University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
A WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENT.

Mary dismissed Garson presently, and betook herself to her bedroom for a nap. The day had been a trying one, and, though her superb health could endure much, she felt that both prudence and comfort required that she should recruit her energies while there was opportunity. She was not in the least surprised that Dick had not yet returned, though he had mentioned half an hour. At the best, there were many things that might detain him, his father's absence from the office, difficulties in making arrangements for his projected honeymoon trip abroad—which would never occur—or the like. At the worst, there was a chance of finding his father promptly, and of that father as promptly taking steps to prevent the son from ever again seeing the woman who had so indiscreetly married him. Yet, somehow, Mary could not believe that her husband would yield to such paternal coercion. Rather, she was sure that he would prove loyal to her whom he loved, through every trouble. At the thought a certain wistfulness pervaded her, and a poignant regret that this particular man should have been the one chosen of fate to be entangled within her mesh of revenge. There throbbed in her a heart-tormenting realization that

there were in life possibilities infinitely more splendid than the joy of vengeance. She would not confess the truth even to her inmost soul, but the truth was there, and set her a-tremble with vague fears. Nevertheless, because she was in perfect health, and was much fatigued, her introspection did not avail to keep her awake, and within three minutes from the time she lay down she was blissfully unconscious of all things, both the evil and the good, revenge and love.

She had slept, perhaps, a half-hour, when Fannie awakened her.

"It's a man named Burke,'' she explained, as her mistress lay blinking. "And there's another man with him. They said they must see you.''

By this time, Mary was wide-awake, for the name of Burke, the Police Inspector, was enough to startle her out of drowsiness.

"Bring them in, in five minutes,'' she directed.

She got up, slipped into a tea-gown, bathed her eyes in cologne, dressed her hair a little, and went into the drawing-room, where the two men had been waiting for something more than a quarter of an hour—to the violent indignation of both.

"Oh, here you are, at last!'' the big, burly man cried as she entered. The whole air of him, though he was in civilian's clothes, proclaimed the policeman.

"Yes, Inspector,'' Mary replied pleasantly, as she advanced into the room. She gave a glance toward the other visitor, who was of a slenderer form, with a thin, keen face, and recognized him instantly as Demarest,

who had taken part against her as the lawyer for the store at the time of her trial, and who was now holding the office of District Attorney. She went to the chair at the desk, and seated herself in a leisurely fashion that increased the indignation of the fuming Inspector. She did not trouble to ask her self-invited guests to sit.

"To whom do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Inspector?'' she remarked coolly. It was noticeable that she said whom and not what, as if she understood perfectly that the influence of some person brought him on this errand.

"I have come to have a few quiet words with you,'' the Inspector declared, in a mighty voice that set the globes of the chandeliers a-quiver. Mary disregarded him, and turned to the other man.

"How do you do, Mr. Demarest?'' she said, evenly. "It's four years since we met, and they've made you District Attorney since then. Allow me to congratulate you.''

Demarest's keen face took on an expression of perplexity.

"I'm puzzled,'' he confessed. "There is something familiar, somehow, about you, and yet—'' He scrutinized appreciatively the loveliness of the girl with her classically beautiful face, that was still individual in its charm, the slim graces of the tall, lissome form. "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.''

Mary regarded the stockily built officer with a half-amused contempt, which she was at no pains to conceal.

"Working for the New York Central now?'' she asked blandly.

The gibe made the Inspector furious.

"I'm working for the good of New York City,'' he answered venomously.

Mary let a ripple of cadenced laughter escape her.

"Since when?'' she questioned.

A little smile twisted the lips of the District Attorney, but he caught himself quickly, and spoke with stern gravity.

"Miss Turner, I think you will find that a different tone will serve you better.''

"Oh, let her talk,'' Burke interjected angrily. "She's only got a few minutes anyway.''

Mary remained unperturbed.

"Very well, then,'' she said genially, "let us be comfortable during that little period.'' She made a gesture of invitation toward chairs, which Burke disdained to accept; but Demarest seated himself.

"You'd better be packing your trunk,'' the Inspector rumbled.

"But why?'' Mary inquired, with a tantalizing assumption of innocence. "I'm not going away.''

