In Cold Blood

By Ethel Watts Mumford

INDA CATHERTON announced her presence by a whistle, clear and sweet as a mocking-bird's call, and entered Teddy Beaudine's bedroom without the formality of knocking. Teddy, a green-eyed blonde, dainty and pink and white as her great-grandmother's portrait by Mignard in the drawing-room downstairs, looked up, smiling, and continued her fascinating occupation of tearing up love letters and throwing them in the open grate. Linda closed the door, leaned against it, and laughed.

“You-all had better be thorough,” she admonished in her soft Southern drawl. “If the groom should ever happen on the cemetery of your dead loves, Teddy, he'd just plain die; don't you know he would?”

Teddy responded with a nod as her long, black-lashed eyes flickered over the contents of a blue-satin candy box. “Um, um,” she agreed, and continued to destroy the evidence of her popular past. Her guest turned to contemplate her own reflection in the long, gilt-framed mirror. The picture was beautiful enough to reward her, and she studied herself with critical care. She was tall, or she could not have seen herself so well in the high-hung looking-glass. Her hair was a heavy cap of waving blue black, her skin warm white and of the satin smoothness of cream. Her exquisite mouth was by no means innocent of the rouge pot, but that feature was the only one aided by artifice. Her nose was straight and clean-cut, and Juno might have envied her brilliant black eyes.

“But I hate to burn Bobby's letters, and there's Brad's poems However,” Teddy sighed, “I suppose Con never would understand. Men are so queer!”

Linda collapsed in a graceful heap on the floor by her friend, scooped up a handful of letters at random, and tossed them on the flame. “There,” she said; “'you've got to get it over with—and I want to talk to you seriously.”

“Anybody'd think they were your love letters, the way you act,” replied Teddy, without the slightest show of anger at her chum's vandalism.

“They might have been,” the other observed carelessly. “I bet I've got the duplicates of a lot of them. But what I want to say is this—you know how poor I am?”

“I most certainly do,” agreed her friend unemotionally.

“Well, I'm tired of it!” Linda's black eyes blazed with long-pent fires. “Sick and tired of it, and I'm going to quit it, and, oh, Teddy—will you help me?”

“Meaning?” inquired Teddy, flicking another note on to the embers.

“Of course, you've got to have his two sisters and your two sisters and Sally Dean, because she introduced you and made the match, or I'd have been a bridesmaid, of course, and you'd have treated me to my bridesmaid dress.

“Well, I—I've got nothing fit to wear—and if you could lend me one of your trousseau dresses Nobody here will see it afterward. You'll be up North, and your husband won't know, things will look so different on me and on you. Teddy, I'm desperate! I'm going to make a hit or die—I've got to!”

“Dear, dear,” murmured Teddy, “how hectic! May I inquire who or what you intend to hit?”

“Roland Bland, your best man,” Linda answered with decision.

The bride-elect looked up, evidently startled out of her calm, her eyes widened, the pink of her cheeks flooded up to the golden roots of her crinkly hair. “Oh, Lindy, no!” she exclaimed. “Why, my dear, you know what an awful reputation he's got. Why, why—it was all I could do to make father and mother let me have him at the house. I couldn't have done a thing; it was Con who won them over—said he and Rowly had been pals since they were in school, and he couldn't have any one else. But you know and I know, Lindy—it's true. Why, Con even admits to me it's true. Roland's awfully rich, of course, but, good gracious!—no self-respecting girl could stay married to him! It isn't only that he's fast” The long speech left Teddy breathless. In her agitation she had risen to her feet. Linda supported her weight on her perfect arms, and thrust her feet straight out before her on the floor, as she looked up at her friend. Her face was hard as marble, and her eyes glittered like jet.

“But that's just it, silly. I don't intend to stay married to him—I won't have to. I'm marrying for alimony, and if there's anything in past performances, Roland Bland is a sure loser. I guess I can gamble a couple of years against a life income and 'a chance to see the world,' as they say in the navy, Oh, don't tell me it's cold-blooded; I know it. But it's because I'm hot-blooded that I'm going to put it over if I can, and you're going to help me.”

Teddy sat down hard on the edge of the chintz-hung tester bed. “Of all!” she exclaimed. “Of all! Why—why—it wouldn't be fair!”

“To whom? To him?” Linda came back quickly. “I'd like to know why. Wouldn't it be poetic justice for a woman to make a monkey out of him? Get the best of him? 'Get his goat,' we'll say? Why, he's called the 'Universal Corespondent!' Don't they say Mrs. Allerton killed herself over him? Besides, I tell you, I won't stay in this stick-in-the-mud Southern town, with two younger sisters coming on, and not enough to dress even me. I'm not going to marry one of our home boys. I'm not going to be 'the beautiful Miss Catherton' for a season or two and be shelved like Lily Farka. I've got brains and I've got looks, and I'm going where they'll count.”

“But, Lindy, listen. When I'm married you shall come and visit me. I'll give you heaps of chances. You don't have to pick on Rowly. Why, you're a beauty, and you're only twenty-one.”

“Only twenty-one,” Linda sneered. “You know in the South you're a Methuselah at twenty-five, and, my darling Ted, saving your presence, I don't want to rely on your fond memory of me to prompt you to reach out a helping hand. You'll be just as forgetful as anybody else, once you get into the swing of things. No, sir—I want New York, London, Paris. I want big money. I want the keenest competitors and the fastest pace. And where will I ever get a chance at that if I don't catch Roland Bland? You know it's my best bet!”

Teddy smothered her shocked sensibilities. As always, her magnetic friend overpowered her.

“Well, you know”—she hesitated—“Con says that if Roland is handled right—he's awfully generous. Between you and me, Linda, my Con's no saint, either. Roland was engaged once; did you know that? Con says the trouble was just that they were too pally. She was older a bit, and they'd known each other forever. You know who she is, you see her name in the papers all the time—plays tennis, shows horses—Isthar Lane.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” Linda nodded. “I know all about him, everything I could wring out of everybody. But I told you before, Ted, dear, that I do not want him for a model husband. I don't want him to reform. I want him to give me no end of cause, and I want the sympathy of the world—all but yours, of course—and the biggest kind of alimony. Now, will you help me?”

“It [sic] think it's perfectly awful, I do, honestly,” said Teddy, rising. “I hope to goodness he won't look at you. It would just serve you right if he'd pass you up. You'd look perfectly wonderful in that burnt-orange taffeta with the radium lace. It's a bit big for me, too. You could easily just change a hook or two; and we wear the same size shoe, so you could wear the gold slippers with the topaz buckles. But I don't think it's right. I ought to speak to Con about it.”

“If you do!” said Linda, and there was a real threat in her voice in spite of the levity of her words, “I'll never speak to you again, and you shan't name the twins after me—so there!”

Teddy led the way to the adjoining room, a regal old bedroom, now transformed into a boudoir for the daughter of the house. The place was an orderly litter of tissue paper, boxes of all sorts, dress hangers, and half-packed trunks. In one corner lay an enormous heap of mistletoe, tied with white ribbons. In her interest in her own affairs Teddy for the moment forgot the object of their visit.

“I'm so glad I'm going to have a Christmas wedding,” she jubilated. “We can have such unusual decorations. I'm going to have mistletoe with the lilies of the valley in my shower bouquet, and there'll be a perfect forest of holly in the dining room.”

