clear complexion with slight olive tinge to it, a strong, intelligent
face, not strictly beautiful, yet strangely attractive, the forehead low
and broad, the nose straight, the lips full and inclined to smile.
Suddenly a vague remembrance brought recognition.

"Why, I know you now."

"Indeed!" the single word a note of undisguised surprise.

"Yes; I thought you looked oddly familiar all the time, but couldn't for
the life of me connect up. You're Christie Maclaire."

"Am I?" her eyes filled with curiosity.

"Of course you are. You needn't be afraid of me if you want it kept
secret, but I know you just the same. Saw you at the 'Gaiety' in
Independence, maybe two months ago. I went three times, mostly on your
account. You've got a great act, and you can sing too."

She stood in silence, still looking fixedly at him, her bosom rising and
falling, her lips parted as if to speak. Apparently she did not know what
to do, how to act, and was thinking swiftly.

"Mr. Keith," she said, at last in decision, "I am going to ask you to blot
that all out--to forget that you even suspect me of being Christie
Maclaire, of the Gaiety."

"Why, certainly; but would you explain?"

"There is little enough to explain. It is sufficient that I am here alone