he room.

"Jack," she cried, her voice thrilling with passion, "I don't care what
you are. I don't care what you think. I will never, never forget what
you have done for me."

Maitland flung a swift glance at McNish and was startled at the look of
rage, of agonised rage, that convulsed his face.

"My dear Annette," he said, with a light laugh, "don't make too much of
it. I was glad to help Tony and you. Why shouldn't I help old friends?"

As he was speaking they heard the sound of a door closing and looking
about, Jack found that McNish had gone, to be followed by Tony a moment
or two later.

"Oh, never mind him," cried Annette, answering Jack's look of surprise.
"He has to go to work. And it doesn't matter in the least."

Jack was vaguely disturbed by McNish's sudden disappearance.

"But, Annette," he said, "I don't want McNish to think that I--that
you--"

"What?" She leaned toward him, her face all glowing with warm and eager
light, her eyes aflame, her bosom heaving. "What, Jack?" she whispered.
"What does it matter what he thinks?"

He put out his hands. With a quick, light step she was close to him, her
face lifted up in passionate surrender. Swiftly Jack's arms went around
her and he drew her toward him.

"Annette, dear," he said, and his voice was quiet and kind, too kind.
"You are a dear girl and a good girl, and I am glad to have helped you
and shall always be glad to help you."

The door opened and Tony slipped into the room. With passionate
violence, Annette threw away the encircling arms.

"Ah!" she cried, a sob catching her voice. "You--you shame me. No--I
shame myself." Rigid, with head flung back, she stood before him, her
eyes ablaze with passionate anger, her hands clenched tight. She had
flung herself at him and had been rejected.

"What the devil is this?" cried Tony, striding toward them. "What is he
doing to you, Annette?"

"He?" cried Annette, her breath coming in sobs. "To me? Nothing! Keep
out of it, Tony." She pushed him fiercely aside. "He has done nothing!
No! No! Nothing but what is good and kind. Ah! kind. Yes, kind." Her
voice rose shrill in scorn of herself and of him. "Oh, yes, he is kind."
She laughed wildly, then broke into passionate tears. She turned from
them and fled to her room, leaving the two men looking at each other.

"Poor child," said Jack, the first to recover speech. "She is quite all
in. She has had two hard weeks of it."

"Two hard weeks," repeated To