"On the Twentieth Century Limited, this afternoon,'' the Inspector declared, in a voice of growing wrath.

"Oh, dear, no!'' Mary's assertion was made very quietly, but with an underlying firmness that irritated the official beyond endurance.

"I say yes!'' The answer was a bellow.

Mary appeared distressed, not frightened. Her words were an ironic protest against the man's obstreperous noisiness, no more.

"I thought you wanted quiet words with me.''

Burke went toward her, in a rage.

"Now, look here, Mollie—'' he began harshly.

On the instant, Mary was on her feet, facing him, and

there was a gleam in her eyes as they met his that bade him pause.

"Miss Turner, if you don't mind.'' She laughed slightly. "For the present, anyway.'' She reseated herself tranquilly.

Burke was checked, but he retained his severity of bearing.

"I'm giving you your orders. You will either go to Chicago, or you'll go up the river.''

Mary answered in a voice charged with cynicism.

"If you can convict me. Pray, notice that little word `if'.''

The District Attorney interposed very suavely.

"I did once, remember.''

"But you can't do it again,'' Mary declared, with an assurance that excited the astonishedment of the police official.

"How do you know he can't?'' he blustered.

Mary laughed in a cadence of genial merriment.

"Because,'' she replied gaily, "if he could, he would have had me in prison some time ago.''

Burke winced, but he made shift to conceal his realization of the truth she had stated to him.

"Huh!'' he exclaimed gruffly. "I've seen them go up pretty easy.''

Mary met the assertion with a serenity that was baffling.

"The poor ones,'' she vouchsafed; "not those that have money. I have money, plenty of money—now.''

"Money you stole!'' the Inspector returned, brutally.

"Oh, dear, no!'' Mary cried, with a fine show of virtuous indignation.

"What about the thirty thousand dollars you got on that partnership swindle?'' Burke asked, sneering. "I s'pose you didn't steal that!''

"Certainly not,'' was the ready reply. "The man advertised for a partner in a business sure to bring big and safe returns. I answered. The business proposed was to buy a tract of land, and subdivide it. The deeds to the land were all forged, and the supposed seller was his confederate, with whom he was to divide the money. We formed a partnership, with a capital of sixty thousand dollars. We paid the money into the bank, and then at once I drew it out. You see, he wanted to get my money illegally, but instead I managed to get his legally. For it was legal for me to draw that money— wasn't it, Mr. Demarest?''

The District Attorney by an effort retained his severe expression of righteous disapprobation, but he admitted the truth of her contention.

"Unfortunately, yes,'' he said gravely. "A partner has the right to draw out any, or all, of the partnership funds.''

"And I was a partner,'' Mary said contentedly. "You, see, Inspector, you wrong me—you do, really! I'm not a swindler; I'm a financier.''

Burke sneered scornfully.

"Well,'' he roared, "you'll never pull another one on me. You can gamble on that!''

Mary permitted herself to laugh mockingly in the face of the badgered official.

"Thank you for telling me,'' she said, graciously. "And let me say, incidentally, that Miss Lynch at the present moment is painlessly extracting ten thousand dollars from General Hastings in a perfectly legal manner, Inspector Burke.''

"Well, anyhow,'' Burke shouted, "you may stay inside the law, but you've got to get outside the city.'' He tried to employ an elephantine bantering tone. "On the level, now, do you think you could get away with that young Gilder scheme you've been planning?''

Mary appeared puzzled.

"What young Gilder scheme?'' she asked, her brows drawn in bewilderment.

"Oh, I'm wise—I'm wise!'' the Inspector cried roughly. "The answer is, once for all, leave town this afternoon, or you'll be in the Tombs in the morning.''

Abruptly, a change came over the woman. Hitherto, she had been cynical, sarcastic, laughing, careless, impudent. Now, of a sudden, she was all seriousness, and she spoke with a gravity that, despite their volition, impressed both the men before her.

"It can't be done, Inspector,'' she said, sedately.

The declaration, simple as it was, aroused the official to new indignation.

"Who says it can't?'' he vociferated, overflowing with anger at this flouting of the authority he represented.

