could trust him.

Through the door of escape from the penalty of her forgeries, which
Carlton Dunlap had thrown open for her by the manner of his death,
Constance had passed unsuspected. To return to New York, however,
had become out of the question. She had plenty of money for her
present needs, although she thought it best to say nothing about it
lest some one might wonder and stumble on the truth.

She had closed up the little studio apartment, and had gone to a
quiet resort in the pines. Here, at least, she thought she might
live unobserved until she could plan out the tangled future of her
life.

There had seemed to be no need to conceal her identity, and she had
felt it better not to do so. She knew that her story would follow
her, and it had. She was prepared for that. She was prepared for the
pity and condescension of the gossips and had made up her mind to
stand aloof.

Then came a day when a stranger had registered at the hotel. She had
not noticed him especially, but it was not long before she realized
that he was noticing her. Was he a detective? Had he found out the
truth in some uncanny way? She felt sure that the name on the hotel
register, Malcolm Dodd, was not his real name.

Constance had not been surprised when the head waiter had seated the
young man at her table. No doubt he had manoeuvred it so. Nor did
she avoid the guarded acquaintance that resulted in the natural
course of events.