“Yes, and your anniversary present will be your Christmas forever after,” said Linda practically.

Teddy pounced upon a hatbox of striped black and white adorned by floral ovals of cubistic design. She untied the tape knots and, taking off the cover, revealed a mass of rainbow-hued silk paper, which she tossed aside with a deft hand.

“It's a perfect duck of a hat—black lace and an orange paradise—there.” She placed it caressingly on Linda's brilliant black hair. “Gorgeous!” she exclaimed. “Perfectly gorgeous! That's for the wedding. My dear, if you wear that lid I might just as well give up being the bride—nobody will look at me.” From the top tray of one of the trunks she lifted out a delicate creation of grayish silver clouding a shimmer of bronze gold.

“Well, you can give up being looked at just for once—you've got nothing at stake!” Linda took the evening gown and held it up, patting it into place at the waistline.

“Not a soul has seen that one,” Teddy explained, “not even the family. It's too outré; I didn't dare. I bought it on my own, but it's a Bouée Soeurs. Here are the slippers and the stockings to match. I'll have Adonis take it all over to your house after dark to-night. Now, let's see, for the wedding—the café au lait—no—you're too bright colored for that. There's an old-rose chiffon—just the thing with that hat Oh, peaches! You'll have to let it out, I'm afraid, but you can fix it afterward and express it all on to me. I won't need these until we get back from Quebec—there, I didn't mean to tell where we were going to honeymoon, but I don't mind your knowing, dear.” She turned and with childlike affection kissed her companion. Linda felt a quick touch upon her heart.

“Ted,” she said seriously, “I'm very fond of you—and don't think it's because of all I get out of you, either.” Teddy started to protest, but Linda went on: “Why, I've never in all my life felt sore at you for having all the things you have. I've been glad you've had 'em—and you may not think so, but that's saying a lot. It's awful to have the taste and the knowledge, and be young and good looking—and poor. It's made a horrid, hard, cold-blooded fish out of me, and I know it! But just you wait till I'm a fashionable, rich divorcee! Maybe you won't be proud of me! There, now! I'm going, and one hundred thousand thanks!”

Again Teddy tried to dress the facts to suit her conventions. “Oh, I do hope he'll fall dead in love with you. Won't it be wonderful to have you the wife of Con's best friend!”

Linda laughed ironically.

“Fairy tale, yes. I'll be over to-morrow to help you arrange the presents. When does he get here?”

“Con? Coming to-night. He's going to stop at the hotel, but he'll be over in the morning, the lamb-angel.”

“No,” said Linda, reluctantly taking off the hat and laying it gently in its rainbow bed, “I don't mean your angel-lamb Conrad; I mean my black sheep Roland Bland.”

“Oh,” said Teddy, crestfallen, “he won't get here until just before the dance, Christmas Eve.”

Linda nodded.

“And I'll be there to meet him with Christmas bells on. 'By, petty [sic], and be sure and get rid of all the love letters. It pays not to advertise—sometimes,” At the door she turned and kissed her hand.

Roland Bland looked up as he finished settling his dress tie. He was tall and lithe, with the powerful grace of movement that is to a man what vivacity is to a woman. His lean face was handsome in an adventurous, devil-may-care sort of way. The broad, low brow and the fine, Napoleonic eyes gave the lie to the hard-cut lines of dissipation from nose to mouth, and the curve of the lips that spoke of rapacious living. He looked and acted as if he did not care a fig for the opinion, candied or otherwise, of any man or woman, Doubtless it was his wealth, as well as his dominant personality, that made him give the impression, even to a casual observer, that in the bright lexicon of his youth there was no such word as refusal. Just at the moment he was at his best, the almost predatory expression of his face softened into affection as he looked at his friend, Conrad Fontaine.

The groom was of a different type. He was pink cheeked and clear eyed, but to the discerning these qualities indicated the assiduous care of a competent barber, rather than early hours and fresh air. There was just a suggestion of heaviness in his tall figure.

“Connie,” Bland grinned, “it scares me to see you kick off like this. It brings the awful possibilities close to me—like attending a funeral. And let me tell you, old man, for nobody but you would I have taken this icy trip to the sunny South, and chucked the whole holiday season; but, of course, it's you, so here I are, little one, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

The prospective groom wriggled in the uncomfortable easy-chair of typical hotel design.

“Well, watch out for your own soul, and put in a prayer for yourself. Teddy's started matchmaking already. She's picked out a girl for you. Remember—you're warned.”

The news did not excite the experienced Mr. Bland. “Very good of her, I'm sure, but I'll stick tq single blessedness. Is my gardenia on straight? And is it time for us to saunter over to your fiancée's abode? If so, vamose [sic]!”

“Right,” said Fontaine. “Put on your Italian-conspirator cape coat; you'll need it. It may be the sunny South, but also it's Christmas Eve, and the thermometer has had a drop, even if the punch hasn't. Got your satin lid? Good. Let's go.”

Conrad's big car, which was to take the bridal couple on the first stage of their journey the following day, was waiting, and made short work of the distance between the hotel and the old mansion that had sheltered Beaudines from pre-Revolutionary days. Bland observed the impressive, tree-lined approach and the glowing, porticoed entrance with an appreciative nod.

“Grand old place,” he commented. “Just the right setting for a wedding; shame not to drive up in a coach and four.”

The sound of music floated out to them as the door was opened by the inky and ceremonious Adonis. The great entrance hall was bright with many lights, the walls banked with laurel, huge holly wreaths hung above the mellow-toned portraits. The stair rail was serpentined with smilax, and everywhere, pendent from the ceiling by white satin ribbon, the waxy clusters of mistletoe swung invitingly.

The arrivals were immediately enveloped by Beaudines—the general and his cousins, daughters, aunts, and uncles. A radiant, green-eyed blonde, quite forgetting her future dignity, hovered at the side of the groom. Greetings and introductions followed, and then the general took them to the floor above to deposit their belongings and be treated to a private “snifter.”

“Put down, gentlemen, nineteen years ago for the express purpose we celebrate to-morrow.”

None of the lovely details of the old house escaped Bland's notice. It was perfect in every particular, complete in its unstudied elegance. There was a portrait, in particular, that took his eye, a red-coated officer of the king, painted with the glad ease of a master with a satisfactory subject. As they started for the door again, Bland hung back. The general and his future son-in-law were deep in important consultation of plans for the all-important event of the morrow. They had gone before Bland was aware of it, and he was glad. He had a feeling of expectancy, as if this whole frame of beauty and elegance was waiting for the picture to enter it. There was a sense of unreality, of a dream too poignant. They had come early, as was to be expected. Only the immediate family were assembled. There was time before the ordeal of the ball to look over the old mansion and study its graciousness. The assembled Beaudines on the floor below were very attractive and not unpicturesque. But, somehow, Bland was glad to be alone.

The door to the hall stood open behind him. As he turned away from his contemplation of the red-coated warrior, he caught sight of a magnificent inlaid clock on the opposite side of the corridor, as fine an example of English marquetry as he had ever seen. He moved to the door with the swift delight of the connoisseur. As he stepped across the threshold, a door nearly opposite was thrown brusquely open. Two candle brackets on each side of the entrance cast a golden light. Directly overhead an immense wreath of holly was suspended crownwise, and dropping through its center a great, gnarled bunch of mistletoe swung lazily.

