“Yes.  I want you to step over here among the trees, where nobody can interrupt us.”

Dysart followed more slowly; came to a careless halt: 

“Well, what the devil do you want?” he demanded insolently.

“I’ll tell you.  I’ve had an encounter with a mask who mistook me for you....  And she has said—­several things—­under that impression.  She still believes that I am you.  I asked her to wait for me over there by those oaks.  Do you see where I mean?” He pointed and Dysart nodded coolly.  “Well, then, I want you to go back there—­find her, and act as though it had been you who heard what she said, not I.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly that.  The girl ought never to know that what she said was heard and—­and understood, Dysart, by any man in the world except the blackguard I’m telling this to.  Now, do you understand?”

He stepped nearer: 

“The girl is Sylvia Quest. Now, do you understand, damn you!”

A stray glimmer from the distant lanterns fell across Dysart’s masked visage.  The skin around the mouth was loose and ashy, the dry lips worked.

“That was a dirty trick of yours,” he stammered; “a scoundrelly thing to do.”

“Do you suppose that I dreamed for an instant that she was convicting herself and you?” said Duane in bitter contempt.  “Go and manufacture some explanation of my conduct as though it were your own.  Let her have that much peace of mind, anyway.”

“You young sneak!” retorted Dysart.  “I suppose you think that what you have heard will warrant your hanging around my wife.  Try it and see.”

“Good God, Dysart!” he said, “I never thought you were anything more vicious than what is called a ‘dancing man.’  What are you, anyhow?”

“You’ll learn if you tamper with my affairs,” said Dysart.  He whipped off his mask and turned a corpse-like visage on the younger man.  Every feature of his face had altered:  his good looks were gone, the youth in his eyes had disappeared, only a little evil lustre played over them; and out of the drawn pallor Duane saw an old man peering, an old man’s lips twitching back from uneven and yellowed teeth.

“Mallett,” he said, “you listen to me.  Keep your investigating muzzle out of my affairs; forget what you’ve ferreted out; steer clear of me and mine.  I want no scandal, but if you raise a breath of it you’ll have enough concerning yourself to occupy you.  Do you understand?”

“No,” said Duane mechanically, staring at the man before him.

“Well, then, to be more precise, if you lift one finger to injure me you’ll cut a figure in court....  And you can marry her later.”

“Who?”

“My wife.  I don’t think Miss Seagrave will stand for what I’ll drag you through if you don’t keep clear of me!”

Duane gazed at him curiously: 

“So that is what you are, Dysart,” he said aloud to himself.