"Thank you so much," she murmured, rising.

"Don't go!" he exclaimed, his request a command. "I want to talk with
you. Don't you know you're the first person, man or woman, who has _held
me up_--me, Marcus Gard! I don't see how you had the nerve. I don't see
how you had the idea." He changed his bullying tone suddenly. "I wish--I
wish you'd _talk_ to me. I'm as curious as any woman."

Mrs. Martin Marteen moved toward the door.

"I'm selling you your autographs--not my autobiography. I'm _so_ glad to
have seen you. Good afternoon, Mr. Gard."

She was gone, and the Great Man had not the presence of mind to escort
his visitor to the door or ring for attendance. He remained standing,
staring after her. His gaze shifted to the table, where, either by
accident or design, the photographs remained, scattered. He chuckled
grimly. Accident! Nothing was accidental with that Machiavelli in
petticoats. She knew he would read those accursed lines, and realize
with every sentence that in truth she was "letting him down easy." There
was no danger of his backing out of his bargain. Seated at the desk, he
perused his folly, and grunted with exasperation. Well, after all, what
of it? He had coveted a masterpiece; now he was to have two in one--the
contemplation of his own blunder, and Mrs. Marteen's criminal
genius--cheap at the price. How long had this been going on? Whom had
she victimized? And how in the world had she been able to obtain the
whole correspondence? That his lawyers should have been deceived by
copies was not so surprising--they never dreamed of a substitution; the
matter, not the letter, was proof enough to them of genuineness. But--he
thumped his forehead. He had been staying with friends at Newport at the