“I have not forgotten—­anything.”  I pulled myself up short.  This was hardly loyalty to Richey.  His voice came through the window just then, and perhaps I was wrong, but I thought she raised her head to listen.

“Look at this hand,” he was saying.  “Regular pianola:  you could play it with your feet.”

“He’s a dear, isn’t he?” Alison said unexpectedly.  “No matter how depressed and downhearted I am, I always cheer up when I see Richey.”

“He’s more than that,” I returned warmly.  “He is the most honorable fellow I know.  If he wasn’t so much that way, he would have a career before him.  He wanted to put on the doors of our offices, Blakeley and McKnight, P. B. H., which is Poor But Honest.”

From my comparative poverty to the wealth of the girl beside me was a single mental leap.  From that wealth to the grandfather who was responsible for it was another.

“I wonder if you know that I had been to Pittsburg to see your grandfather when I met you?” I said.

“You?” She was surprised.

“Yes.  And you remember the alligator bag that I told you was exchanged for the one you cut off my arm?” She nodded expectantly.  “Well, in that valise were the forged Andy Bronson notes, and Mr. Gilmore’s deposition that they were forged.”

She was on her feet in an instant.  “In that bag!” she cried.  “Oh, why didn’t you tell me that before?  Oh, it’s so ridiculous, so—­so hopeless.  Why, I could—­”

She stopped suddenly and sat down again.  “I do not know that I am sorry, after all,” she said after a pause.  “Mr. Bronson was a friend of my father’s.  I—­I suppose it was a bad thing for you, losing the papers?”

“Well, it was not a good thing,” I conceded.  “While we are on the subject of losing things, do you remember—­do you know that I still have your gold purse?”

She did not reply at once.  The shadow of a column was over her face, but I guessed that she was staring at me.

“You have it!” She almost whispered.

“I picked it up in the street car,” I said, with a cheerfulness I did not feel.  “It looks like a very opulent little purse.”

Why didn’t she speak about the necklace?  For just a careless word to make me sane again!

“You!” she repeated, horror-stricken.  And then I produced the purse and held it out on my palm.  “I should have sent it to you before, I suppose, but, as you know, I have been laid up since the wreck.”

We both saw McKnight at the same moment.  He had pulled the curtains aside and was standing looking out at us.  The tableau of give and take was unmistakable; the gold purse, her outstretched hand, my own attitude.  It was over in a second; then he came out and lounged on the balcony railing.

“They’re mad at me in there,” he said airily, “so I came out.  I suppose the reason they call it bridge is because so many people get cross over it.”