the stairs, turning over everything that had been said and done during
the two hours since he entered her room. As he reached the top, a sudden
suspicion shot through him. He stopped short, almost breathlessly, then
stood for several moments as if uncertain what to do, the suspicion
gaining ground with every second; then suddenly, unable to bear the
suspense it had created, ran down the stairs again. Sylvia's door was
closed; he knocked.

"All right, just a minute," came the ready answer. A minute later the
door was thrown open, and Sylvia stood in it, wrapped in a white satin
dressing-gown edged with soft fur, her dark hair falling over her
shoulders, her neck and arms bare. She drew back, the quick red color
flooding her cheeks.

"_Austin!"_ she exclaimed; "I never thought of your coming back--I
supposed, of course, it was one of the girls. I can't--you mustn't--"
But Sylvia was too much mistress of herself and woman of the world to
remain embarrassed long in any situation. She recovered herself before
Austin did.

"What has happened?" she asked quickly; "is any one ill?"

"No--Sylvia--what were those papers you gave me to burn?"

"Waste--rubbish. Go to bed, Austin, and don't frighten me out of my wits
again by coming and asking me silly questions."

"What kind of waste paper? Please be a little more explicit."

"How did you happen to come back to ask me such a thing--what made you