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Later, undismayed by this and unashamed, on two occasions Griswold actually did demand of Aline if a genial youth she had just greeted joyfully was one of those for whom she once had cared.

And Aline had replied promptly and truthfully that he was. But in the case of Charles Cochran, Griswold did not ask Aline if he was one of those for whom she once had cared. He considered the affair with Cochran so serious that, in regard to that man, he adopted a different course.

In digging rivals out of the past his jealousy had made him indefatigable, but in all his researches he never had heard the name of Charles Cochran. That fact and the added circumstance that Aline herself never had mentioned the man was in his eyes so suspicious as to be almost a damning evidence of deception. And he argued that if in the past Aline had deceived him as to Charles Cochran she would continue to do so. Accordingly, instead of asking her frankly for the truth he proceeded to lay traps for it. And if there is one thing Truth cannot abide, it is being hunted by traps.

That evening Aline and he were invited to a supper in her honor, and as he drove her from the theatre to the home of their hostess he told her of his search earlier in the day.

The electric light in the limousine showed Aline’s face as clearly as though it were held in a spotlight, and as he prepared his trap Griswold regarded her jealously.

“Post tells me,” he said, “he has the very man you want for your architect. He’s sure you’ll find him most understanding and–and- – sympathetic. He’s a young man who is just coming to the front, and he’s very popular, especially with women.”

“What’s his being popular with women,” asked Aline, “got to do with his carrying out my ideas of a house?”

“That’s just it,” said Griswold–“it’s the woman who generally has the most to say as to how her house shall be built, and this man understands woman. I have reasons for believing he will certainly understand you!”

“If he understands me well enough to give me all the linen-closets I want,” said Aline, “he will be perfectly satisfactory.”

Before delivering his blow Griswold sank back into his corner of the car, drew his hat brim over his forehead, and fixed spying eyes upon the very lovely face of the girl he had asked to marry him.

“His name,” he said in fateful tones, “is Charles Cochran!”

It was supposed to be a body blow; but, to his distress, Aline neither started nor turned pale. Neither, for trying to trick her, did she turn upon him in reproof and anger. Instead, with alert eyes, she continued to peer out of the window at the electric-light advertisements and her beloved Broadway.

“Well?” demanded Griswold; his tone was hoarse and heavy with meaning.

“Well what?” asked Aline pleasantly.

“How,” demanded Griswold, “do you like Charles Cochran for an architect?”

“How should I know?” asked Aline. “I’ve not met him yet!”

She had said it! And she had said it without the waver of one of her lovely eyelashes. No wonder the public already hailed her as a finished actress! Griswold felt that his worst fears were justified. She had lied to him. And, as he knew she had never before lied to him, that now she did so proved beyond hope of doubt that the reason for it was vital, imperative, and compelling. But of his suspicions Griswold gave no sign. He would not at once expose her. He had trapped her, but as yet she must not know that. He would wait until he had still further entangled her–until she could not escape; and then, with complete proof of her deceit, he would confront and overwhelm her.