Again Graeme wrote, feverishly.

“I—­we—­are entirely free from prosecution of any kind?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes,” Constance murmured, with just a catch in her throat, as now that the excitement was over, she realized that he was free, independent of her again.

The telautograph had stopped.  No, it was starting again.  Had there been a slip!  Was the dream at last to turn to ashes?  They watched anxiously.

“Mrs. Dunlap,” the words unfolded, “I take my hat off to you.  You have put it across again.

“Drummond.”

Constance read it with a sense of overwhelming relief.  It was a magnanimous thing in Drummond.  Almost she forgave him for many of the bitter hours he had caused in the discharge of his duty.

As they looked at the writing they realized its import.  The detective had abandoned the long search.  It was as though he had put his “O.K.” on the agreement.

“We are no longer fugitives!” exclaimed Graeme, drawing in a breath that told of the weight lifted from him.

For an instant he looked down into her upturned face and read the conflict that was going on in her.  She did not turn away, as she had before.  It flashed over him that once, not long ago, she had talked in a moment of confidence of the loneliness she had felt since she had embarked as the rescuer of amateur criminals.

Graeme bent down and took her hand, as he had the first night when they had entered their strange partnership.

“Never—­never can I begin to pay you what I owe,” he said huskily, his face near hers.

He felt her warm breath almost on his cheek, saw the quick color come into her face, her breast rise and fall with suppressed emotion.  Their eyes met.

“You need not pay,” she whispered, “I am yours.”

THE END