As minutes passed the silence became more than he could endure. Why didn't she say something? Why didn't she flay him alive and be done with it? He could stand that; it would not be pleasant, of course, yet it could be borne. But no; she sat staring straight in front of her, wordless, even oblivious.

"Oh, say—go to it!" he blurted.

"I beg your pardon."

"Have it out; hand it to me—mop me up."

She turned to look at him briefly as they passed a brightly lighted corner, then resumed her former pose.

"Well, aren't you going to?" he pleaded.

"I don't know that there is anything for me to say," she answered.

"Yes, there is; you're full of it," insisted Bill. "I can tell by the way you're acting. I'll stand for it. Go on."

"I'm not sure that I care to, Mr. Marshall."

Her voice was not frigid; rather, it merely conveyed an idea of remoteness. It was as if she were at the other end of a thousand miles of wire.

"Anyhow, I'm sorry," he said.

To Mary that seemed to require no answer.

"Mighty sorry, Miss Norcross. I wouldn't have put you in that position for anything. I—I apologize."

But it appeared that she had again retired into the silences.

"Oh, be reasonable about it," he said in a begging tone. "Bawl me out and let's have it over with. That's the way Aunt Caroline and I do it."

"I am not your Aunt Caroline, Mr. Marshall."

"I know. But you're thinking just what she would think, so it amounts to the same thing. Please bawl me out."

"I don't know that it is one of my duties to do so," observed Mary. "I think perhaps we had better not discuss it at all."

Bill squirmed for the twentieth time. The air within the taxi was oppressive; he opened the window on his side with violent hands.

"Well, I apologized," he reminded her. "You might at least say whether you accept it or reject it or what."

"Why, I accept it," she said. "What else is there to do?"

"You might have left off the last part," he grumbled. "You don't have to accept it unless you want to. I'd sooner you didn't."

"But I already have."

"Well, you needn't."

"It's done, if you please."

Bill felt peevish. This was not a fair way of punishing him.

"If you're going to act that way I'll withdraw the apology," he declared.

"It is already accepted, so it is too late to withdraw anything, Mr. Marshall."

He was uncertain as to the soundness of this position, but it baffled him, nevertheless.

"Oh, all right," he agreed lamely. "Have it any way you like. I—I suppose Aunt Caroline will raise the devil, so I'll get it good from somebody, anyhow."

"You will tell her about it, then?" she asked.

"Who? Me? Do I act crazy?"

"Then you will leave it to your valet, perhaps," suggested Mary.

Bill involuntarily tensed his shoulder muscles.

"Pete? He doesn't dare. I'd slaughter him."

"Then how is your aunt going to know, Mr. Marshall?"

Bill turned and stared down at her.

"Why—why, you'll tell her!" he exclaimed.

It was Mary's turn to look upward at Bill, which she did steadily for several seconds.

"Once again, Mr. Marshall, I ask you, whose secretary am I?"

"Miss Norcross! You mean——"

"I mean that I do not peddle gossip," she said sharply.

Bill had seized her hand and was crushing it; when she managed to withdraw it her fingers were aching.

"You're an ace," he said joyously. "I thought, of course——"

"I do not think you had any business to believe I would tell," said Mary. "If I have given you any cause to think so I'm not aware of it."

"You're a whole fist full of aces!" he declared fervently.

But Mary had no intention of relinquishing any advantage that she held.

"I think I have been quite frank with you, Mr. Marshall, ever since I entered your employ. And that is more than you have been with me."

"Huh? How's that?"

"Have you forgotten what you told me this afternoon? You—you said you were going to a very private affair—very exclusive, you said."

Bill managed to twist a smile.

"So it was, until the police butted in."

"I assumed, of course, it was social," said Mary coldly.

"But I didn't say it was. Now, did I?"

"You allowed me to infer it. And that is the worst way of deceiving people."

"Oh, well, I'll make an apology on that, too. But if I'd told you the truth you'd have tried to stop me. You'd have roasted me, anyhow."

"I should have tried to persuade you not to go," she conceded.

"Sure. I knew it." And Bill grinned.

The taxi stopped in front of the Marshall home. He helped her out, paid the driver and followed her up the steps. His night-key effected a noiseless entrance. Once inside, Bill beckoned her to the library.

"I want to thank you for doing all you did," he said humbly. "I feel awfully mean about it."

"About getting arrested?"

"No. That's nothing. About dragging you to court. It was a mighty square thing for you to do. I'm grateful—honestly."

"I simply did it for business reasons, Mr. Marshall."

"Business?" he repeated, with a frown of disappointment.

"Of course. Don't you see the point?"

He shook his head.

"It's quite plain," she said. "My business is to see that you enter society. That is the reason for my employment. Anything that would interfere with that is naturally also my concern. If you participate in a brutal prize-fight——"

"Oh, wait. I wasn't in the ring, Miss Norcross. I was only looking on."

"If you attend a brutal prize-fight," she corrected, "and are arrested, and the papers are full of it, and your aunt learns of it, what becomes of your chances to enter society?"

"I see what you're driving at," he said slowly.

