CHAPTER XIV. A WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENT.
Mary dismissed Garson presently, and betook herself to her bedroom for anap. The day had been a trying one, and, though her superb health couldendure much, she felt that both prudence and comfort required that sheshould recruit her energies while there was opportunity. She was notin the least surprised that Dick had not yet returned, though he hadmentioned half an hour. At the best, there were many things that mightdetain him, his father's absence from the office, difficulties in makingarrangements for his projected honeymoon trip abroad--which would neveroccur--or the like. At the worst, there was a chance of finding hisfather promptly, and of that father as promptly taking steps to preventthe son from ever again seeing the woman who had so indiscreetly marriedhim. Yet, somehow, Mary could not believe that her husband would yieldto such paternal coercion. Rather, she was sure that he would proveloyal to her whom he loved, through every trouble. At the thoughta certain wistfulness pervaded her, and a poignant regret that thisparticular man should have been the one chosen of fate to be entangledwithin her mesh of revenge. There throbbed in her a heart-tormentingrealization that there were in life possibilities infinitely moresplendid than the joy of vengeance. She would not confess the truth evento her inmost soul, but the truth was there, and set her a-tremble withvague fears. Nevertheless, because she was in perfect health, and wasmuch fatigued, her introspection did not avail to keep her awake, andwithin three minutes from the time she lay down she was blissfullyunconscious 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 PoliceInspector, 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, dressedher hair a little, and went into the drawing-room, where the two menhad been waiting for something more than a quarter of an hour--to theviolent 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, proclaimedthe policeman.
"Yes, Inspector," Mary replied pleasantly, as she advanced into theroom. She gave a glance toward the other visitor, who was of a slendererform, 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 timeof 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 leisurelyfashion that increased the indignation of the fuming Inspector. She didnot trouble to ask her self-invited guests to sit.
"To whom do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Inspector?" she remarkedcoolly. It was noticeable that she said whom and not what, as if sheunderstood perfectly that the influence of some person brought him onthis errand.
"I have come to have a few quiet words with you," the Inspectordeclared, in a mighty voice that set the globes of the chandeliersa-quiver. Mary disregarded him, and turned to the other man.
"How do you do, Mr. Demarest?" she said, evenly. "It's four years sincewe met, and they've made you District Attorney since then. Allow me tocongratulate 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 ofthe girl with her classically beautiful face, that was still individualin its charm, the slim graces of the tall, lissome form. "I should haveremembered 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 knowme--not at all!"
The burly figure of the Inspector of Police, which had loomed motionlessduring this colloquy, now advanced a step, and the big voice boomedthreatening. It was very rough and weighted with authority.
"Young woman," Burke said, peremptorily, "the Twentieth Century Limitedleaves Grand Central Station at four o'clock. It arrives in Chicago ateight-fifty-five to-morrow morning." He pulled a massive gold watchfrom his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it, thrust it back, and concludedponderously: "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 caughthimself quickly, and spoke with stern gravity.
"Miss Turner, I think you will find that a different tone will serve youbetter."
"Oh, let her talk," Burke interjected angrily. "She's only got a fewminutes anyway."
Mary remained unperturbed.
"Very well, then," she said genially, "let us be comfortable during thatlittle period." She made a gesture of invitation toward chairs, whichBurke 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 Inspectordeclared, in a voice of growing wrath.
"Oh, dear, no!" Mary's assertion was made very quietly, but with anunderlying firmness that irritated the official beyond endurance.
"I say yes!" The answer was a bellow.
Mary appeared distressed, not frightened. Her words were an ironicprotest 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 gleamin her eyes as they met his that bade him pause.
"Miss Turner, if you don't mind." She laughed slightly. "For thepresent, 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 goup 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 thatexcited the astonishment 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 inprison some time ago."
Burke winced, but he made shift to conceal his realization of the truthshe 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 havemoney, 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 partnershipswindle?" Burke asked, sneering. "I s'pose you didn
't steal that!"
"Certainly not," was the ready reply. "The man advertised for a partnerin a business sure to bring big and safe returns. I answered. Thebusiness proposed was to buy a tract of land, and subdivide it. Thedeeds to the land were all forged, and the supposed seller washis confederate, with whom he was to divide the money. We formed apartnership, with a capital of sixty thousand dollars. We paid the moneyinto the bank, and then at once I drew it out. You see, he wanted to getmy money illegally, but instead I managed to get his legally. For it waslegal for me to draw that money--wasn't it, Mr. Demarest?"
The District Attorney by an effort retained his severe expression ofrighteous disapprobation, but he admitted the truth of her contention.
"Unfortunately, yes," he said gravely. "A partner has the right to drawout any, or all, of the partnership funds."
"And I was a partner," Mary said contentedly. "You, see, Inspector, youwrong 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 gambleon that!"
Mary permitted herself to laugh mockingly in the face of the badgeredofficial.
"Thank you for telling me," she said, graciously. "And let me say,incidentally, that Miss Lynch at the present moment is painlesslyextracting ten thousand dollars from General Hastings in a perfectlylegal manner, Inspector Burke."
