en passed slowly by,
like shadows out of place, and there floated to his ears one sentence
voiced in broadest Irish: "She goes by th' name of Mary, ye says? All
roight, sorr. I'll keep a sharp lookout."

Tryon Dunham turned and caught a glimpse of silver changing hands. One man
was slight and fashionably dressed, and the light that was cast from the
neighboring window showed his face to be dark and handsome. The other was
short and stout, and clad in a faded Prince Albert coat that bagged at
shoulders and elbows. He wore rubbers over his shoes, and his footsteps
sounded like those of a heavy dog. The two passed around the corner, and
Dunham and his host entered the house.

They were presently seated at a well appointed table, where an elaborate
dinner was served. The talk was of pleasant things that go to make up the
world of refinement; but the mind of the guest was troubled, and
constantly kept hearing that sentence, "She goes by the name of Mary."

Then, suddenly, he looked up and met her eyes!

She was standing just back of her mistress's chair, with quiet, watchful
attitude, but her eyes had been unconsciously upon the guest, until he
looked up and caught her glance.

She turned away, but the color rose in her cheeks, and she knew that he
was watching her.

Her look had startled him. He had never thought of looking for her in a
menial position, and at first he had noticed only the likeness to her for
whom he was searching. But he watched her furtively, until he became more
and more startled with the resemblance.

She did not look at him again, but he noticed that her cheeks were
scarlet, and that the long lashes drooped as if she were trying to hide
her eyes. She went now and again from the room on her silent, deft
errands, bringing and taking dishes, filling the glasses with ice water,
seeming to know at a glance just what was needed. Whenever she went from
the room he tried to persuade himself that it was not she, and then became
feverishly impatient for her return tha