"We all come to you for advice," she said with a deprecating smile.

"That is the chief compensation of my profession."

"There are three things that I want to speak to you about," she continued. "First, Mr. Clyde\'s safety. I have been thinking about things all night, turning them in my mind one way and another, and that is the point that must be considered first. If he is taken, or gives himself up, what prospect is there that he will ever be cleared?"

"Very little, Miss Thurston. You wish me to be frank."

"I want to know the exact truth. In the eyes of the law, he is merely an escaped convict?"

"Yes."

She was perfectly quiet and self-controlled. I could see that she merely expected me to confirm the impression which her intelligence had already discerned. She did not hesitate in her quiet speech.

"Then the second thing is to get word to him. I have written him a letter." (She laid it on my table,--a nice, thick letter it was, too!) "I have told him in this letter that I am ready to go with him to any island of the sea or desert jungle where he will be safe. I want you to know, because it may happen that you will get word to him only by telegraphing. But tell him what I have told you, if you cannot give him my letter. If you should see him, the letter will be enough to make him understand. And if he should hesitate on my account, and talk about not letting me sacrifice myself,--he may, you know,--will you make him--understand?" There was a mist in her eyes as she finished. If she looked at Clyde with that look, he would have to be a man of iron not to yield!

"Trust me to do the very best I can to deliver your commission. But Clyde has disappeared, as you know. I may not hear from him before you do."

"Yes, I know. I am only providing for the chance,--in case you do. I have been thinking of everything, trying to put myself into his mind, and I think he will come or send to you."

She spoke with quiet assurance.

"I shall be only too glad to serve you--or him."

"Then there is another matter." A slightly embarrassed air replaced the fine lack of self-consciousness which I had been admiring. "I wish that you would tell Eugene Benbow."

I felt myself stiffen. Unconsciously I was politely obtuse.

"Tell him what? I beg pardon!"

"Tell him about Mr. Clyde\'s escape and--everything that has gone before."

"Oh, yes, certainly. He will be interested."

"And tell him--about my message."

"You wish him to know?" I asked, in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Yes, I wish him to know,--but I don\'t want to be the one to tell him."

"You think it will hurt him?" I asked, determined to draw her out, since she had given me the opening. I realized that to women emotions are facts, and that impressions, attitudes and relations are quite as substantial as any of the more material things of which the law takes notice. It might be that the key to Gene\'s mysteriousness lay in emotions rather than in facts.

She lifted her eyes with something of an effort, but I saw that she had determined to treat me with frankness.

"It probably will hurt him," she said, "but it will be salutary."

"In the long run, yes. But--poor fellow!"

"I know! But it wasn\'t my fault. You know a boy of his poetic and romantic sort simply has to adore someone, and I even thought it was better for him to waste his emotional efflorescence on me than on some woman who might not have understood."

"I am quite sure you are right," I said. But at the same time I could not help a feeling of dumb sympathy with poor Gene, and a certain impatience with her philosophic view of the situation. As Kipling says, it is easy for the butterfly upon the load to preach contentment to the toad. The toad, too, has some rights.

"Besides, he knew always--or, at least, for a long time--that Mr. Clyde was more to me than anyone else. He always was," she continued bravely, "even in the old times, before--anything happened. And I knew, as a girl does, that I was more to him than anyone else. Then, when he drew away and would not say what I had expected, of course I was hurt and angry and very, very unhappy. But when years and years had gone by, and I saw that what I wanted was not coming, I determined to keep him as a friend. I knew that something had happened, something against his will. So I realized that it was wrong to blame him, and that I must keep what I could have, on the best terms possible. It was really Eugene that made me come to this understanding of myself."

"I see."

"Of course Gene knew from the beginning that it was a case of the moth and the star,--don\'t smile! I mean simply on account of our respective ages, of course. But to make sure that he should not misunderstand, I--told him something about Mr. Clyde."

"That was fine and generous of you," I cried warmly, ashamed of my momentary reproach.

She flushed with ............