"It's only Mort, Patty," said a voice. "Don't you understand? It's all been a deception and mistake. There isn't any John Doe. It's only your husband----"

"Oh, how could you, Mort?" sobbed Patricia. "How could you be so hard--so--so cruel?"

Crabb's answer was to push the veil back from his wife's face and kiss away her tears. She did not resist now and sank against him with a restful sigh that told him more than any words could do the full measure of her penitence. But in a moment she started up pale and wide-eyed.

"But this office--these people--do they know----"

"Bless you, no," laughed Crabb. "Fairman's a sort of business a.s.sociate of mine. I only borrowed his private office for an hour or so. He thinks it is a practical joke. It was--is--a cruel one----"

"But he'll guess----"

"Oh, no, he won't," laughed Crabb.

Patricia's gaze fell quietly upon the floor where the bills and the package still lay in disordered confusion.

"And the letters--you never even read them?"

"Oh, Patty," said her husband, "I didn't want to read 'em."

"Can you ever forgive me, Mort?" She broke away from him, bent to the floor, picked up the package, and broke the seal.

"But you _shall_ read them, Mort," she cried, her face flaming, "every last silly one of them."

But Crabb's hands closed over hers and took the package gently from her.

His only answer was to throw the papers into the fire.

"Oh, Mort," she murmured, horrified, "what have you done--you might believe _anything_ of me now."

"I shall," he chuckled, "that's your penance."

"Please, Mort--there's time yet--just read a few----"

Crabb poked vigorously at the fire.

"Oh, Mort, it's inhuman! You only knew Heywood Pennington----"

"Sh----" said Crabb, putting his hand over her lips. "No names----"

"But he----"

"No, no." And then, after a pause, "He wasn't even a might-have-been, Patty." She said no more. They sat hand in hand watching the record of Patricia's foolishness go up in smoke. And when the last sc.r.a.p had vanished, he sprang cheerfully to his feet and picked up the scattered bills.

"Come, Patty, luncheon! And after that"--Mortimer Crabb stopped again and blinked quizzically at the fire--"hadn't we better keep your engagement--with Madame Jacquard?"

CHAPTER XVII

Thus ended the might-have-beens. And the thing that Patricia had taken to be the phantom of romance went up in the smoke of John Doe's fire.

Mortimer Crabb never volunteered any information as to how he got the letters, nor any information as to what became of Heywood Pennington.

For one horrible moment the thought crossed Patricia's brain that perhaps there had never been any letters of hers in the package her husband had burned, but she dismissed it at once as reflecting unpleasantly upon the quality of her intelligence. But one thing was sure, she now had an adequate understanding of the mind of her husband.

It was the only misunderstanding they had ever had and Patricia knew there would never be another. Mr. Pennington did not appear again and so far as this veracious history is concerned, after his departure from New York, may have gone at once to Jericho. Patricia ceased to think of him, not because he was not present, but because thinking of him reminded her that she had been a fool, and no woman with the reputation for cleverness which Patricia possessed, could afford to make such an admission even to herself. She was now sure of several things--that she loved Mortimer Crabb with all her heart--and that she would never all her life long love anyone else. She might flirt, yes--nay more, she _must_ flirt. What was the use spending one's life in bringing an art to the perfection Patricia had attained and then suddenly forswearing it?

Fortunately her husband did not require that of her. He never quite knew what she was going to do next, but he never really mistrusted her. And to Patricia's credit it may be said that she never caused pain and that if she flirted--she sometimes did--it was in a good cause.

The building of the country place had gone forward during the winter, and early summer found them installed there. Beginning with the housewarming, which was memorable, guests came and went and upon them all Patricia practiced her altruism which, since the adventure with John Doe, had taken a somewhat different character. Yet even among these she found work for her busy hands to do.

It happened that among their guests the Crabbs had staying with them as a remnant of the housewarming party a young girl who, because she was only a little younger than Patricia in years, but centuries younger in knowledge of the world, had become one of her most treasured friends.

Little Miss North loved her, too--looked up to her as the ignorant do to the wise, and when her engagement to the Baron DeLaunay was announced Aurora came and told Patricia even before she told her family. Yet Patricia's shrewd mind found something wrong and she urged the girl to come and join her housewarming for the sole reason of finding out the true inwardness of the engagement, and perhaps, too--who shall say?--to practice her arts again.

After a day or two of mild questioning, of studying, of watching, she began to see light.

Then she invited the Baron for a week end, and made certain preparations.

Then she waited his arrival with her nerves tingling.

She met her husband and the Baron at the steps as they ascended from the machine which brought them from the station.

"Ah monsieur! so glad! I was wondering if you'd be here in time for tea."

"Wild horses could not have detained me longer, from a glimpse of your _beaux yeux_, Madame."

He bent forward with a handsome gesture and kissed the tips of Patricia's fingers, but she laughed gaily.

"Don't waste pretty speeches, Baron. Besides----" she paused significantly and pointed toward the door through which her husband's shoulders had disappeared, "she is there," she finished.

"_Helas!_" The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders expressively; then straightened and showed his teeth in a smile.

"Since my speeches are wasted, I will follow you in, Madame."

Patricia paused.

"All the world loves a lover--even I----"

"Yes--yes----"

"If I could be sure that you loved----"

"You?"

"Her," sternly.

He shrugged again, "Ah, yes--I love her--of course! Why, otherwise, should I wish to marry her?"

"I wonder," slowly, "why you speak of my _beaux yeux_?" she said thoughtfully.