er duty to say? She was living the life
of a British woman, she was as much a Gorgio in her daily existence as
this man be side her. Manitou was as much home--nay, it was a thousand
times more home--than the shifting habitat of the days when they
wandered from the Caspians to John o' Groat's.

For years all traces of the past had been removed as completely as
though the tide had washed over them; for years it had been so, until
the fateful day when she ran the Carillon Rapids. That day saw her whole
horizon alter; that day saw this man beside her enter on the stage of
her life. And on that very day, also, came Jethro Fawe out of the Past
and demanded her return.

That had been a day of Destiny. The old, panting, unrealized,
tempestuous longing was gone. She was as one who saw danger and faced
it, who had a fight to make and would make it.

What would happen if she told this man that she was a Gipsy--the
daughter of a Gipsy ruler, which was no more than being head of a clan
of the world's transients, the leader of the world's nomads. Money--her
father had that, at least--much money; got in ways that could not bear
the light at times, yet, as the world counts things, not dishonestly;
for more than one great minister in a notable country in Europe had
commissioned him, more than one ruler and crowned head had used him
when "there was trouble in the Balkans," or the "sick man of Europe"
was worse, or the Russian Bear came prowling. His service had ever
been secret service, when he lived the life of the caravan and the open
highway. He had no stable place among the men of all nations, and yet
secret rites and mysteries and a language which was known from Bokhara
to Wandsworth, and from Waikiki to Valparaiso, gave him dignity of a
kind, clothed him with importance.

Yet she wanted to tell this man beside her the whole truth, and see
what he would do. Would he turn his face away in disgust? What had she
a right to tell? She knew well that her father would wish her to keep
to that secrecy which so far had sheltered them--at least until Jethro
Fawe's coming.

At last she turned and looked him in the eyes, the flush gone from her
face.

"I'm not Irish--do I look Irish?" she asked quietly, though her heart
was beating unevenly.

"You look more Irish than anything else, except, maybe, Slav or
Hungarian--or Gipsy," he said admiringly and unwittingly.

"I have Gipsy blood in me," she answered slowly, "but no Irish or
Hunga