With a quick swish a girl came from the room. As she turned to close the door he caught a gleam of perfect white arms, a glossy, black mass of hair, confined by a headdress of crystal that faintly glimmered. Her gown of flame color was clouded in a smoke of dull, metal lace. She was for the instant just a flash of perfect line and color—and then she turned and faced him, directly under the mistletoe.

Instinctively Bland drew himself up, for he felt as if he had been physically smitten. His heart stopped, his breath caught painfully. Never in all his life had he seen anything like this creature before him, never had he experienced such a shock of personality. She stood perfectly still, her immense black eyes fixed on his, her red mouth like a scarlet flower in the snow of her face, slightly parted, as if with surprise at finding him before her. There was an impact of will on will, of desire on desire. He was at once stunned and electrified at the sight of her.

Linda Catherton was shivering with the excitement of concentration as she stared at him—and something else, as well, something that startled her. Rake and roisterer, this man? No! Adventurer, lover—yes!

His next act was characteristic. In one stride he was beside her; his whole being obeyed the impulse of his vision. His arms were about this gorgeous, magnificent being, his lips had sought and found that scarlet-flower mouth. An icy fire flamed through Linda's veins. She was floating on a burning ocean supported by an arm that crushed her as ft held her up. She swayed from him and, with a gasp, he released her.

“My God! I beg your pardon.” For the first time in his life he had lost the firm footing of his sang-froid.

She recovered first. A surge of anger came to her assistance, followed by the urge of her firm resolve.

“Very well,” she said. “Let us blame the mistletoe, Mr. Bland.” He looked at her surprised. She had herself in hand now, though her heart was racing. “Let the mistletoe introduce me, then—since I know who you are. I'm Linda Catherton, Teddy Beaudine's most intimate friend.”

“May I?” he asked humbly, and raised her hand to his lips. “May I add to the description”

A noise of little running feet on the stairs, and Teddy's golden head appeared bobbing up.

“Oh,” she cooed, “you've met, then? I'm so glad!”

“I think,” said the best man quietly, “I've been waiting a very long time to meet Miss Catherton.”

That night, as Linda lay in her narrow bed in the room she shared with her two younger sisters, she tried to gather the threads of that night's weaving. One thing was certain. She had set out to catch Roland Bland, and the catching had been most amazingly easy. From the moment of their meetting [sic] in the hall he had never left her; he had been her shadow; he had been at no pains to disguise his infatuation. Linda gave herself over to her dreams of the future. It wouldn't be so bad to be his wife for a few years; he was presentable, even good looking; he was never boring; he made love in a manner that made it worth while just to be made love to. The fact that it suggested experience was subtly flattering. Here was a man credited or discredited with a thousand conquests, who found in her something to raise his interest to white heat. And he had everything to give, all the independence and luxury she wanted. She would be surrounded with beautiful things, every wish gratified; he would deck her with wonderful clothes and jewels and proudly show her off to that glittering circle he frequented. She saw herself queening it as she had always wanted to queen it; not as the small-town center of attraction, but as the bright particular star of a crowded firmament. And yet she quailed a little. Maybe she overestimated the impression she had made; perhaps he always enveloped women in that atmosphere of adulation and adoration. It might mean nothing; he might be glad to amuse himself for a day or two in order to enliven the boredom of the function he was attending out of friendship for his pal.

His sudden, violent impulse in kissing her as he had, might be just another indication of his unrestrained nature. She could not sleep for thinking over the details of her future campaign. Should she be warm or cool to him? Should she play up as the simple country girl or as the woman of the world? The coming day would be the test. She must be at her best; she could not afford one backward step. It was now or never. Unless she succeeded in holding him he would be gone out of her life forever by nightfall. Finally she willed herself to sleep, in fear of the ravages of a wakeful night.

But she need not have feared—hopelessly, helplessly, Bland was in love with her. Characteristically, he had not the faintest doubt of himself or of her. Through all the loves of his life he had sought only for love, and now he had found it. That was all, and everything. She was his by right of a mystery he could not name or fathom. In the small hours of the morning, when he had found himself back at the hotel with Conrad, he had frankly announced his intention, and his friend did not laugh. Instead, he frowned—a look of annoyance, almost of distress, and yet he could not believe that anything so sudden could be really serious.

“Look here!” exclaimed Fontaine warningly. “Don't be a darned fool! You get mixed up with one of these small-town girls and you've got to go through with it.” Bland looked at him with such quick ferocity that he was chilled. “Say, you don't actually mean it?” he quavered.

“I do—I never meant anything so much in my life,” the hero of a myriad intrigues proclaimed emphatically.

“Damn!” growled Fontaine, and there was real concern and annoyance in his voice and look. “Good Lord!” he continued, “and I've got to leave to-morrow. Gad! I've a mind to stall off the wedding. Lord, man, you don't know what you're getting into!”

“Nice talk from you,” retorted the best man.

Fontaine bit his lip, but his eyes narrowed. It was very clear that he did not relish his chum's desire to “marry and settle down.” A moment later his brow relaxed and he smiled knowingly. It was equally clear that, misunderstanding his friend, he dismissed the danger as trivial.

The wedding ceremony, performed under a holly and mistletoe bower, was over, and the bride and groom had received the congratulations due. The guests had waved Godspeed to the happy pair, as, with glittering luggage piled high on the rear seat, they had glided in the big, sleek car down the old, tree-lined avenue and turned north at the high brick-and-stone Georgian gates. The guests dispersed, the excitement died down, but Roland Bland stayed on. A week later Linda Catherton wrote to Quebec, to Mrs. Conrad Fontaine:

Linda Catherton was as good as her word. When the Conrad Fontaines returned to New York, they made a foursome at the Ritz with the Roland Blands, while each of the newly wedded pairs went apartment hunting. Teddy had traveled widely, and therefore, to her the environment of the city was not cause for undue excitement; but to Linda this new world was a revelation. It was all wonderful, and she hardly thought of her husband as in any way separate from it. She hadn't married him; she had married excitement, emotion, and luxury. She set herself to having a good time with an avidity that amused and delighted Bland. To him she was a wonderful, grown-up child, equally delighted with the gold of the honeymoon and the gilding of a restaurant. If she failed to give him the utter depths of her heart, he was unaware of it. His own absolute devotion, his singleness of love, at last awakened, blinded him, and if he lived in a fool's paradise, it was, nevertheless, a very real paradise.

He found a new and thrilling pleasure in watching her. The mere sight of her spending his money was a delight. It tickled his sense of humor to see her astonishment over the lavishness of her new surroundings and her control of any expression of it. He had many an inward chuckle at her adjustment to her competent French maid, her car, and her chauffeur. But in matters pertaining to her own beautiful person she had no need of adjustment, Instinctively she knew her type, and she had a woman's intuition as to dress, To show her off was a sort of triumph, He knew well enough the oft-voiced comment of his world that “no decent girl would marry him”—not only could he show them “a decent girl,” but one of enviable lineage, and a peerless, flawless beauty.

It cannot be said that Teddy accepted the quick and complete dominance of her friend with complacency. What she had expected she had never clearly analyzed, but with her own money and social prestige added to her husband's lavishness and popularity, her youth and undeniable good looks, she had expected, in her new environment, to make something of “a splash,” as she would have expressed it. She had not counted on being completely blanketed by the Bland-Catherton marriage.

