The worry about Saunders came back. He was undoubtedly a detective,
and surely detectives did not without cause shadow ladies of good
social standing? Mark knew there was something wrong. He knew there
was danger to himself, to his heart, and to his peace; so he decided
that he had better go away at once. Then the face he had seen as she
stepped past him out of the tree rose up, and he heard again the voice
that had in it so much gratitude when she thanked him for his little
service.

"Damn it, man," he said to himself, "you can't be a coward! She needs
help; stay to give it." That was Mark's first and last struggle over
his long-delayed moving problem.

He met Saunders at breakfast the next morning. The detective must have
been thinking, too, for his glance at Mark held a trifle of suspicion.
Mark was too old a student of human nature to miss the significance of
the look, and Saunders was too young at his business entirely to
conceal his own feelings. He tried--but too late--and was foolish
enough to think he had not betrayed himself.

Mark made up his mind to profit by the suspicion.

"Good morning, Saunders. You are thinking of the lady in the veil?"

But Saunders was already back in his shell. He looked puzzled. "Veil?
Lady? Oh, yes. Sure I am. It would be very ungallant to forget her.
She's too pretty."

"How do you know? You didn't see her face."