n followed always by the troubled eyes and nervous manner that
he had learned to dread. He noticed then that never, of her own free
will, did she herself mention the man; never did she speak of him with
the old frank lightness as "Mary Jane."

By casual questions asked from time to time, Bertram had learned that
Arkwright never came there now, and that the song-writing together had
been given up. Curiously enough, this discovery, which would once have
filled Bertram with joy, served now only to deepen his distress. That
there was anything inconsistent in the fact that he was more frightened
now at the man's absence than he had been before at his presence,
did not occur to him. He knew only that he was frightened, and badly
frightened.

Bertram had not forgotten the evening after the operetta, and Billy's
tear-stained face on that occasion. He dated the whole thing, in fact,
from that evening. He fell to wondering one day if that, too, had
anything to do with Arkwright. He determined then to find out.
Shamelessly--for the good of the cause--he set a trap for Billy's unwary
feet.

Very adroitly one day he led the talk straight to Arkwright; then he
asked abruptly:

"Where is the chap, I wonder! Why, he hasn't shown up once since the
operetta, has he?"

Billy, always truthful,--and just now always embarrassed when
Arkwright's name was mentioned,--walked straight into the trap.

"Oh, yes; well, he was here once--the day after the operetta. I haven't
seen him since."

Bertram answered a light something, but his face grew a little white.
Now that the trap had been sprung and the victim caught, he almost
wished that he had not set any trap at all.

He knew now it was true. Arkwright had been with Billy the day after the
operetta, and her tears and her distress that evening had been caused by
something Arkwright had said. It was Arkwright's secret that she could
not tell. It was Arkwright to whom she must be fair. It was Arkwright's
sorrow that she "could not help--now."

Naturally, with these tools in his hands, and aided by days of brooding
and nights of sleeplessness, it did not take Bertram long to fashion The
Thing that finally loomed before him as The Truth.

He understood it all now. Music had conquered. Billy and Arkwright had
found that they loved each other. On the day after the operetta, they
had met, and had had some sort of scene together--doubtless Arkwright
had declared his love. That was the "secret