"If you were to be discovered--what then?" she hazarded.

Murray Dodge looked at her significantly, but said nothing. Instead,
he turned and gazed silently at the ruffled waters of Woodlake.
There was no mistaking the utter hopelessness and grim determination
of the man.

"Why--why have you told so much to me, an absolute stranger?" she
asked, searching his face. "Might I not hand you over to the
detectives who, you say, will soon be looking for you?"

"You might," he answered quickly, "but you won't."

There was a note of appeal in his voice as he pursued slowly, not as
if seeking protection, but as if hungry for friendship and most of
all her friendship, "Mrs. Dunlap, I have heard what the people at
the hotel say is your story. I think I understand, as much as a man
can. Anyhow, I know that you can understand. I have reached a point
where I must tell some one or go insane. It is only a question of
time before I shall be caught. We are all caught. Tell me," he asked
eagerly, bending down closer to her with an almost breathless
intensity in his face as though he would read her thoughts, "am I
right? The story of you which I have heard since I came here is not
the truth, the whole truth. It is only half the truth--is it not?"

Constance felt that this man was dangerously near understanding her,
as no one yet had seemed to be. It set her heart beating wildly to
know that he did. And yet she was not afraid. Somehow, although she
did not betray the answer by a word or a look, she felt that she