CHAPTER XII.
THE FUGITIVES "Newspaper pictures seldom look like the person they represent," asserted Lawrence Macey nonchalantly.
Constance Dunlap looked squarely at the man opposite her at the table, oblivious to the surroundings.

It was a brilliant sight in the great after-theater rendezvous, the beautiful faces and gowns, the exquisite music, the bright lights and the gayety.

She had chosen this time and place for a reason.

She had hoped that the contrast with what she had to say would be most marked in its influence on the man.
"Nevertheless," she replied keenly, "I recognize the picture--as though you were Bertillon's new 'spoken portrait' of this Graeme Mackenzie." She deliberately folded up a newspaper clipping and shoved it into her hand-bag on a chair beside the table.
Lawrence Macey met her eye unflinchingly.
"Suppose," he drawled, "just for the sake of argument, that you are right.

What would you do ?" Constance looked at the unruffled exterior of the man.