"Well, anyhow," Burke shouted, "you may stay inside the law, butyou've got to get outside the city." He tried to employ an elephantinebantering tone. "On the level, now, do you think you could get away withthat 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 inthe morning."
Abruptly, a change came over the woman. Hitherto, she had been cynical,sarcastic, laughing, careless, impudent. Now, of a sudden, she was allseriousness, 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 newindignation.
"Who says it can't?" he vociferated, overflowing with anger at thisflouting of the authority he represented.
Mary opened a drawer of the desk, and took out the document obtainedthat 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 largeras he read. When he was at an end of the reading, he regarded thepassive woman at the desk with a new respect.
"What's this?" Burke repeated helplessly. It was not easy for himto interpret the legal phraseology. Mary was kind enough to make thedocument clear to him.
"It's a temporary restraining order from the Supreme Court, instructingyou to let me alone until you have legal proof that I have broken thelaw.... 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 inviolent assertion. "But it can't be done!" he shouted.
"You might ask Mr. Demarest," Mary suggested, pleasantly, "as to whetheror not it can be done. The gambling houses can do it, and so keep onbreaking 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, whyshouldn't I get one, too? You see, I have money. I can buy all the lawI want. And there's nothing you can't do with the law, if you have moneyenough.... 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 crookappealing 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 remarkablepart of it." She threw off her serious air. "Well, gentlemen," sheconcluded, "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 toget you."
The District Attorney, however, judged it advisable to use morepersuasive methods.
"Miss Turner," he said, with an appearance of sincerity, "I'm going toappeal to your sense of fair play."
Mary's shining eyes met his for a long moment, and before the challengein hers, his fell. He remembered then those doubts that had assailed himwhen this girl had been sentenced to prison, remembered the half-heartedplea 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. Itwas 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 musicaltones. Her answer was frank--brutally frank. She had nothing to conceal.
"His father sent me away for three years--three years for something Ididn't do. Well, he's got to pay for it."
By this time, Burke, a man of superior intelligence, as one must be toreach such a position of authority, had come to realize that here wasa case not to be carried through by blustering, by intimidation, by therough ruses familiar to the force. Here was a woman of extraordinaryintelligence, as well as of peculiar personal charm, who merely madesport of his fulminations, and showed herself essentially armed againstanything he might do, by a court injunction, a thing unheard of untilthis moment in the case of a common crook. It dawned upon him that thiswas, indeed, not a common crook. Moreover, there had grown in him acertain admiration for the ingenuity and resource of this woman, thoughhe retained all his rancor against one who dared thus to resist the dulyconstituted authority. So, in the end, he spoke to her frankly, withouta 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 nowmodulated to a degree that made it almost unfamiliar to himself. "Youcan't go through with this. There's always a weak link in the chainsomewhere. 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 thestalwart man, "now you really sound dangerous."
There came an interruption, alike unexpected by all. Fannie appeared atthe door.
"Mr. Edward Gilder wishes to see you, Miss Turner," she said, with noappreciation of anything dynamic in the announcement. "Shall I show himin?"
"Oh, certainly," Mary answered, with an admirable pretense ofindifference, while Burke glared at Demarest, and the District Attorneyappeared ill at ease.
"He shouldn't have come," Demarest muttered, getting to his feet, inreply to the puzzled glance of the Inspector.
Then, while Mary sat quietly in her chair at the desk, and the two menstood watching doubtfully the door, the maid appeared, stood aside, andsaid simply, "Mr. Gilder."
There entered the erect, heavy figure of the man whom Mary had hatedthrough the years. He stopped abruptly just within the room, gave aglance 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 beautyof 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 directaddress.
And there was the same primitive simplicity in the answer. Between thetwo strong natures there was no subterfuge, no suggestion of politeevasions, of tergiversation, only the plea of truth to truth. Mary'sacknowledgment was as
plain as his own question.
"I am the woman. What do you want?"... Thus two honest folk had met faceto face.
"My son." The man's answer was complete.
But Mary touched a tragic note in her question. It was asked in nofrivolous spirit, but, of a sudden, she guessed that his comingwas altogether of his own volition, and not the result of his son'sinformation, 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 wascongested, and his sonorous voice was harsh with virtuous rebuke.
"Because I intend to save my boy from a great folly. I am informed thathe is infatuated with you, and Inspector Burke tells me why--he tellsme--why--he tells me----" He paused, unable for a moment to continuefrom an excess of emotion. But his gray eyes burned fiercely inaccusation 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 staredat her pleadingly. "Tell me," he said with a certain dignity, "is thistrue?"
Here, then, was the moment for which she had longed through weary days,through weary years. Here was the man whom she hated, suppliant beforeher to know the truth. Her heart quickened. Truly, vengeance is sweet toone 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 Burkestarted to speak, but the magnate made an imperative gesture, and theofficer held his peace. Always, Mary rested motionless. Within her, afierce joy surged. Here was the time of her victory. Opposite her wasthe man who had caused her anguish, the man whose unjust action hadruined her life. Now, he was her humble petitioner, but this servilitycould be of no avail to save him from shame. He must drink of the dregsof humiliation--and then again. No price were too great to pay for awrong such as that which he had put upon her.
