Her pistol fell clattering to the floor.  It did not explode because it was not loaded.

“Now,” he said unsteadily, “will you give me my freedom?  I have waited for it—­not minutes—­but years—­six years.  I ask it now—­the freedom I enjoyed before I ever saw you.  Can you give it back to me?  Can you restore to me a capacity for happiness?  Can you give me a heart to love with—­love some woman, as other men love?  Is it very much I ask of you—­to give me a chance in life—­the chance I had before I ever saw you?”

Her big gray eyes seemed fascinated; he looked deep into them, smiling; and she turned white.

“Will you give me what I ask?” he said, still smiling.

She strove to speak; she could not, but her eyes never faltered.  Suddenly the color flooded her neck and cheeks to the hair, and the quick tears glimmered.

“I—­I did not understand; I was too young to be cruel,” she faltered.  “How could I know what I was doing?  Or what—­what you did?”

“I?  To you?”

“Y-yes.  Did you think that I escaped heart free?  Do you realize what my punishment was—­to—­to marry—­and remember!  If I was too young, too inexperienced to know what I was doing, I was not too young to suffer for it!”

“You mean—­” He strove to control his voice, but the sweet, fearless gray eyes met his; the old flame leaped in his veins.  He reached out to steady himself and his hand touched hers—­that soft, white hand that had held him all these years in the hollow of its palm.

“Did you ever love me?” he demanded.

Her eyes, wet with tears, met his straight as the starry gaze of a child.

“Yes,” she said.

His hand tightened over hers; she swayed a moment, quivering from head to foot; then drawing a quick, sobbing breath, closed her eyes, imprisoned in his arms; and, after a long while, aroused, she looked up at him, her divine eyes unclosing dreamily.

“Somebody is hammering at the front door,” he breathed.  “Listen!”

“I hear.  I believe it must be the Tracer of Lost Persons.”

“What?”

“Only a Mr. Keen.”

“O Lord!” said Kerns faintly, and covered his face with her fragrant hands.

Very tenderly, very gravely, she drew her hands away, and, laying them on his shoulders, looked up at him.

“You—­you know what there is in your suit case,” she faltered; “are you a burglar, dear?”

“Ask the Tracer of Lost Persons,” said Kerns gently, “what sort of a criminal I am!”

They stood together for one blissful moment listening to the loud knocking below, then, hand in hand, they descended the dark stairway to admit the Tracer of Lost Persons.

CHAPTER XVII

On the thirteenth day of March, 1906, Kerns received the following cable from an old friend: 

     “Is there anybody in New York who can find two criminals for me?  I
     don’t want to call in the police.