Mary opened a drawer of the desk, and took out the

document obtained that morning from Harris, and held it forth.

"This,'' she replied, succinctly.

"What's this?'' Burke stormed. But he took the paper.

Demarest looked over the Inspector's shoulder, and his eyes grew larger as he read. When he was at an end of the reading, he regarded the passive woman at the desk with a new respect.

"What's this?'' Burke repeated helplessly. It was not easy for him to interpret the legal phraseology. Mary was kind enough to make the document clear to him.

"It's a temporary restraining order from the Supreme Court, instructing you to let me alone until you have legal proof that I have broken the law.... Do you get that, Mr. Inspector Burke?''

The plethoric official stared hard at the injunction.

"Another new one,'' he stuttered finally. Then his anger sought vent in violent assertion. "But it can't be done!'' he shouted.

"You might ask Mr. Demarest,'' Mary suggested, pleasantly, "as to whether or not it can be done. The gambling houses can do it, and so keep on breaking the law. The race track men can do it, and laugh at the law. The railroad can do it, to restrain its employees from striking. So, why shouldn't I get one, too? You see, I have money. I can buy all the law I want. And there's nothing you can't do with the law, if you have money enough.... Ask Mr. Demarest. He knows.''

Burke was fairly gasping over this outrage against his authority.

"Can you beat that!'' he rumbled with a raucously sonorous vehemence. He regarded Mary with a stare of almost reverential wonder. "A crook appealing to the law!''

There came a new note into the woman's voice as she answered the gibe.

"No, simply getting justice,'' she said simply. "That's the remarkable part of it.'' She threw off her serious air. "Well, gentlemen,'' she concluded, "what are you going to do about it?''

Burke explained.

"This is what I'm going to do about it. One way or another, I'm going to get you.''

The District Attorney, however, judged it advisable to use more persuasive methods.

"Miss Turner,'' he said, with an appearance of sincerity, "I'm going to appeal to your sense of fair play.''

Mary's shining eyes met his for a long moment, and before the challenge in hers, his fell. He remembered then those doubts that had assailed him when this girl had been sentenced to prison, remembered the half-hearted plea he had made in her behalf to Richard Gilder.

"That was killed,'' Mary said, "killed four years ago.''

But Demarest persisted. Influence had been brought to bear on him. It was for her own sake now that he urged her.

"Let young Gilder alone.''

Mary laughed again. But there was no hint of joyousness in the musical tones. Her answer was frank— brutally frank. She had nothing to conceal.

"His father sent me away for three years—three years for something I didn't do. Well, he's got to pay for it.''

By this time, Burke, a man of superior intelligence, as one must be to reach such a position of authority, had come to realize that here was a case not to be carried through by blustering, by intimidation, by the rough ruses familiar to the force. Here was a woman of extraordinary intelligence, as well as of peculiar personal charm, who merely made sport of his fulminations, and showed herself essentially armed against anything he might do, by a court injunction, a thing unheard of until this moment in the case of a common crook. It dawned upon him that this was, indeed, not a common crook. Moreover, there had grown in him a certain admiration for the ingenuity and resource of this woman, though he retained all his rancor against one who dared thus to resist the duly constituted authority. So, in the end, he spoke to her frankly, without a trace of his former virulence, with a very real, if rugged, sincerity.

"Don't fool yourself, my girl,'' he said in his huge voice, which was now modulated to a degree that made it almost unfamiliar to himself. "You can't go through with this. There's always a weak link in the chain somewhere. It's up to me to find it, and I will.''

His candor moved her to a like honesty.

"Now,'' she said, and there was respect in the glance she gave the stalwart man, "now you really sound dangerous.''

There came an interruption, alike unexpected by all. Fannie appeared at the door.

"Mr. Edward Gilder wishes to see you, Miss Turner,'' she said, with no appreciation of anything dynamic in the announcement. "Shall I show him in?''

"Oh, certainly,'' Mary answered, with an admirable pretense of indifference, while Burke glared at Demarest, and the District Attorney appeared ill at ease.

"He shouldn't have come,'' Demarest muttered, getting to his feet, in reply to the puzzled glance of the Inspector.

