Constance felt that this man was dangerously near understanding her, as no one yet had seemed to be.  It set her heart beating wildly to know that he did.  And yet she was not afraid.  Somehow, although she did not betray the answer by a word or a look, she felt that she could trust him.

Through the door of escape from the penalty of her forgeries, which Carlton Dunlap had thrown open for her by the manner of his death, Constance had passed unsuspected.  To return to New York, however, had become out of the question.  She had plenty of money for her present needs, although she thought it best to say nothing about it lest some one might wonder and stumble on the truth.

She had closed up the little studio apartment, and had gone to a quiet resort in the pines.  Here, at least, she thought she might live unobserved until she could plan out the tangled future of her life.

There had seemed to be no need to conceal her identity, and she had felt it better not to do so.  She knew that her story would follow her, and it had.  She was prepared for that.  She was prepared for the pity and condescension of the gossips and had made up her mind to stand aloof.

Then came a day when a stranger had registered at the hotel.  She had not noticed him especially, but it was not long before she realized that he was noticing her.  Was he a detective?  Had he found out the truth in some uncanny way?  She felt sure that the name on the hotel register, Malcolm Dodd, was not his real name.

Constance had not been surprised when the head waiter had seated the young man at her table.  No doubt he had manoeuvred it so.  Nor did she avoid the guarded acquaintance that resulted in the natural course of events.

One afternoon, shortly after his arrival, she had encountered him unexpectedly on a walk through the pines.  He appeared surprised to meet her, yet she knew intuitively that he had been following her.  Still, it was so different now to have any one seek her company that, in spite of her uncertainty of him, she almost welcomed his speaking.

There was a certain deference in his manner, too, which did not accord with Constance’s ideas of a detective.  Yet he did know something of her.  How much!  Was it merely what the rest of the world knew?  She could not help seeing that the man was studying her, while she studied him.  There was a fascination about it, a fascination that the human mystery always possesses for a woman.  On his part, he showed keenly his interest in her.

Constance had met him with more frankness as she encountered him often during the days that followed.  She had even tried to draw him out to talk of himself.

“I came here,” he had said one day when they were passing the spot where he had overtaken her first, “without knowing a soul, not expecting to meet any one I should care for, indeed hoping to meet no one.”

Constance had said nothing, but she felt that at last he was going to crash down the barrier of reserve.  He continued earnestly, “Somehow or other I have come to enjoy these little walks.”