"I'm perfectly willing, if you'll do likewise," she replied instantly.

He looked at her thoughtfully.

"Very well," he returned. "Let me see your hand and you shall see mine."

"This one?" she smiled, holding it up.

He leaned over and took the long, slim fingers in the tips of his
own--and she let him.

"It's mighty pretty," he said, with assumed gravity. "Am I to have it
in place of the facts--or along with them?"

"Neither at present," withdrawing her hand. "Business first, Mr.
Harleston--and cards on the table."

"You're to play," he smiled, "and whenever you will."

Ordinarily he made up his mind very quickly as to another's sincerity,
but she puzzled him. What was the game? And if there were no game so far
as she was concerned, how did she happen to be in the very midst of it,
and trying to recover--or to obtain--the cipher letter and the
photograph? It was a queer situation? the reasonable inferences were
against her. Yet--

"I hardly know where to begin," she was saying.

"Begin at the beginning," he advised.