Then, while Mary sat quietly in her chair at the desk, and the two men stood watching doubtfully the door, the maid appeared, stood aside, and said simply, "Mr. Gilder.''

There entered the erect, heavy figure of the man whom Mary had hated through the years. He stopped abruptly just within the room, gave a glance at the two men, then his eyes went to Mary, sitting at her desk, with her face lifted inquiringly. He did not pause to take in the beauty of that face, only its strength. He stared at her silently for a moment. Then he spoke in his oritund voice, a little tremulous from anxiety.

"Are you the woman?'' he said. There was something simple and primitive, something of dignity beyond the usual conventions, in his direct address.

And there was the same primitive simplicity in the answer. Between the two strong natures there was no subterfuge, no suggestion of polite evasions, of tergiversation, only the plea of truth to truth. Mary's acknowledgment was as plain as his own question.

"I am the woman. What do you want?'' . . . Thus two honest folk had met face to face.

"My son.'' The man's answer was complete.

But Mary touched a tragic note in her question. It was asked in no frivolous spirit, but, of a sudden, she guessed that his coming was altogether of his own volition, and not the result of his son's information, as at first she had supposed.

"Have you seen him recently?'' she asked.

"No,'' Gilder answered.

"Then, why did you come?''

Thereat, the man was seized with a fatherly fury. His heavy face was congested, and his sonorous voice was harsh with virtuous rebuke.

"Because I intend to save my boy from a great folly. I am informed that he is infatuated with you, and Inspector Burke tells me why—he tells me—why—he tells me—'' He paused, unable for a moment to continue from an excess of emotion. But his gray eyes burned fiercely in accusation against her.

Inspector Burke himself filled the void in the halting sentence.

"I told you she had been an ex-convict.''

"Yes,'' Gilder said, after he had regained his self-control.

He stared at her pleadingly. "Tell me,'' he said with a certain dignity, "is this true?''

Here, then, was the moment for which she had longed through weary days, through weary years. Here was the man whom she hated, suppliant before her to know the truth. Her heart quickened. Truly, vengeance is sweet to one who has suffered unjustly.

"Is this true?'' the man repeated, with something of horror in his voice.

"It is,'' Mary said quietly.

For a little, there was silence in the room. Once, Inspector Burke started to speak, but the magnate made an imperative gesture, and the officer held his peace. Always, Mary rested motionless. Within her, a fierce joy surged. Here was the time of her victory. Opposite her was the man who had caused her anguish, the man whose unjust action had ruined her life. Now, he was her humble petitioner, but this servility could be of no avail to save him from shame. He must drink of the dregs of humiliation—and then again. No price were too great to pay for a wrong such as that which he had put upon her.

At last, Gilder was restored in a measure to his self-possession. He spoke with the sureness of a man of wealth, confident that money will salve any wound.

"How much?'' he asked, baldly.

Mary smiled an inscrutable smile.

"Oh, I don't need money,'' she said, carelessly. "Inspector Burke will tell you how easy it is for me to get it.''

Gilder looked at her with a newly dawning respect; then his shrewdness suggested a retort.

"Do you want my son to learn what you are?'' he said.

Mary laughed. There was something dreadful in that burst of spurious amusement.

"Why not?'' she answered. "I'm ready to tell him myself.''

Then Gilder showed the true heart of him, in which love for his boy was before all else. He found himself wholly at a loss before the woman's unexpected reply.

"But I don't want him to know,'' he stammered. "Why, I've spared the boy all his life. If he really loves you—it will—''

At that moment, the son himself entered hurriedly from the hallway. In his eagerness, he saw no one save the woman whom he loved. At his entrance, Mary rose and moved backward a step involuntarily, in sheer surprise over his coming, even though she had known he must come—perhaps from some other emotion, deeper, hidden as yet even from herself.

The young man, with his wholesome face alight with tenderness, went swiftly to her, while the other three men stood silent, motionless, abashed by the event. And Dick took Mary's hand in a warm clasp, pressed it tenderly.

"I didn't see father,'' he said happily, "but I left him a note on his desk at the office.''

