"But what good is it doing him?" I asked, wondering what moment the subject of our talk might step up into that room in person and add to my perplexities.
"No good whatever," declared my stubborn-eyed young friend, "for he'll never, never, be able to do what he intends to do!"
"Of course he won't," I concurred. "But tell me about this other man, the man you want to marry."
"He's everything that is brave and strong!"
"They always are," I promptly agreed. "But tell me something more definite. Where is he? And what is he?"
I could see a smile of disdain on her moody young lips, at that practical American question, as she sat there, apparently weighing in her own mind what she ought to tell me and what she ought to keep to herself. I suddenly remembered the unwelcome visitor who had forced his way into the room of the four-poster. And the possibility of the coincidence almost took my breath away.
"That young man's name doesn't happen to be McClone, does it?" I asked.
"No," was the girl's decisive reply.
"Then what is it?"
