“Well, perhaps I can’t blame you,” he admitted soothingly, “for I don’t always understand myself.  But really, my dear, you’re not seeing this in the right light.  Oh, I’m not going to defend myself.  It’s sad, very sad, but I’ll confess I’m no chromo of sweet and haloed rectitude to be held up for the encouragement and beatification of young John D. Rockefeller’s Bible Class.  Still, I get my living quite as worthily as many of the guests who grace”—­with a light wave of his hand about the great chamber—­“this noble habitation.  Though,” in a grieved tone, “I’ll confess some of my methods are not yet adequately recognized and protected by law.”

“Won’t you ever take anything seriously?” she cried in exasperation.

“Besides yourself, what is there to take seriously?”

“Don’t consider me in your calculations, if you please!” And then with sudden suspicion:  “See here—­you’re not here to try any of your tricks on this house, or on Mrs. De Peyster!”

“I was thinking,” said he, smiling about the room, “that you might hide me here till the police become infatuated with some other party.  A fashionable house closed for the summer—­nothing could possibly be superior for my purposes.”

“I’d never do it!  Besides, Mrs. De Peyster’s housekeeper will be here.”

“But Mrs. De Peyster’s housekeeper would never know I was here.”

“I can’t stand your talk another minute,” she burst out.  “Go!”

He did not stir; continued to smile at her pleasantly.  “Oh, I’m not really asking the favor, Clara.  I’m pretty safe where I’m staying.”

“Go, I say!  And if you don’t care for your own danger, then at least consider mine.”

“Yours?”

“I’ve told you of Mrs. De Peyster’s attitude toward married—­”

“Then leave her, my dear.  Even though it wouldn’t be safe for you to be with me till the police resume their interrupted nap—­still, you can have your own flat and your own bank account.  Nothing would make me happier.”

“Understand this, Mr. Bradford,—­I’m going to have nothing to do with you!”

For a moment he sobered.  “Come, Clara:  give me a chance to make good—­”

“Will you turn straight?” she caught him up sharply.  “And will you fix up the affair of the Jefferson letters?”

“That last is a pretty stiff proposition; I don’t see how it’s to be done.  As to the first—­but, really, Clara,”—­smiling again appeasingly,—­“really, you take this thing altogether too seriously.”

“Too seriously!” She almost choked.  “Why—­why—­I’m through with you!  That’s final!  And I don’t dare stay here another minute!  Good-bye.”