Then, somehow, the surcharged atmosphere penetrated his consciousness, and he looked around, to see

his father standing grimly opposite him. But there was no change in his expression beyond a more radiant smile.

"Hello, Dad!'' he cried, joyously. "Then you got my note?''

The voice of the older man came with a sinister force and saturnine.

"No, Dick, I haven't had any note.''

"Then, why?'' The young man broke off suddenly. He was become aware that here was something malignant, with a meaning beyond his present understanding, for he saw the Inspector and Demarest, and he knew the two of them for what they were officially.

"What are they doing here?'' he demanded suspiciously, staring at the two.

"Oh, never mind them,'' Mary said. There was a malevolent gleam in her violet eyes. This was the recompense of which she had dreamed through soul-tearing ages. "Just tell your father your news, Dick.''

The young man had no comprehension of the fact that he was only a pawn in the game. He spoke with simple pride.

"Dad, we're married. Mary and I were married this morning.''

Always, Mary stared with her eyes steadfast on the father. There was triumph in her gaze. This was the vengeance for which she had longed, for which she had plotted, the vengeance she had at at last achieved. Here was her fruition, the period of her supremacy.

Gilder himself seemed dazed by the brief sentence.

"Say that again,'' he commanded.

Mary rejoiced to make the knowledge sure.

"I married your son this morning,'' she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I married him. Do you quite understand, Mr. Gilder? I married him.'' In that insistence lay her ultimate compensation for untold misery. The father stood there wordless, unable to find speech against this calamity that had befallen him.

It was Burke who offered a diverison,a crude interruption after his own fashion.

"It's a frame-up,'' he roared. He glared at the young man. "Tell your father it ain't true. Why, do you know what she is? She's done time.'' He paused for an instant, then spoke in a voice that was brutally menacing. "And, by God, she'll do it again!''

The young man turned toward his bride. There was disbelief, hope, despair, in his face, which had grown older by years with the passing of the seconds.

"It's a lie, Mary,'' he said. "Say it's a lie!'' He seized her hand passionately.

There was no quiver in her voice as she answered. She drew her hand from his clasp, and spoke evenly.

"It's the truth.''

"It's the truth!'' the young man repeated, incredulously.

"It is the truth,'' Mary said, firmly. "I have served three years in prison.''

There was a silence of a minute that was like years. It was the father who broke it, and now his voice was become tremulous.

"I wanted to save you, Dick. That's why I came.''

The son interrupted him violently.

"There's a mistake—there must be.''

It was Demarest who gave an official touch to the tragedy of the moment.

"There's no mistake,'' he said. There was authority in his statement.

"There is, I tell you!'' Dick cried, horrified by this conspiracy of defamation. He turned his tortured face to his bride of a day.

"Mary,'' he said huskily, "there is a mistake.''

Something in her face appalled him. He was voiceless for a few terrible instants. Then he spoke again, more beseechingly.

"Say there's a mistake.''

Mary preserved her poise. Yes—she must not forget! This was the hour of her triumph. What mattered it that the honey of it was as ashes in her mouth? She spoke with a simplicity that admitted no denial.

"It's all quite true.''

The man who had so loved her, so trusted her, was overwhelmed by the revelation. He stood trembling for a moment, tottered, almost it seemed would have fallen, but presently steadied himself and sank supinely into a chair, where he sat in impotent suffering.

The father looked at Mary with a reproach that was pathetic.

"See,'' he said, and his heavy voice was for once thin with passion,'' see what you've done to my boy!''

Mary had held her eyes on Dick. There had been in her gaze a conflict of emotions, strong and baffling.

Now, however, when the father spoke, her face grew more composed, and her eyes met his coldly. Her voice was level and vaguely dangerous as she answered his accusation.

"What is that compared to what you have done to me?''

Gilder stared at her in honest amazement. He had no suspicion as to the tragedy that lay between him and her.

"What have I done to you?'' he questioned, uncomprehending.

Mary moved forward, passing beyond the desk, and continued her advance toward him until the two stood close together, face to face. She spoke softly, but with an intensity of supreme feeling in her voice.

"Do you remember what I said to you the day you had me sent away?''

The merchant regarded her with stark lack of understanding.