At first she attributed the stir to the general astonishment over Bland's accession to the ranks of the benedicts—that in itself was bound to arouse the comment both of society and the press. It was only to be expected. But little by little, in the months that followed swiftly, Teddy was forced to realize that the sensation created when the four inseparables appeared was not the result of a whispered, “There's the girl that Roland Bland married,” but a frank appraisal of the girl herself. When the nine days' wonder kept on being a wonder after ninety-and-nine days, it was obviously because of the ever-renewed novelty of perfect loveliness, for the beau-monde and the demi-monde alike had accepted the astounding fact that its leading man had retired from the stage—as, indeed, he had, with no regrets and no longings.

But habit is an urge stronger than love or hate, because it, of all the urges of life, travels in disguise; and Connie and Rowly were now as inseparable as they had been in the days of their dissipated freedom. A class reunion was what apparently started the backsliding. Both of the malefactors were contrite, both abjectly apologized to their wives and told them everything they could remember to tell. The incident was closed, but to Linda it was not closed; on the contrary, she suddenly stepped through the door of her own being to a comprehension of herself. Her husband's blurted confidences had touched feelings she had never dreamed he could arouse. She was jealous, angry, resentful, all the things a conventional wife should be. She shut herself up in her new plum-and-blue boudoir, in her gorgeous Park Avenue apartment, and pouted. She was amazed at herself, and deeply, unreasonably resentful of Connie's influence over her husband.

In spite of the fact that she knew better, she found herself trying to exculpate her Roland and throw all the blame on his friend. “Connie had led him on”—“if he'd been by himself, Roland would never have acted so.” Knowing better, she hated her own loyalty for trying to deceive her, and deeper and more important, she was frightened. Could it be that she could not hold him? Was this the beginning of the end she had foreseen and desired, and that now appeared to her as a terrible, crushing calamity?

Frantically and miserably her husband sought to placate and pacify her, and it was to his immense relief that at this psychological moment Isthar Lane came home from Europe.

He rushed to her for comfort and help.

“Take me up to see her right now,” said Isthar.

Bland telephoned his wife to expect him and “the best pal in the world” to luncheon.

Linda had read the papers and noted the arrivals. She understood and was prepared—that is, she was gowned to perfection. But neither of the women was prepared for the other.

Isthar was tall, almost gaunt, with a face fascinating for its irregularity. Her eyes alone, as big, black, and brilliant as Linda's own, had a claim to beauty. She had large hands with a strong, dry-hot clasp, and her clothes, while the last word in tailored elegance, somehow managed to be eccentric. Her scant jewelry of silver and lapis lazuli was baroque and even ugly; and her voice was strangely uneven. She gave an impression as of some one advancing close lipped and stern to the execution of some forlorn hope or the accomplishment of some grim destiny, a quality of gallantry in her high-held head. Her meeting with his wife would have amused Bland had he been in a mood of laughter. Isthar met the perfectly possessed greeting “head on.”

“Well, by all the saints, the old man did himself proud!” she exclaimed. “I heard you were beautiful, but how could I know he'd snatched the pride of the whole harem! Pardon me just a moment, Mrs. Bland, while I get my breath!”

Linda relaxed and laughed. “You don't know how much I've wanted to meet you, Miss Lane,” she said graciously. “Rowly says you're a real pal.”

“And Rowly knows,” said Isthar, as she took out a battered silver cigarette case, lit one of the small, specially made cigarettes, and settled down in her place at the luncheon table. “Have to smoke, if you don't mind—perfect fiend—yes, Roland knows. We were engaged, you see”—she hurried on, noting the expression in Linda's eyes—“but that's neither here nor there. I got engaged to him as a sort of steadier—imagine me steadying anybody. But he was hitting the highest spots, and he seemed to think he wanted me to hit 'em with him, and I knew he was safe with me. I think, at that, I did see him through a bit of hard sledding. There were several ladies on the warpath, and, of course, I stood 'em off. But I'm older than Rowly—and so Some boy, this chap you've married. I suppose you know it, though.”

Linda's face darkened, but in a moment she smiled. “He's not so different from all the crowd. You mustn't forget, I'm a bit provincial.”

“Provincial—you!” Isthar grinned. “Why, you were born cosmopolitan. Your kind always is. Don't tell me, for instance, that the housekeeper or the butler thought out this luncheon. It's too original and sophisticated. Huh! You provincial!—you're not even genuine.”

Linda turned quickly and met the strange concentration of the woman beside her. She winced.

“No? Why not?” she asked.

Ill at ease, Roland laughed hastily. “Nonsense, Isthar, you're all off. Linda's the soul of frankness. She's a perfect simp, she's so honest. I wish I wish you could have heard her telling Jeffries he had the manners of a clay eater.”

“Don't like Jeffries, do you?” grinned Isthar. “Don't blame you. He's trifling. How about the De Pyne twins—like 'em?”

“Yes.” Linda had regained her hold. “Of course, I really like all of Rowly's friends, and they have been no end kind to me. I haven't once felt like a stranger or an interloper. Of course, Teddy Fontaine being my friend helped, too.”

“Ump!” said Isthar, lighting another cigarette. “You're great chums, aren't you? I haven't met her yet. But Nettie de Pyne met me at the boat. She's a good little gossip, so I got a sort of social 'once-over.' Known her all your life, haven't you?”

Something in her guest's tone attracted Linda's attention. There was a reflection, but whether it applied to the gossiping propensities of the De Pyne twin or to the relations existing between herself and Teddy, was not clear. It gave her a moment's uneasiness. The next words might have enlightened her, but they were lost in demi-tasse directions.

“{ hear you and Connie have been off on the loose again,” Isthar remarked, half turning in her chair toward Roland. He frowned, flushed, glanced at his wife and back at his friend. To his surprise, there was no gamin grin on Isthar's face, but a look that he could not fathom.

“Ride?” she asked, turning to Linda abruptly.

Linda smiled.

“What a question to ask a centauress from a stock farm! Of course I ride.”

“All right,” said Isthar. “Come out with me to-morrow. I keep my string down at Royalton's, on the island. I'll give you a good mount. Is nine a.m. too a.m. for you?”

“Not for riding,” said Linda, rising and leading the way to the intimate little library adjoining the dining room.

Isthar accepted the deepest lounging chair, her coffee, and another cigarette.

“Begin to feel about normal now,” she vouchsafed. “Takes me till afternoon to get on decent terms with the speaking world. Morning's fine for riding or swimming, but for nothing, else. Don't know why I do either of those.” She turned toward Roland and held out her hand. “Am glad to see you,” she paused and seemed to revolve something in her mind. “Yes—it was time I came home ” She digressed. “I've been having rotten insomnia lately. Ever think about having yourself psychoanalyzed, Rowly?” He laughed, but she did not wait for his answer. “Do you know,” she twisted toward Linda and looked at her quizzically through half-closed eyes, “I honestly believe that after a year or so you'll be very happy together, you and Rowly. I believe there's 'the makin's.'”

“After a year or two!” Linda started.

“Yep, if you last that long. But you're an odd combination, you two. My dear girl, you don't know that man. He's a queer duck, and the queerest thing of all is that he's horribly sensitive. Oh, I know he'll deny it, and so will everybody else, but I know, and it's a mighty important thing for you to know. And now I'll be going before I talk too much. Explain to her when I'm gone, Rowly, that I'm a bit nutty. Be at the riding club at nine, sharp, Lindy, and I'll introduce you to the equine wonder of the world. Good-by and God bless you.” She said the last with so serious a tone and expression that Linda was troubled. It was as if in the woman's heart there lurked some unconfessed fear.

