Elizabeth’s face was full of concern.

“Go on.”

“He asked me twice if I wasn’t Mr. Romilly.  I assured him that he was mistaken.  I don’t think I gave myself away.  The next day he went to see the girl I was with, Martha Grimes.”

“Well, what did she tell him?”

“She told him that she had been typing my work for over a month, that I had come from Jamaica, and that my name was Merton Ware.”

Elizabeth gazed into the fire for several moments, and Philip watched her.  It was a woman’s face, grave and thoughtful, a little perturbed just then, as though by some unwelcome thought.  Presently she looked back at him, looked into his eyes long and earnestly.

“My friend,” she said, “you are like no one else on earth.  Perhaps you are one of those horrible people who have what they call an unholy influence over my sex.  You have known this girl for a matter of a few days, and she lies for you.  And there’s five hundred dollars reward.  I suppose she knew about that?”

“Yes, she knew,” he admitted.  “She simply isn’t that sort.  I suppose I realised that, or I shouldn’t have been kind to her.”

“It’s a puzzle,” she went on.  “I think there must be something in you of the weakling, you know, something that appeals to the mothering instinct in women.  I know that my first feeling for you was that I wanted to help you.  Tell me what you think of yourself, Mr. Philip Merton Ware?  Are you a faithful person?  Are you conscientious?  Have you a heart, I wonder?  How much of the man is there underneath that strong frame of yours?  Are you going to take just the things that are given you in life, and make no return?  For the moment, you see, I am forgetting that you are my friend and that I like you.  I am thinking of you from the point of view of an actress—­as a psychical problem.  Philip, you idiot!” she broke off, suddenly stamping her foot, “don’t sit there looking at me with your great eyes.  Tell me you are glad I’ve come back.  Tell me you feel something, for goodness’ sake!”

He was on his knees before she could check him, his arms, his lips praying for her.  She thrust him back.

“It was my fault,” she declared, “but don’t, please.  Yes, of course you have feelings.  I don’t know why you tempted me to that little outburst.”

“You’ll tempt me to more than that,” he cried passionately.  “Do you think it’s for your help that I’ve thought of you?  Do you think it’s because you’re an angel to me, because you’ve comforted me in my darkest, most miserable hours that I’ve dreamed of you and craved for you?  There’s more than that in my thoughts, dear.  It’s because you are you, yourself, that I’ve longed for you through the aching hours of the night, that I’ve sat and written like a man beside himself just for the joy of thinking that the words I wrote would be spoken by you.  Oh! if you want me to tell you what I feel—­”

She suddenly leaned forward, took his head between her hands and kissed his forehead.