At last, Gilder was restored in a measure to his self-possession. Hespoke with the sureness of a man of wealth, confident that money willsalve any wound.
"How much?" he asked, baldly.
Mary smiled an inscrutable smile.
"Oh, I don't need money," she said, carelessly. "Inspector Burke willtell you how easy it is for me to get it."
Gilder looked at her with a newly dawning respect; then his shrewdnesssuggested a retort.
"Do you want my son to learn what you are?" he said.
Mary laughed. There was something dreadful in that burst of spuriousamusement.
"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 wasbefore all else. He found himself wholly at a loss before the woman'sunexpected reply.
"But I don't want him to know," he stammered. "Why, I've spared the boyall 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 hisentrance, Mary rose and moved backward a step involuntarily, insheer surprise over his coming, even though she had known he mustcome--perhaps from some other emotion, deeper, hidden as yet even fromherself.
The young man, with his wholesome face alight with tenderness, wentswiftly to her, while the other three men stood silent, motionless,abashed by the event. And Dick took Mary's hand in a warm clasp, pressedit tenderly.
"I didn't see father," he said happily, "but I left him a note on hisdesk 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 awarethat here was something malignant, with a meaning beyond his presentunderstanding, for he saw the Inspector and Demarest, and he knew thetwo of them for what they were officially.
"What are they doing here?" he demanded suspiciously, staring at thetwo.
"Oh, never mind them," Mary said. There was a malevolent gleam in herviolet eyes. This was the recompense of which she had dreamed throughsoul-tearing ages. "Just tell your father your news, Dick."
The young man had no comprehension of the fact that he was only a pawnin 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 wastriumph in her gaze. This was the vengeance for which she had longed,for which she had plotted, the vengeance she had at last achieved. Herewas 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. Thefather stood there wordless, unable to find speech against this calamitythat had befallen him.
It was Burke who offered a diversion, a crude interruption after his ownfashion.
"It's a frame-up," he roared. He glared at the young man. "Tell yourfather it ain't true. Why, do you know what she is? She's done time." Hepaused 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 ofthe seconds.
"It's a lie, Mary," he said. "Say it's a lie!" He seized her handpassionately.
There was no quiver in her voice as she answered. She drew her hand fromhis 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 inprison."
There was a silence of a minute that was like years. It was the fatherwho 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 ofdefamation. 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 terribleinstants. Then he spoke again, more beseechingly.
"Say there's a mistake."
Mary preserved her poise. Yes--she must not forget! This was the hour ofher triumph. What mattered it that the honey of it was as ashes in hermouth? 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 therevelation. He stood trembling for a moment, tottered, almost it seemedwould have fallen, but presently steadied himself and sank supinely intoa 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, "seewhat you've done to my boy!"
Mary had held her eyes on Dick. There had been in her gaze a conflict ofemotions, strong and baffling. Now, however, when the father spoke,her face grew more composed, and her eyes met his coldly. Her
voice waslevel 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 thetragedy 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 advancetoward him until the two stood close together, face to face. She spokesoftly, 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 colorlessvoice.
"Perhaps you remember Mary Turner, who was arrested four years ago forrobbing your store. And perhaps you remember that she asked to speak toyou 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 wasinnocent--yes, she swore that she was innocent. And she would have gotoff--only, you asked the judge to make an example of her."
The man to whom she spoke had gone gray a little. He began tounderstand, for he was not lacking in intelligence. Somehow, it wasborne in on him that this woman had a grievance beyond the usual run ofinjuries.
"You are that girl?" he said. It was not a question, rather anaffirmation.
Mary spoke with the dignity of long suffering--more than that, with theconfident dignity of a vengeance long delayed, now at last achieved.Her words were simple enough, but they touched to the heart of the manaccused 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 thebars. You owe for all that.... Well' I've begun to collect."
The man opposite her, the man of vigorous form, of strong face andkeen eyes, stood gazing intently for long moments. In that time, he waslearning 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 spokewith the violence of one sure.
"It is not!"
Burke shouted a warning. Demarest, more diplomatic, made a restraininggesture toward the police official, then started to address the youngman soothingly.
But Dick would have none of their interference.
"This is my affair," he said, and the others fell silent. He stood upand went to Mary, and took her two hands in his, very gently, yet veryfirmly.
"Mary," he said softly, yet with a strength of conviction, "you marriedme 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 herssearchingly.
"Look me in the face, and say that," he repeated.
There was a silence that seemed long, though it was measured in thepassing of seconds. The three watchers dared not interrupt this dramaof emotions, but, at last, Mary, who had planned so long for this hour,gathered her forces and spoke valiantly. Her voice was low, but withoutany 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 mywife, 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 nowon you'll go straight. You'll walk the straightest line a woman everwalked. You'll put all thoughts of vengeance out of your heart, becauseI'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, andhave 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 goeson there behind those stone walls? Do you, Mr. District Attorney, whosebusiness it is to send girls there? Do you know what a girl is expectedto do, to get time off for good behavior? If you don't, ask thekeepers."
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, wholeyears. Do you wonder that I want to get even, that some one has got topay? 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."