But Isthar's visit cleared the air. Once again the merry-go-round of life began to whirl, but now the tall figure of Isthar companioned them. She was immensely popular, in spite of her caustic tongue and arrogant self-sufficiency.

Quite openly she was watching the Bland ménage, and her comments were to the point.

“I don't like the Fontaines for you people,” she informed Roland. “That little cat, Teddy, is mortally jealous of your wife. It would be different if she weren't home folks. That's just it. The girl she used to patronize on the native hearth has put it all over her. And another thing. You and Connie were pals before you were married—and there isn't an honest, decent tie between you—take my advice and cut them out.”

Roland growled at her, but long experience had taught him not to argue with Isthar.

To Linda her admonitions were even more unconventional. “Don't you fool yourself,” she said repeatedly. “You think you're a cold-blooded woman of the world. You're not. You're an impulsive, idiotic child. You've got all sorts of pride and temper—no, don't tell me you haven't. You're headed for some unhappy days, or I miss my guess. You've got to learn to eat humble pie and crow. Trouble is, both you and Rowly think a whole lot of yourselves. Fact is, too, you think a lot of each other and don't realize it.”

At first Linda laughed at Isthar's obvious feeling of responsibility; later it became irritating as Isthar arrogated to herself more and more the right of censorship. When, one day, she took her to task for allowing “Buddy” Caldwell, the universal beau, to hang around her, Linda openly rebelled.

“See here, Isthar,” she burst out, “I don't know what you're talking about, but—I'll not have you or any one regulating my affairs. If my husband has no objection to Buddy's dancing attendance—and he does dance well, you'll acknowledge that—I can't see why you try to interfere, and I'll tell Roland so.” The outburst had no effect on the self-constituted mentor. She shrugged, and lit another of her eternal cigarettes. They were seated in Linda's boudoir, after a hard ride. Isthar was still in her habit, but Linda, fresh from her tub, was radiant in a negligee that would have been the envy of a moving-picture heroine. The silence and the smile on her companion's lips angered Linda. Her resentment smoldered and eventually found expression.

“While we're being so frank, Isthar, I'll say a thing or two to you. Why don't you stop smoking as you do? You're killing yourself, everybody says it; you're a wreck. Why don't you use some of your critical energy to control yourself—since you know what's best for everybody else?”

Isthar's pale face went ashen. Her lips were a thin blue line, and the large hand that held her cigarette holder shook. Linda had never seen her show so much emotion, and she was surprised. Isthar pulled herself together with a physical effort.

“You're quite right, Linda; I should. Nobody knows better than I do that I'm playing hob with myself. I've tried to cut it out, and I'm ashamed to own up the habit has beaten me, so far. But I will take a brace, just to show you, But”—she hesitated, as if unwilling to say anything that might seem to be a bid for sympathy—“I don't matter so much. I'm alone, and I'm an ugly old grouch. You've got beauty and youth and a husband who adores you, and health and wealth, and when you get over being a drunken sailor with your new money and your new city, why, you've brains to be something. Really, you mustn't mind my being a nuisance. You and Roland are about all I care for—old maid's children, you know.”

“Don't be silly,” said Linda tartly. “How old are you, Methuselah—a thousand?”

“Thirty-three,” replied her downright visitor. She was silent. “Thirty-three,” she repeated, after a long pause. She was holding out her right hand before her and gazing at it with a sort of fearful fascination. Linda noticed that the hand was thinner, paler, too, with a sickly transparence, the joints stood out, and the tendons were as defined as wires. “Pretty young to be on the down grade.” The strange voice had fallen to one of its hoarse, whispered cadences. “Pretty young to be so old and so unwise.” Her mobile mouth twitched, her jaws seemed to lock in her effort of will, the muscles bulged at the place where they touched the arteries of her throat, and the great veins were dark.

Linda was just a little frightened. “What is the matter with you” Though her voice was sharp, her eyes had lost their angry resentfulness, “Isthar, I declare, you ought to go to a sanitarium and take a rest cure.”

“Good God, no!” Isthar sprang to her feet with the jerky abruptness of a jack-in-the-box. “Don't suggest it!” She shuddered. “What!” Her laugh was shrill. “A rest cure? Why, it's my horses that keep me going. I'd die if I gave up trying to ride them to death. Don't you bother about me, and”—she fixed Linda with a stare that glittered—“keep away from Ted Fontaine, and if you have any influence with Rowly make him cut out Con. Now I'm off. Going to the little club to-night? See you there. I've promised to go with Bendy.” She stopped at the door, turned, and favored Linda with a comprehensive look. “Lord, Linda!” she said, “I wish you weren't so pretty!”

It was the last of Isthar for many long days. She disappeared from her world with singular completeness, and no one was surprised—it was Isthar's way.

A week—two weeks—passed in which nothing unusual happened, and then, from a clear sky, fell the thunderbolt.

Linda had been up and out for her ride, long before her husband's usual hour for bestirring himself. Now she glanced at the clock—a quarter to one. She pressed the little gold-and-enamel bell at her toilet table and waited.

The maid appeared at the door with a gown thrown carefully over her arm. Linda nodded toward the bed.

“Did you see Cummings?” she inquired. “Is Mr. Bland out? I left so early I didn't even call to him to tell him. Is he lunching home? Find out.”

The maid laid down the gown and left the room. She was gone some time, and when she returned she was obviously reluctant.

“Cummings is outside, madam,” she murmured. “Perhaps you had better speak to him in person, madam.”

Linda had a premonition of something unpleasant. She crossed to the door and threw it open, as the maid stepped behind her, deftly fastening an extra belt fold. The valet, looking sleek and dark and oily as an undertaker, stood in the hall, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands.

“Mr. Bland isn't home. I—I really don't know whether he plans to be home to luncheon or not, madam.”

Linda rebelled. “Surely he left a message for me if he went out after I did this morning. Isn't there a note on his desk? Go look, Cummings.”

The man shook his head. “No, madam—he—Mr. Fontaine came about one o'clock last night, called for Mr. Bland with the motor. They went out together. The master said he'd not disturb you, madam; it was your first night home in weeks, and he thought you needed your rest—and”

Linda controlled herself. “Ah, I see—he was out very late, no doubt. Probably went back with Mr. Fontaine.” She addressed the maid. “If you'll get Mrs. Fontaine on the wire, I'll speak to her. That will do, Cummings.” She nodded to the valet and closed the door. A moment later the maid handed her the receiver. Linda gave the girl an order that sent her from the room, and, holding her voice in check, spoke quickly. “Teddy—is Rowly with you? No?” Her mounting anger was like a runaway horse that maddens itself by its own headlong rush. Teddy's explanation that neither Connie nor Roland had been heard from, instead of eliciting Linda's sympathy, infuriated her. “Your husband came after Roland at one o'clock in the morning. I don't like it, and if he's going to do things like that, I'll make Roland drop him!”

“Oh, indeed.” Teddy's rancor had been smoldering long; it needed only Linda's angry, accusing voice to enrage her beyond reason. “I don't see what you've got to say about it. You knew jolly well you couldn't tie Roland to your apron strings when you married him. It's your own fault if it doesn't amuse him to stay at home!”

