" Mary replied pleasantly, as she advanced into the
room. She gave a glance toward the other visitor, who was of a slenderer
form, with a thin, keen face, and recognized him instantly as Demarest,
who had taken part against her as the lawyer for the store at the time
of her trial, and who was now holding the office of District Attorney.
She went to the chair at the desk, and seated herself in a leisurely
fashion that increased the indignation of the fuming Inspector. She did
not trouble to ask her self-invited guests to sit.

"To whom do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Inspector?" she remarked
coolly. It was noticeable that she said whom and not what, as if she
understood perfectly that the influence of some person brought him on
this errand.

"I have come to have a few quiet words with you," the Inspector
declared, in a mighty voice that set the globes of the chandeliers
a-quiver. Mary disregarded him, and turned to the other man.

"How do you do, Mr. Demarest?" she said, evenly. "It's four years since
we met, and they've made you District Attorney since then. Allow me to
congratulate you."

Demarest's keen face took on an expression of perplexity.

"I'm puzzled," he confessed. "There is something familiar, somehow,
about you, and yet----" He scrutinized appreciatively the loveliness of
the girl with her classically beautiful face, that was still individual
in its charm, the slim graces of the tall, lissome form. "I should have
remembered you. I don't understand it."

"Can't you guess?" Mary questioned, somberly. "Search your memory, Mr.
Demarest."

Of a sudden, the face of the District Attorney lightened.

"Why," he exclaimed, "you are--it can't be--yes--you are the girl,
you're the Mary Turner whom I--oh, I know you now."

There was an enigmatic smile bending the scarlet lips as she answered.

"I'm the girl you mean, Mr. Demarest, but, for the rest, you don't know
me--not at all!"

The burly figure of the Inspector of Police, which had loomed motionless
during this colloquy, now advanced a step, and the big voice boomed
threatening. It was very rough and weighted with authority.

"Young woman," Burke said, peremptorily, "the Twentieth Century Limited
leaves Grand Central Station at four o'clock. It arrives in Chicago at
eight-fifty-five to-morrow morning." He pulled a massive gold watch
from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it, thrust it back, and concluded
ponderously: "You will just about have time