“And yet,” she said slowly, “you are piqued—­piqued that another should have won where you failed—­even if the prize isn’t just what you might wish.”

Langhorne assented by silence.  “Hartley,” she went on at length, “you said a moment ago you had tried to forget me—­”

“But can’t,” he cut in with almost passionate fierceness.  “That was what hurt me when I—­er—­heard that you had gone with Murtha to that dinner of Dorgan’s.  I couldn’t help trying to warn you of it.  I know Martin neglects you.  But I was mad—­mad clean through when I saw you playing with Carton a few months ago.  I don’t know anything about it—­don’t want to.  Maybe he was innocent and you were tempting him.  I don’t care.  It angered me—­angered me worse than ever when I saw later that he was winning with Margaret Ashton.  Everywhere, he seemed to be crossing my trail, to be my nemesis.  I—­I wish I was Dorgan—­I wish I could fight.”

Langhorne checked himself before he said too much.  As it was I saw that it had been he who had told Mrs. Ogleby that the Black Book existed.  He had not told her that he had made it, if in fact he had, and she had let the thing out, never thinking Langhorne had been the eavesdropper, but supposing it must be Carton.

“Why—­why did you go to that dinner with Murtha?” he asked finally, with a trace of reproach in his tone.

“Why?  Why not?” she answered defiantly.  “What do I care about Martin?  Why should I not have my—­my freedom, too?  I went because it was wild, unconventional, perhaps wrong.  I felt that way.  If—­ if I had felt that you cared—­perhaps—­I could have been—­more discreet.”

“I do care,” he blurted out.  “I—­I only wish I had known you as well as I do now—­before you married—­that’s all.”

“Is there no way to correct the mistake?” she asked softly.  “Must marriage end all—­all happiness?”

Langhorne said nothing, but I could almost hear his breathing over the vocaphone, which picked up and magnified even whispers.

“Mary,” he said in a deep, passionate voice, “I—­I will defend you—­from this Murtha thing—­if it ever gets out.  I know it is always on your mind—­that you couldn’t keep away from that trial for fear that Carton, or Murtha, or somebody might say something by chance or drop some hint about it.  Trust me.”

“Then we can be—­friends?”

“Lovers!” he cried fiercely.

There was a half-smothered exclamation over the faithful little vocaphone, a little flurried rustle of silk and a long, passionate sigh.

“Hartley,” she whispered.

“What is it, Mary?” he asked tensely.

“We must be careful.  Carton must be defeated.  He must not have the power—­to use that—­record.”

“No,” ground out Langhorne.  “Wait—­he shall not.  By the way, aren’t those orchids gorgeous?”

The encore had ceased and over the vocaphone we could hear gaily chatting couples wandering into the conservatory.  The two conspirators rose and parted silently, without exciting suspicion.