Linda could hardly believe her ears. “Well, even if you have so little interest in your husband that you don't care, Teddy, I have some pride.”

A mocking laugh came over the wire. “I grant you, my husband couldn't be in worse or more notorious company, but if I'm not complaining”

Linda did not wait to hear more, but hung up the receiver. Her heart was beating like a riveter. It shook her with its intensity. Her lips felt drawn and tight, her nerves stung. Dizzily she realized not only her unhappiness over her husband's absence, but the dismaying fact that Teddy was her friend no longer. Resentment, bitterness, hatred had sent their subtle vibrations over the wire in that thin, staccato voice.

She lunched alone with a great show of casual, indolent satisfaction. An engagement for the afternoon she caceled. She wanted to be home when her husband returned. Curiously enough, Teddy's attitude had completely changed her own toward Roland. She was determined to meet him gently, calmly to accept whatever explanation he chose to give, and say nothing against Connie until she had him in such a state of contrition that her word would be law. She would laugh it off with him, or she would be tender and hurt. Of one thing she was very sure: she would not mention her telephone conversation. She retired to her boudoir, dressed in her most becoming lounging robe—in which no Roman empress could have looked more regally lovely, opened wide the door leading into Roland's dressing room, adjoining, and listened while she pretended to read.

Three, four, five o'clock came. Roland did not come, nor did the telephone ring. And now came fear—he was hurt, killed, something terrible had happened. He was in some hospital, perhaps, unidentified. Her imagination pictured a thousand disasters, yet she dared not ask—the police, the doctor, one of Roland's men friends. She could not enlist the aid of any one. To call up Teddy again was out of the question—and yet he had gone out with Conrad Fontaine. It was inconceivable that Teddy had made no effort to locate them. She walked the floor, racked with anxiety—oh, to know that he was all right! She could forgive him anything, anything, if only she could know that he was safe. She knew that the servants must be talking, and it added to her tension. At six o'clock she swallowed her pride and sent for the valet. He had been with Roland for years; he must know his habits, his failings. She realized that Roland might be angry with her for thus calling his servant into counsel, but her fears dominated.

The expression on the man's face showed her how much her distress was apparent. She moistened her dry lips.

“I am a stranger here, Cummings. I do not wish to call on any of Mr. Bland's friends for advice. You have been with him a long while. What would you do—about—about” Words failed her. °

“About his disappearance, madam? I'd not be anxious, really. It is, of course, unusual,” he continued cynically, “but when Mr. Fontaine and Mr. Bland used to go off together, I've known him to be gone for two weeks or more, and never send me a line, ma'am. Went yachting, once, on the spur of the moment, with Mr. Bennings—the whole cruise. It's his way, madam, and Mr. Fontaine's the same.”

Feeling, somehow, degraded and small, as if having done a tactless thing, she had managed to do it badly, Linda dismissed the valet. She was in a difficult position. Should she call her hostess and cancel the engagement they had made for the evening, or should she make some excuse for her husband and go? It was her nervousness and anxiety that finally decided her. She had not the courage to sit and wait. She would go. She would make the best of it. If comments were made, she would meet them. Nobody, nobody would have the right to think of her as a moping, neglected bride. She called her hostess, invented an excuse for Roland's absence, gowned herself with more than usual care, and ordered her car.

She was almost surprised to find the party quite unsuspicious of any contretemps, and one person frankly glad of her husband's absence—Buddy Caldwell.

She might, under ordinary circumstances, have been angered by his manner and his instant possessive tone, but to her raw nerves and hidden anger his attentions came as a relief.

The party went from gay to gayer, beginning with dinner and a round or so of bridge and progressing from “club” to “club” as the small hours advanced. Linda found resources of wit and gayety of which she had not dreamed. She felt that she must reënforce her beauty; she must outdo, outshine herself. Never for a moment did she forget her trouble, the canker at her heart, but to all appearances the presence of her husband had been, in the past, a check on her hilarity. Her hostess observed to Buddy that “Linda, without Roland in tow, was twice the lark.” When the party broke up, every one was busily making love to every one else. Engagements for tea and luncheon and bridge were being discussed. Absently Linda laughed with the best of them, and promised to keep a dozen different appointments of which she recalled not one.

It was Caldwell who insisted on seeing her home, and by right of his assiduousness no one disputed the privilege. He was wise enough to humor the dark mood that ensued the moment she was ensconced in the car. He had not been deceived by her tolerance of his attentions, and he was too genuinely attracted to her to take a chance of offending her prickly temper. He was very charming, deferential, and gentle, and very sympathetic. He managed to convey to. her covertly that he felt her underlying distress and was eager to help, and she needed comforting so desperately that she was grateful.

Her excitement deepened as they approached her home. Now, surely, there would be some news. She must be prepared to act, should Roland have returned. She must know just how to approach and reproach him. She was absent-minded in her answers to her escort, but genuinely and frankly glad of his presence. It was all she could do to restrain from questioning the elevator attendant as to whether Mr. Bland had come in, but the question was in her eyes and on her tongue as her maid opened the apartment door at the sound of her key in the lock. She did not need to voice it. He had not come and there was no news. Linda sought her own room and submitted like an automaton to being put to bed. And so exhausted was she, both mentally and physically, that sleep claimed her immediately, in spite of her gnawing anxiety.

She awoke early, and rang for her breakfast tray. Her gay, sunny bedroom seemed to banish fear and trouble. Sleep had refreshed her and she was hungry. She thrust. her distress to the back of her mind, ate with a relish, and opened her mail. She would not give in. Doubtless all the wives of her set had, at some time or other, to face such a crisis. Roland would come back all the more penitent for his greater offense.

She reached for the morning paper and unfolded it. There, smeared across the front page, were her own and her husband's names. Her hand trembled so the paper crackled. Discreetly the maid left the room. Her cheeks burned, her throat contracted, while chill waves seemed to rise and envelop her body. Arrested—a common street brawl, almost at his own doors. No effort, even, to disguise his identity. “Clubman Attacks Taxi Driver”—his recent marriage, her picture, a résumé of his spectacular past. Her soul sickened. It couldn't be true; he wouldn't do such a thing; he wouldn't shame her that way, he loved her too much. But there it was—there was no gainsaying it. A surge of hatred for Conrad Fontaine flooded her. She snatched up the paper again. There was no mention of him—he was responsible for the whole disaster, and he had escaped. Doubtless he had run away and left Roland to shoulder the blame. But this—she read the account again—had occurred the night before, and it was forty-eight hours ago that his friend had come for him. What should she do; what could she do? She was in a state of utter collapse. Never had she felt so friendless and forlorn.

Her private telephone rang, and she shuddered all through her strained nerves. Hesitating, she answered. It was Caldwell. She clutched the receiver as if it were his helping hand.

“You'll forgive me, won't you? I don't want to intrude, but I thought perhaps I could be of service.” His voice sounded boyish, almost timid, and yet it suggested competence, the knowledge of how to act in a situation that was new and terrible to her.

“Oh, if you could come over,” she almost sobbed. “I don't know just what I ought to do to help Roland—it's so awful! Oh, thank you so much. I'm all at sea. In half an hour, please. I—I can't thank you enough.”

