" "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. Where were you married?” “At the English Embassy in Paris. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. Gives you a right to hang on to the old man until he busts—practically. But I said I wouldn't drive a hard bargain with you, and I won't. He heard the door close; and in a little while he fell into a doze; and there came a dream filled with broken pictures, each one of which the girl dominated. It was not a hopeful looking group. “You told me that in the Zoological Gardens. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. Mr. ‘And so also have I.
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