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I had already thrown my heart, indeed. She was the most glorious woman I had ever met; and as I sat back dreaming under the spell of her grace and beauty and courage, I felt I would have given all I had in the world to gain her confidence and help her to win her end, whatever that might be.

Then I fell to wondering what could be the strange secret that had led to her betrothal to that fat, squalid, unctuous cad, Paul Drexel? What hold could he have over her and over Boreski? What could possibly have linked them together in that incongruous partnership?

“How I hate that man!”

Her words rang in my ears as the sight of her gloriously contemptuous indignation haunted my eyes. What could make a woman of Helga’s courage and man of Boreski’s daring—for daring he certainly had—so afraid of a paltry common scoundrel as to drive them to play at this betrothal?

Thank Heaven it was only playing. She would never stoop to become the wife of a brute whom she admitted she hated. Her heart was free if I could but touch it; she was to be won if only I—and there I sighed, recognizing the tremendous difficulties, and, like a wise man, tossed the end of my cigar away and got into bed, hoping that the night’s rest would enable me to pick out the master thread of the strangely tangled skein.