ally, she suggested, Suppose you tell me the girl's name.
There was another pause, during which Campaspe had time to perceive how altogether miserable the boy was. He appeared to be almost ready to cry. Was he trying to make up his mind whether he could trust her? Would she, she knew he was asking himself, prove to be another illusion? At last he spoke, almost in a whisper and in a tone which bestowed an accolade upon the name.
Alice Blake.
Campaspe, sitting bolt upright, pouring tea, dropped the pot crashing into the delicate Sevres cup beneath. The scalding water flooded the table, unnoticed by her. Falling back against the cushions, she began to laugh, a loud, pealing mirthless laugh, a more than terrifying laugh. Harold bent over her.
What is it, Campaspe? What is the matter?
She stopped laughing as suddenly as she had begun.
I think, Harold, she said very quietly, that I am acquainted with the lady. The name, however, may not be uncommon. Do you know where she lives?
56 East Thirty-seventh Street.
She is my sister, Campaspe announced.
Not altogether without sympathy, she watched the blood mount to the boy's face, but her sympathy was mingled with another emotion. She could