Suddenly the thought of Isthar crossed her mind. Why hadn't she called her at once? She felt guilty in Isthar's eyes for accepting Caldwell's aid. But this was no affair for a woman to handle; it must be a man, a man of their own circle. Connie was out of the question—who else then? She took up the telephone again and called Isthar's number. Some one with a foreign voice answered. Miss Lane was away, to be gone several weeks. Where—where would a telegram reach her? The foreign voice again. “Really couldn't say.” For a moment Linda had a flash of strange relief. Subconsciously she feared Isthar's cynical “I told you so.” Then a ridiculous suspicion glided into her mind. Had Isthar been with Roland? She pushed the thought from her and rose hastily. She must dress and be ready for whatever there was to do—Caldwell would be there in half an hour. In an astonishingly short time she was dressed and ready for the street. She ordered her car and tried to set some sort of order in the chaos of her mind.

When Caldwell arrived, his matter-of-fact efficiency steadied her. He had the advantage of age—he was older than any of the young crowd he frequented, more self-possessed, more experienced. Linda clung to him with a sense of safety and relief. His first movement was to unpin her hat gently and lay it on the library table.

“No, Linda, we're not going out—at least, you're not.”

She subsided wearily into an armchair and shakily held the newspaper toward him.

“My dear child,” he smiled reassuringly, “I saw all that, and more besides, and I've made a few inquiries. Of course, I'm not excusing Rowly for one moment. He has treated you shamefully, but it's not so bad as all that. He got out on bail, and he is over at the club now.”

“Did he send you? Did he ask you to tell me?” she asked eagerly.

Caldwell shook his handsome head, and his brown eyes, very warm and bright, reassured her.

“No, I'm afraid he didn't; I'm on my own because—because, well, I don't think he is capable of realizing in what a position he has placed you, nor how little able you are to cope with it. But, and here's the point, do you want me to go over to the club and see him for you?”

She looked at him, puzzled. “Should I? What ought I to do?”

“Well,” he hesitated, “I know that if I were in his shoes I wouldn't know whether my wife were willing to have me come home or not. You can tell me to tell him either to 'Come home and be forgiven,'” he laughed lightly, “or—well” He looked at her anxiously.

“I want him to come home, Buddy,” she almost begged. “Tell him I won't say a word, tell him I know it was all Connie's fault. Tell him I've been just sick with worry Oh, tell him anything, only get him here just as soon as you can!” She was amazed at her own vehemence. She rose, laid a trembling hand on each of his broad shoulders, and looked at him tearfully. A low, ugly laugh made them both turn. In the doorway stood Roland Bland.

With a cry of mingled relief and fear Linda sprang forward. “Oh, Rowly,” she cried, “I've been so worried.”

He waved her back, and something in the cold pain of his eyes stopped her short. Whether drink or human agony distorted him, she could not guess. But he was changed—different, repellent, terrible. His face was livid and fur rowed deep, his eyes, though they blazed with anger, were veiled as if with long lack of sleep. His hand trembled and his clothes were in disorder. He laughed again, a strange, brittle sound. Then he spoke.

“Understudying my part in the comedy, Caldwell?”

The insult was so deliberate and uncalled for that Linda stepped back with instinctive fear. Caldwell slipped forward quietly.

“I came here to tell your frightened wife that I'd learned you were at the club, and to ask her if she wanted me to go for you.”

Again Bland tittered; the silly giggle issuing from blue, drawn lips was sinister. “She sent for me? What for? She doesn't want me.” He lurched through the door and threw himself into a chair. “You can go now,” he ordered. “I want to talk to her. You can come back when I'm gone”

Caldwell turned to Linda with a quick look, which she answered by a swift gesture of dismissal. He hesitated.

“If there is anything I can do” He began lamely.

Bland cut him short. “There is—get out!”

Caldwell indicated behind Bland's back that he would remain within call, and Linda, directly facing her husband, dared not speak or manifest her wishes. She wanted above all things to be alone with Roland—to clear up this dreadful situation was all that mattered.

“Close the door as you go out,” Roland sneered. The latch clicked obediently.

“Oh, Roland,” Linda burst forth, “I have been frightened half to death. Where have you been?—no, I didn't mean to ask you—but why not telephone me—send me a message? You don't know what I've been through!”

He looked at her, staring through the narrowed slits of his inflamed lids; his mouth worked. He was making a frantic effort at self-control.

Linda, her arms extended in pleading, advanced close to his chair.

“Don't, don't, please, ever disappear like that again. I couldn't stand it. I—I imagined all sorts of things.”

“Well, I guess you were about right, at that.” He thrust the words at her like a rapier, and she started away from him as if the point of the sword had reached her heart. He leered in an effort at effrontery. “What do you care? I'm doing everything you wanted me to do. I'm playing into your hand. What more do you want?”

She gazed at him blankly. “I? What I want you to do? Rowly, what are you talking about!”

Again he laughed, that awful, cackling laughter that chilled her blood.

“Well, and I'm going to go through with it all the way, and the sooner you play your hand the better for everybody.”

“Oh, Roland,” she begged, “please, please—I don't understand You're ill; let me send for Cummings to take care of you—you're not yourself!”

“Oh, yes, I'm myself—I'm getting back to being myself. I thought for a fact I had changed for good, but—you had my past performances all on the dope sheet, all right. You knew I'd run true to bad form, and, by God, you're right!”

Linda leaned both hands on the table for support. She felt as if the blood were being drawn from her veins. A terrible suspicion numbed her mind.

“I see you don't answer,” he went on, his voice low and tense now, his body huddled nervously on the edge of the chair, “Sounds sort of familiar, doesn't it? By Jiminy, you had me fooled—oh, it was one on me, all right. I bit. I got caught—and I'm going to go right through with it. You win—freedom, alimony, the whole works! You'll have all the evidence in the world, and the world will have it, too. No half portions on this order!” His voice rose.

Linda was on her knees beside him. “No, no, no!” she sobbed, “it isn't true—it isn't true, it isn't—it isn't. I love you, I do, I do, with all my heart and soul, I love you—whoever told you that lied—it is a lie. Oh, Roland!” She tried to catch his hand clenched upon the arm of the chair, but he snatched it away, and for a moment his clenched fist hovered above her head. Then he thrust both hands deep in his pockets.

“Who told me?” He was not looking at her; his eyes were fixed on the mantel clock. “Who told me?” he repeated. “You did. I have your letter, in your own handwriting.”

Linda sprang to her feet with a gasp of rage. “Teddy!”

“Oh, I see you recall the document. Well, let me tell you, you're damned silly to write. Keep out of black and white. Let this be a lesson to you. You'd better exercise the caution I shan't in future. So now we understand each other. You are going to get that divorce and that alimony, right off. Never fear; you can get it now, and you'll have more cause to-morrow and every day thereafter!”

Linda raised her white, agonized' face.

“Roland, look at me, look at me,” she implored; “can't you see that I do love you?”

He continued to stare at the clock, and his face was expressionless.

“I own up—I did just that. I tried to get you to marry me. I knew your reputation. I meant to use it—it's so. But that's all gone—gone, I tell you. I love you—I do love you—I don't want anything but you. And I won't leave you—I won't! I'm your wife, Roland, and you can't drive me away from you—you can't! You can't! Whatever you have done or do, I forgive, because it's my fault. But I'm not the same person who wrote that letter, truly I'm not. Oh, please believe me, dearest; I can't bear it!”

