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 begin to suspect the truth; but—from sight of her now—fear flicked him. If this girl was not Cynthia

"How are you so like her?" he put his challenge aloud. "Why did you pretend to be her? Why? You tell me why!"

"I'll tell you," Ruth said. "But not here."

"Where?"

"We must find some place where we can talk undisturbed; where we can have a long talk."

"Take me to her, first. That's all I care about. I don't care about you—or why you did that. I don't care, I say. Take me to Cynthia; or I'll go there."

He started away toward the Rue des Saints Pères and the pension; so Ruth swiftly caught his sleeve.

"You can't go to her!" Ruth gasped to him. "She's not there. Believe me, you can't find her!"

"Why not?"

"She's—we must find some place, Mr. Byrne!"

"She's—what? Killed? Killed, you were going to say?"

"Yes; she's been killed."

"In Picardy, you mean? Where? How? Why, she was at her rooms two hours ago. Miss Wetherell told me; or was she lying to me?"

"I was at the rooms two hours ago," Ruth said. "Miss Wetherell knows me as Cynthia Gail. I've been Cynthia Gail since January."

"What do you mean? How?"

"Cynthia Gail died in January, Mr. Byrne."

"What? How? Where?"

"She was killed—in Chicago."