"Your chances would be nothing, of course. And with your chances gone you would have no need for a social secretary. Therefore, I would lose my position. So you will understand that I had a purely business interest in the matter, Mr. Marshall."

Confound her! She did not need to be so emphatic about putting it on that basis, thought Bill. He was trying to make her see that she had done something generous and fine, but she stubbornly insisted on having it otherwise.

"Well, anyhow, I'm much obliged," he repeated. "Next time I won't bother to send for bail."

"Next time?"

"Certainly. I'll just stay in the lockup, let the newspapers fill up on it and then I won't be able to get into society if I try. That's not a bad idea, come to think of it. Much obliged."

If she insisted on being unpleasant about this, he would show her. For the moment, Bill was very much of a spoiled child.

"Well," retorted Mary, "there isn't much danger of your ruining your social career so long as you follow your—other—career under a false name."

Bill glared. "Oh, I guess you'd do the same thing if you got in a tight place."

Mary began to turn pale under the freckles. Bill had startled her without himself being aware of it. He didn't know; he didn't suspect; it was nothing but an offhand and ill-tempered retort. But it awakened in Mary something she had been studiously endeavoring to forget; it had been flung so suddenly at her that it sounded like an accusation.

"Take it from me," he added, "there's many a sanctimonious high-brow in this burg who sports an alias on the side. I've got plenty of company."

Mary was seized with a fit of choking that compelled her to turn her head. She was rapidly becoming confused; she did not dare trust herself to speech. Why, she might even forget her wrong name!

Bill watched her for a moment, then shrugged and yawned.

"Well, I guess I'll call it a day, Miss Norcross. You can give any reason you like for what you did, but I'm going to keep on being much obliged." His voice had taken a more generous tone. "You're all right. Good night."

Mary watched his exit from the library, a curious expression in her eyes. Then suddenly she sat down and began to laugh, very quietly, yet rocking back and forth with the intensity of the attack.

"Oh, what a job I've got!" was the burden of Mary's thought.

She was in no hurry to go up-stairs to her room and the reason for this was evident when she caught the faint sound of the latchkey turning in the front door, which brought her to her feet and sent her running softly into the hall. She intercepted the valet as he was about to make a stealthy ascent of the staircase and motioned him into the library.

"Where's the boss?" whispered Pete.

"He has gone up-stairs. I want to talk to you a moment."

"Yes, miss."

Mary looked at him sharply; whenever he addressed her in that manner she was filled with a sensation of being mocked.

"Does Mr. Marshall attend many prize-fights?" she inquired.

Pete clasped his hands and pursed his lips.

"Well, between you and me, miss," he said, after an instant of deliberation, "I'm afraid he attends about all there are."

"Has he ever been arrested before?"

"Not that I can recall, miss. I'm quite sure this is the first time since I have been in his employ."

"Is he in the habit of associating with pugilists?"

Pete sighed and hesitated.

"If it's just between us, miss, why I'll say that he has his friends among such people. It's a very shocking thing; I've done my best to keep it away from his aunt. So far I think I've succeeded. I've tried very hard to persuade him to change his ways. I've labored with him; I've tried to get his mind turned to different things."

"Theology?" suggested Mary.

"Exactly," answered the valet. "But it's not an easy matter, miss. Mr. William is very set in his ways."

"But I thought you had told his aunt that he was interested in higher things."

"To encourage her," said Pete, glibly. "It was not what you'd call a falsehood. There had been times when he seemed interested, but never for very long. Still, I've always had hopes. His aunt is good enough to believe that I have a desirable influence over him. I hope it's true; I hope so."

It always puzzled Mary when the valet pursued this strain, and it puzzled her now. Ninety-nine out of a hundred men who talked thus she would have classed as hypocrites, but Pete did not seem to her to be exactly that. She viewed all his excellent protestations askance, yet she was not satisfied that hypocrisy was the true explanation.

"It seems a shame," he continued, "that it was necessary to bring you into touch with such an affair as to-night's. I wouldn't have thought of it if there had been any other way. I knew that you would be very much shocked, miss; very much surprised, too."

He watched her so closely that Mary wondered if he really suspected the truth—that she was neither quite so much shocked nor surprised as both he and Bill seemed to believe. That was her own secret and she intended to guard it at all costs.

"This affair of to-night," she observed, "was it particularly brutal?"

"No; I wouldn't say that," replied Pete, reflectively.

"Had it been going on very long?"

"Not very long, miss."

Mary thought for a moment before she framed the next question.

"Just an ordinary vulgar brawl between two ruffians, I take it?"

Pete unclasped his hands and made a quick gesture of dissent.

"Not at all; not at all. Why, it was a pip——"

He pulled himself up short and coughed. There was a gleam in Mary's gray eyes.

"Fortunately, it had not progressed far enough to become actually brutal," said Pete, and he showed for the first time since she had known him a trace of confusion.

"What were you doing there?" she demanded.

Pete soothed out a wrinkle in the rug with the toe of his shoe before he decided to meet her glance.

"It happened this way: I knew where he was going and I was trying to persuade him to stay away. You see, his aunt expects a great deal of me, miss, and I didn't want to do anything less than my duty. I followed him; I argued with him. In fact, we argued all the way to the place where it was being held."