"I don't remember you at all,'' he said.

The woman looked at him intently for a moment, then spoke in a colorless voice.

"Perhaps you remember Mary Turner, who was arrested four years ago for robbing your store. And perhaps you remember that she asked to speak to you before they took her to prison.''

The heavy-jowled man gave a start.

"Oh, you begin to remember. Yes! There was a girl who swore she was innocent—yes, she swore that

she was innocent. And she would have got off—only, you asked the judge to make an example of her.''

The man to whom she spoke had gone gray a little. He began to understand, for he was not lacking in intelligence. Somehow, it was borne in on him that this woman had a grievance beyond the usual run of injuries.

"You are that girl?'' he said. It was not a question, rather an affirmation.

Mary spoke with the dignity of long suffering—more than that, with the confident dignity of a vengeance long delayed, now at last achieved. Her words were simple enough, but they touched to the heart of the man accused by them.

"I am that girl.''

There was a little interval of silence. Then, Mary spoke again, remorselessly.

"You took away my good name. You smashed my life. You put me behind the bars. You owe for all that.... Well' I've begun to collect.''

The man opposite her, the man of vigorous form, of strong face and keen eyes, stood gazing intently for long moments. In that time, he was learning many things. Finally, he spoke.

"And that is why you married my boy.''

"It is.'' Mary gave the answer coldly, convincingly.

Convincingly, save to one—her husband. Dick suddenly aroused, and spoke with the violence of one sure.

"It is not!''

Burke shouted a warning. Demarest, more diplomatic,

made a restraining gesture toward the police official, then started to address the young man soothingly.

But Dick would have none of their interference.

"This is my affair,'' he said, and the others fell silent. He stood up and went to Mary, and took her two hands in his, very gently, yet very firmly.

"Mary,'' he said softly, yet with a strength of conviction, "you married me because you love me.''

The wife shuddered, but she strove to deny.

"No,'' she said gravely, "no, I did not!''

"And you love me now!'' he went on insistingly.

"No, no!'' Mary's denial came like a cry for escape.

"You love me now!'' There was a masterful quality in his declaration, which seemed to ignore her negation.

"I don't,'' she repeated bitterly.

But he was inexorable.

"Look me in the face, and say that.''

He took her face in his hands, lifted it, and his eyes met hers searchingly.

"Look me in the face, and say that,'' he repeated.

There was a silence that seemed long, though it was measured in the passing of seconds. The three watchers dared not interrupt this drama of emotions, but, at last, Mary, who had planned so long for this hour, gathered her forces and spoke valiantly. Her voice was low, but without any weakness of doubt.

"I do not love you.''

In the instant of reply, Dick Gilder, by some inspiration of love, changed his attitude.

"Just the same,'' he said cheerfully, "you are my wife, and I'm going to keep you and make you love me.''

Mary felt a thrill of fear through her very soul.

"You can't!'' she cried harshly. "You are his son!''

"She's a crook!'' Burke said.

"I don't care a damn what you've been!'' Dick exclaimed. "From now on you'll go straight. You'll walk the straightest line a woman ever walked. You'll put all thoughts of vengeance out of your heart, because I'll fill it with something bigger—I'm going to make you love me.''

Burke, with his rousing voice, spoke again:

"I tell you, she's a crook!''

Mary moved a little, and then turned her face toward Gilder.

"And, if I am, who made me one? You can't send a girl to prison, and have her come out anything else.''

Burke swung himself around in a movement of complete disgust.

"She didn't get her time for good behavior.''

Mary raised her head, haughtily, with a gesture of high disdain.

"And I'm proud of it!'' came her instant retort. "Do you know what goes on there behind those stone walls? Do you, Mr. District Attorney, whose business it is to send girls there? Do you know what a girl is expected to do, to get time off for good behavior? If you don't, ask the keepers.''

Gilder moved fussily.

"And you—''

Mary swayed a little, standing there before her questioner.

"I served every minute of my time—every minute of it, three full, whole years. Do you wonder that I want to get even, that some one has got to pay? Four years ago, you took away my name—and gave me a number. . . . Now, I've given up the number—and I've got your name.''