Poor Clayton never betrayed me; he only betrayed himself.

And he has been trapped; BUT BY WHOM?
God alone knows!" Once safely back in the Hoffman, Jack Witherspoon leisurely dined.
His self-commune had taught him the need of a perfect control of every faculty.

"I will not linger here to embarrass Ferris; but the Newport Art Gallery, the mysterious woman of 192 Layte Street, and the picture's secret history shall be my property alone.

I will not betray myself.

Arthur Ferris may, perhaps, unbosom himself!" As the lonely night hours advanced, Witherspoon sat in his room, vainly striving to reconcile the dozen theories of the flaring editions of the evening papers.