“Via the cook,” he answered, and told her the rest.

“Did any one else belonging to the house see you?”

“Besides you and my excellent old friend, the cook, no one.”

“But don’t you realize that this house is one of the most dangerous places in the world for you?” she cried in a low voice.  “Why, Judge Harvey himself is expected here any minute!”

“Judge Harvey!” The equable young man gave a start.  But the next moment his poise came back.

“And after what I saw only to-day in the papers about Thomas Preston—!  Don’t you know you are this moment standing on a volcano?”

“Yes—­but what of it?” he answered cheerfully.  “It’s the most diverting indoor or outdoor sport I’ve ever indulged in—­dodging eruptions.  Besides, in standing on this volcano I have the advantage of also standing near you.”

“Didn’t I tell you I never wanted to see you again!” she flamed at him.  “How dared you come here?”

“I had to come, dear.”  His voice was pleading, yet imperturbably pleasant.  “You refused to answer the letters I wrote you begging you to meet me somewhere to talk things over.  I read that Mrs. De Peyster was sailing to-night, and I knew that you were sailing with her.  Surely you understand, before she went, I had to see my wife.”

“I refuse to recognize myself as such!” cried Miss Gardner.

“But, my dear, you married—­”

“Yes, after knowing you just two days!  Oh, you can be charming and plausible, but that shows just how foolish a girl can be when she’s a bit tired and lonesome, and then gets a bit of a holiday.”

“But, Clara, you really liked me!”

“That was because I didn’t know who you were and what you were!”

“But, Clara,” he went on easily—­he could not help talking easily, though his tone had the true ring of sincerity.  There seemed to be no bit of agressive self-assurance about this young gentleman; he seemed to be just quietly, pleasantly, whimsically, unsubduably his natural self.  “But, Clara, you must remember that it was as sudden with me as with you.  I hardly thought about explaining.  And then, I’ll be frank, I was afraid if I did tell, you wouldn’t have me.  I did side-step a bit, that’s a fact.”

“You admit this, and yet you expect me to accept as my husband a man who admits he is a crook!”

“My dear Clara,” he protested gently, “I never admitted I was such an undraped, uneuphonious, square-cornered word as that.”

“Well, if a forger isn’t a crook, then who is?  The business of those forged letters of Thomas Jefferson, do you think I can stand for that?”

The young man was in earnest, deadly earnest; yet he could not help his wide mouth tilting slightly upward to the right.  Plainly there was something here that amused him.

“But, Clara, you don’t seem to understand that business—­and you don’t seem to understand me.”

“No, I must say I don’t!” she said caustically.