They were thus engaged when Matilda returned.  She was all a-tremble.  Behind her, holding her arm, was a smallish, sharp-faced young man.

“He—­he came in with the roast,” Matilda stammered wildly.

Mr. Pyecroft had sprung up from the bed.

“And who is he?”

“Mr. Mayfair, of the ‘Record,’” answered the young man, loosing Matilda and stepping forward.

Mrs. De Peyster shivered frantically down beneath the bedclothes, her see-sawing hopes once more at the bottom.  Mary leaned limply back in the shadow and hid her face.

“He tried to question me—­and he made me bring him—­” Matilda was chattering.

“May I inquire what it is you wish, Mr. Mayfair?” requested Mr. Pyecroft—­and Matilda fled.

“You may,” rapidly said the undeceivable Mr. Mayfair.  Mr. Mayfair had learned and made his own one of the main tricks of that method of police inquisition known as the “third degree”:  to hurl a fact, or a suspicion with all the air of its being the truth, with bomb-like suddenness into the face of the unprepared suspect.  “I know Jack De Peyster has made a runaway marriage!  I know he and his wife are living secretly in this house!”

“Why, this news is simply astounding!” exclaimed Mr. Pyecroft.

“Come, now.  Bluffing won’t work with me.  You see, I’m on to it all!”

“I presume it’s a newspaper story you’re after?” Mr. Pyecroft inquired politely.

“Of course!”

“Then”—­in the same polite tone—­“if you know it all, why don’t you print it?”

“I want the heart-story of the runaway lovers,” declared Mr. Mayfair.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Mayfair,” Mr. Pyecroft suggested gently, “that you are the one who is only bluffing.  You have a suspicion, and are trying to find evidence to support it.”

“I know, I tell you!”

“Then may I inquire to whom young Mr. De Peyster is married?”

“I know all right!”

“Ah, then, you don’t really know,” said Mr. Pyecroft mildly.

“I know, I tell you!” Mr. Mayfair repeated in his sharp, third-degree manner.

“Then why trouble us?  Why not, as I have already suggested, print it?”

“I’m here to see them!” Mr. Mayfair said peremptorily.  Then his tone became soft, diplomatic.  “The housekeeper spoke about referring me to her brother.  You are her brother, I suppose?”

“I am.”

Mr. Mayfair smiled persuasively.  “If you would tell me what you know about them, and lead me to where they are, my paper would be quite willing to be liberal.  Say twenty dollars.”

“I’d accept it gladly,” said Mr. Pyecroft, “but I know nothing of the matter.”

“One hundred,” bid Mr. Mayfair.

“I would have done it for twenty, if I could.  But I couldn’t do it for a thousand.  They are not here.”

“I know better!” snapped Mr. Mayfair, his manner sharp again.  “Who’s that?” he demanded suspiciously, pointing at Mary’s shadow-veiled figure.