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128 "Now will you believe?" Digby demanded huskily,

"In what? A simple coincidence?" Alan flouted. "Take my word for it, this is nothing more nor less than a souvenir of a poker party held by yesterday's tenant of this suite."

"Perhaps—perhaps!" Digby assented, stroking his tremulous lips. "But I'm afraid for you. Do me this favour at least: do leave town—go incognito to some quiet place nearby and wait there for the sailing of the next trans-Atlantic steamer. Oh, surely you can't deny me this one wish of my fond old heart, my boy!"

With unfeigned affection Alan dropped a hand on Digby's shoulder.

"There's nothing on earth I would not do for you," he said. "But this thing—I can't do it, even for you. Rose Trine is here in New York, at the mercy of her father and sister; and you may judge what their mercy will be when you learn all that she has done for me. I can't go until I find her and take her with me."

"I have your word you'll go providing I find and restore Rose to you?"

"You have my word to that, unquestionably. Bring Rose to me, and I'll gladly shake the dust of New York from my shoes, and never return till Trine is dead."

"It shall be done," Digby promised. "It must!"