break it to her that he was a great and
famous man. Then perhaps she would be sorry she had said what she had
said in the cab. Seeing he had made up his mind that his relationship
to her in the future would be that of an affectionate brother, there
would be no harm in also letting her know about Sylvia. That also
might be good for her.

They walked two blocks before Ann spoke. Matthew, anticipating a
pleasurable conversation, felt no desire to hasten matters.

"How intimate are you with him?" she demanded. "I don't think he would
have said that to a mere acquaintance."

"I'm not a mere acquaintance," said Matthew. "I've known him a long
time."

"You never told me," complained Ann.

"Didn't know it would interest you," replied Matthew.

He waited for further questions, but they did not come. At
Thirty-fourth Street he saved her from being run over and killed, and
again at Forty-second Street. Just inside the park she stopped
abruptly and held out her hand.

"Tell him," she replied, "that if he is really serious about finding
Sylvia, I may--I don't say I can--but I may be able to help him."

He did not take her hand, but stood stock still in the middle of the
path and stared at her.

"You!" he said. "You know her?"

She was prepared for his surprise. She was also prepared--not with a
lie, that implies evil intention. Her only object was to have a talk
with the gentleman and see what he was like before deciding on her
future proceedings--let us say, with a plausible story.

"We crossed on the same boat," she said. "We found there was a good
deal in common between us. She--she told me things." When you came to
think it out it was almost the truth.

"What is she like?" demanded Matthew.

"Oh, just--well, not exactly--" It was an awkward question. There
came to her relief the reflection that there was really no need for her
to answer it.

"What's it got to do with you?" she said.

"I am Aston Rowant," said Matthew.

The Central Park, together with the universe in general, fell away and
disappeared. Somewhere out of chaos was sounding a plaintive voice:
"What is she like? Can't you tell me? Is she young or old?"

It seemed to have been going on for ages. She made one supreme
gigantic effort, causing the Central Park to reappear, dimly, faintly,
but it was there again. She was sitting on a seat. Matthew--Aston
Rowant, whatever it was--was seated beside her.

"You've seen her? What i