unconvinced. He could not have explained why. All his life he had found
his intuitions superior to his logical deductions. They had led him to
his present exalted position and had kept him there. No sooner had this
inner self refused to accept Mrs. Marteen's story than his mind began
supplying reasons for her departure--and the very first held him
spellbound. Was it another move in her perpetual game? Was she on the
track of someone's secret? Was her scheming mind now following some new
clew that must lead to the discovery of a hidden or forgotten crime--the
burial place of some well entombed family skeleton? He shivered.

Mrs. Marteen observed him narrowly.

"Mr. Gard is cold, Dorothy. Send for the tea, dear--or will you have
something else? Really, _you_ look like the patient who should seek
climate and rest."

"Perhaps you're right," he said slowly. "Perhaps I _will_ go--perhaps
with you. It would be pleasant to have your society for so many weeks,
uninterrupted and almost alone. I'll think of it--if I can arrange my
affairs."

He had been watching her closely, and seemed to surprise in the depths
of her eyes and the slow assuming of her impenetrable manner, that his
suggestion was far from receiving approval.

"But, my dear sir," she answered, "much as that would be my pleasure,
would it be wise for you? Everyone tells me the next few weeks will be
crucial. Your presence may be needed in Washington."

"Well, I suppose it will," he retorted almost angrily. "But I've a