And Pete was telling the literal truth. He and Bill had argued, heatedly. Bill had stubbornly asserted that the Harlem Holocaust would not last four rounds with Jimmy Jenkins, the Tennessee Wildcat, while it had been the contention of Pete that in less time than that the Wildcat would be converted into a human mop for the purpose of removing the resin from the floor of the ring.

"Failing to convert him, I take it that you went inside with him," remarked Mary.

"Exactly. As a matter of loyalty, of course. So long as there seemed to be any chance I would not desert. I am not the kind, miss, who believes in faith without works."

Which was again true, for Pete had translated his faith in the Harlem Holocaust into a wager that would have left him flat had the contentions of Bill reached a confirmation. Unfortunately, the police had canceled the bet.

"And how is it that you were not arrested, as well as Mr. Marshall?"

"There was much confusion. We became separated. I found myself running; I was carried along in the rush of the crowd. Before I knew it I was in the street again. And besides"—Pete made a gesture of appeal "it was necessary for somebody to see about obtaining bail, Miss Norcross."

"I'm sure it was very fortunate you were there," said Mary. "You seemed to understand exactly what to do."

But Pete declined to be further disconcerted. He was able to look at her without flinching this time.

"Just one more question," added Mary. "Is this Mr. Whaley whom I saw at court a particularly close friend of Mr. Marshall's?"

Pete drew a deep breath and launched upon another speech.

"It seems, miss, as nearly as I can learn, that for quite a long time the Whaley person has been known to Mr. William. I frequently took occasion——"

Mary interrupted him with a gesture.

"Never mind," she said. "I understand. You labored with him on that matter, also. I have no doubt that you prayed with him and preached at him. I am sure you did everything in your power. I won't embarrass you by asking for the details. Some day I feel certain your efforts to exert a good influence over Mr. Marshall will have better success."

"Thank you, miss," and Pete bowed.

"But meantime——" And as Mary leaned forward her knuckles were tapping firmly on the arm of the chair. "Meantime, if I may make a suggestion, it would be an excellent plan for you to remain away from prize-fights."

"Yes, miss."

"And it would be a very good thing for Mr. Marshall to do likewise—very good."

Pete bowed again and made a note of the fact that she had a significant way of tightly closing her lips.

"You're quite sure you understand?"

"Oh, quite—quite."

"Good night," said Mary.

Dismissal was so abrupt that there was nothing to do but accept it. And Pete was not in the least sorry to terminate the interview. In spots he had enjoyed it, but the spots had been infrequent. He was dissatisfied because he had never for an instant been master of it. Talking to Aunt Caroline was easier than talking to Bill's secretary, who did not seem to place a proper value on theology. Hang the business of being a valet, anyhow! Such were the reflections that crowded into his agile mind as he bowed himself out.

He paused on the staircase to consider the matter further. The more he thought about this interview with the social secretary the more it disturbed him. It had not been a matter of mere suggestions on her part; it was very like orders. He recognized a threat when he heard one, even though the threat might be veiled with ironical advice.

"Confound her!" muttered Pete. "That little bird is wise—too wise. I wouldn't object to her simply getting the deadwood on us, if she seemed willing to let it go at that. But she served notice on me that she might make use of it. And I believe she'd do it, if she once took it into her head. What Samson did to the pillars of the temple isn't a marker to the house-wrecking job she can do, once she decides to get busy at it."

Up-stairs, he opened the door to Bill's apartments and thrust his head inside.

"Bill!" he said, softly. "She's got the Indian sign on us."

"Come in and shut the door," growled a voice. "What did she say to you?"

Pete summarized the conversation that had taken place in the library.

"She's swinging a big stick," he said, in conclusion. "The worst of it is, she's got the goods. It isn't me alone who is supposed to stay away from prize fights. It's you."

"She can't dictate to me," declared Bill, sourly.

"Don't be too certain. She can always carry it up to the supreme court."

"Who? Aunt Caroline?" Bill considered the suggestion. "No; I don't believe it. I don't think she's mean, whatever else she may be. In fact, she told me——" He paused. It did not seem necessary to take Pete entirely into his confidence concerning conversations with his secretary. "No, Pete; I don't believe she'll say anything. That is—not this time."

"Maybe," assented Pete, pessimistically. "I don't expect she will, either. But how about the next time? Are you figuring to reform?"

Bill made a scornful gesture of denial.

"But she expects us to reform, Bill. That's where the danger comes in. And she'll be keeping her eye on us."

"Well, I guess we're as clever as she is, if it comes to that."

"That so?" remarked Pete. "Well, I'm not so sure. If you think it's going to be easy to pull wool over the eyes of this secretarial lady I want to go on record with a dissenting opinion. I'd just about as soon try to slip a fake passport over on St. Peter."

"Well, I'm not going to be threatened," declared Bill.

"Brave words, lord and master. Only it happens you are threatened."

Mary sat for some time in the library, isolated with her thoughts. Occasionally she smiled. At other times she frowned. There were also brief periods when perplexity showed in her eyes. But at the last, as she went up-stairs to her room, she was smiling again.