She turned towards the door—­she was half-way there, in fact—­when they were both aware of a ring at the bell.  She stopped short and looked around enquiringly.

“Who’s that?” she whispered.

Philip glanced at the clock.  It was too early for Elizabeth.

“No idea,” he answered.  “Come in.”

The door opened and closed.  Philip sat as though turned to stone.  Beatrice remained in the middle of the room, her fingers clasping the back of a chair.  Mr. Dane, hat in hand, had entered.

“Good morning, Miss Wenderley!” he said.  “Good morning, Mr. Ware!”

Philip said nothing.  He had a horrible feeling that this was some trap.  Beatrice at first could only stare at the unexpected visitor.  His sudden appearance had disconcerted her.

“I thought you were in Chicago, Mr. Dane!” she exclaimed at last.

“My plans were altered at the last moment,” he told her.  “No, I won’t sit down, thanks,” he added, waving away the chair towards which Philip had pointed.  “As a matter of fact, I haven’t been out of New York.  I decided to wait and hear your news, Miss Wenderley.”

“Well, you’re going to be disappointed, then,” she said bluntly.  “I haven’t any.”

Mr. Dane was politely incredulous.  He was also a little stern.

“You mean,” he protested, “that you cannot identify this gentleman—­that you don’t recognise him as Mr. Douglas Romilly?”

“I cannot identify him,” she repeated.  “He is not Mr. Douglas Romilly.”

“I have brought you all this way, then, to confront you with a stranger?”

“Absolutely,” she insisted.  “It wasn’t my fault.  I didn’t want to come.”

Mr. Dane’s expression suddenly changed.  His hard knuckles were pressed upon the table, he leaned forward towards her.  Even his tone was altered.  His blandness had all vanished, his grey eyes were as hard as steel.

“A stranger!” he exclaimed derisively.  “Yet you come here to his rooms early in the evening, you stay here, you go to the theatre with him the same night, you go on to supper at Churchill’s and stay there till three o’clock in the morning, you are here with him again at nine o’clock—­at breakfast time.  A stranger, Miss Wenderley?  Think again!  A story like this might do for Scotland Yard.  It won’t do for us out here.”

She knew at once that she had fallen into a trap, but she was not wholly dismayed.  The position was one which they had half anticipated.  She told herself that he was bluffing, that it was simply the outburst of a disappointed man.  On the whole, she behaved extraordinarily well.

“You brought me out here,” she said, “to confront me with this man—­to identify him, if I could, as Mr. Douglas Romilly.  Well, he isn’t Mr. Douglas Romilly, and that’s all there is about it.  As to my going out with him last evening, I can’t see that that’s any concern of any one.  He was kind to me, cheered me up when he saw that I was disappointed; I told him my whole story and that I didn’t know a soul in New York, and we became friends.  That’s all there is about it.”