"I should have remembered you. I don't
understand it."
"Can't you guess?" Mary questioned, somberly. "Search your
memory, Mr. Demarest."
Of a sudden, the face of the District Attorney lightened.
"Why," he exclaimed, "you are--it can't be--yes--you are the
girl, you're the Mary Turner whom I--oh, I know you now."
There was an enigmatic smile bending the scarlet lips as she
answered.
"I'm the girl you mean, Mr. Demarest, but, for the rest, you
don't know me--not at all!"
The burly figure of the Inspector of Police, which had loomed
motionless during this colloquy, now advanced a step, and the big
voice boomed threatening. It was very rough and weighted with
authority.
"Young woman," Burke said, peremptorily, "the Twentieth Century
Limited leaves Grand Central Station at four o'clock. It arrives
in Chicago at eight-fifty-five to-morrow morning." He pulled a
massive gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it,
thrust it back, and concluded ponderously: "You will just about
have time to catch that train.
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