coat, he saw the little note pinned to the lapel, and seized it eagerly.
Surely this would tell him something!

But no, there was only the message that she had arrived safely, and her
thanks. Stay, she had signed her name "Mary." She had told him he might
call her that. Could it be that it was her real name, and that she had
meant to trust him with so much of her true story?

He pondered the delicate writing of the note, thinking how like her it
seemed, then he put the note in an inner pocket and thoughtfully lifted
out the evening clothes. It was then that he touched the silken lined
cloth of her dress, and he drew back almost as if he had ventured roughly
upon something sacred. Startled, awed, he looked upon it, and then with
gentle fingers lifted it and laid it upon his knee. Her dress! The one she
had worn to the dinner with him! What did it all mean? Why was it here,
and where was she?

He spread it out across his lap and looked at it almost as if it hid her
presence. He touched with curious, wistful fingers the lace and delicate
garniture about the waist, as if he would appeal to it to tell the story
of her who had worn it.

What did its presence here mean? Did it bear some message? He searched
carefully, but found nothing further. Had she reached a place of safety
where she did not need the dress? No, for in that case, why should she
have sent it to him? Had she been desperate perhaps, and----? But no, he
would not think such things of her.

Gradually, as he looked, the gown told its own story, as she had thought
it would: how she had been obliged to put on a disguise, and this was the