“Oh, yes, you can,” he sneered. “You wait and see—this town is going to have something to talk about, take it from me, and if you don't get rid of me, then you've got no woman's pride—that's all!” He rose unsteadily and turned his. back upon her.

In one bound she came close to him and flung her arms about him. He wrenched away, twisting from her clasp,

“Save your caresses for Caldwell!” He leered at her. She leaped from him, her natural reaction a murderous fury that died as instantly as it was born. This, like everything else, was part of the purgatory of her expiation. But the rage that had leaped to life turned in another direction.

She heard her own voice, cold and hard.

“Teddy did this—Teddy. We quarreled—because I blamed Con” But Roland had already jerked open the door and gone out.

Linda stared at the carpet like one in a dream. She could not think; her mind was numb and her heart cold. A queer dizziness rendered her helpless. She could only stand and wonder at everything, at her husband, at herself. Slowly, very slowly, she concentrated enough vitality to move. She made her way out into the hall, her hand before her, groping like a blind woman.

“Can I do anything?” It was Caldwell's voice. He bulked beside her, as if materializing suddenly from nowhere. She looked at him and shook her head,

“Go away,” she whispered, not because of any desire for caution, but because her throat refused to vibrate. “Please—go.” Somewhere in the distance she heard the sound of a closing door. Somehow she reached the chaise longue of her own little sanctum. A moment later she found herself bathing her face. Then a blank, and she was standing staring at her reflection in the mirror of the “poudreuse.” She did not know this person whom she saw; never had she seen such eyes. They were mad eyes. He had not believed her—Roland, her husband; but that thought faded out before another and more poignant one—somehow he had become possessed of that letter written in a spirit of bravado to the woman who had helped her to the culmination of her ambition. How ghastly! She remembered each word of its damning phrase: “I'll have divorce coupons on my bonds of matrimony—watch me.”

The words burned and seared. What evil genius had ever impelled her—and she had meant it, then, in her hard, cold, virginal heart—but now—they were come back to destroy her new-found soul, her real and ardent love. She had winged poisoned arrows that had returned to bury themselves in her own heart. But how—how had Roland come into possession of that letter? The obvious answer was that Teddy had played her false, under the stimulus of her anger; in defense of her indefensible husband she had retaliated by this unspeakable treachery. What could she do to repay in kind? What could ever repay, and above all, what could ever wipe out the sight of that letter from Roland's heart and mind? How could she ever make him believe that she loved him with the single devotion of the one love of a lifetime? She had pleaded with him and he had laughed at her. She had read in his eyes pain intolerable and utter unbelief. Who could help her, who act as go-between? Isthar!

She turned from the mirror at which she had been staring as if hypnotized, ran to the wardrobe; snatched a hat and wrap. The car was at the door. It had been waiting there all day for her orders. She ran down the hallway, snatched her purse from the console, jerked open the door, and slammed it shut. Its clang echoed in her heart; it was as if she were shutting herself out forever from her own home, from her happiness, from the presence of the only thing she loved. For a moment she wavered, moved to return, but the memory of his bitter laugh, his iron eyes, and above all his firm resolve to give her cause for divorce, determined her.

In the lift she was self-conscious. What were the employees saying? Did they know? How much had her maid and Cummings discussed matters? At sight of her own chauffeur patiently waiting in the car, she quailed. Of course, the personnel of her house knew, or guessed—not all—not everything. But Roland's disappearance, the papers, the shocking story that had been carried broadcast. She did not cower, she did not smile; she entered the limousine with white and frozen dignity, and gave Miss Lane's address. The owner of the foreign voice, who had put her off over the telephone, must be coerced into revealing Isthar's whereabouts,

Before the entrance of the house she descended—oddly enough she had never seen Isthar's place of residence, vaguely she had known that Miss Lane still kept the old family home, that she preferred to do her entertaining outside, frankly stating that the Victorian grandeur of the old house was gloomy and depressing. Now she saw the ugly brownstone mansion, neglected, almost abandoned looking; the steps were crumbling, the big double doors of frosted glass were dulled and grimy. The old-fashioned bell tinkled a summons in depths that seemed as remote as a catacomb. Again and again she rang; almost was she persuaded to turn away, but she persisted, and at length the sound of approaching footsteps on a bare marble floor rewarded her anxious waiting. The door opened and a woman peered out at her.

“Miss Lane is not at home,” she wheezed asthmatically. She would have shut the door, but Linda thrust her gold-mesh bag between the locks.

“Please,” she begged; “it's important; I can't tell you how important. I'm Mrs. Bland, Mrs. Roland Bland.”

The door was opened again, and the woman looked her over with questioning hostility. “Well?” she said.

“I must reach Isthar—I must find her. Tell me where she is and I'll go to her—please. If I could tell you” She broke off with a sob of excitement.

“Hum; come in. I don't know where she is, but Tascha, that's her maid, she may; I don't know.”

The door was gingerly opened, and Linda entered the cheerless semidarkness of the hall. The servant pushed back hanging curtains incased in bags of striped dust cloth and ushered her into a huge, gloomy room blanketed in white coverings, even to the shrouded mantel ornaments. The carpet was a garlanded atrocity radiating from a blue centerpiece of floral wonders. Linda stood upon its apocalyptic roses and stared, unseeing, about her.

The woman was gone. She could hear the slapping of her slippers on the black-and-white marble of that dismal hall. And this was Isthar's home. Something of the real loneliness of Isthar's lot entered her soul. For a breath she forgot her own troubles in the thought of the gaunt, strange woman who had loved and understood and resigned herself. But in Isthar was her only hope; she must help now, no one else could. She must find her, make her understand that somehow Roland must be made to know and see the truth of his wife's love. And he must be saved from himself, saved from the destruction he was courting in his pain and unbelief.

The ground-glass doors that divided the vast parlor from the equally vast dining room rolled apart, and a woman advanced into the room. She was dressed in black, at her waist was a black silk apron, a lawn collar was the only light touch to her uniform, which, utterly simple in all its detail, was yet unaccountably foreign. The woman's face was only a pale blur in the twilight of the room till she was close beside the visitor and the blur revolved itself into the countenance of a middle-aged woman, French to the point of caricature—a beaked nose; black, intense eyes; black hair banded with gray, pulled back from a square forehead to end in a curious, puffed coiffure. Small, gold earrings glittered like a pair of wide-apart yellow eyes. Her mouth was firm and secretive, but over the whole mask was written loyalty.

“Madame?” said the apparition.

Linda recognized the voice at once. The strange, foreign woman, the huge, shrouded room, impressed her balefully. What could she do or say to move this creature to tell her anything that she did not wish to reveal, and Linda, somehow, was certain that Isthar's whereabouts were a mystery—something that both these old women sought to cover and conceal—why, she could not divine.

“Madame,” said the woman again, “I am Mademoiselle Lane's maid. The housekeeper tells me you wish at all costs to see mademoiselle. I am afraid, madame, that is not possible.”

“But I must, I must!” cried Linda impulsively, seizing the woman's arm. “I don't know how to explain, but perhaps when you know who I am, you will know that Miss Lane would want to see me. I am Mrs. Roland Bland.” She felt that only by utter frankness could she gain her point. “I am in trouble, deep trouble. It is about my husband. I must, I've got to find her.”

The woman nodded. There was no surprise in her strange, sphinxlike eyes. “I regret, madame, but mademoiselle is in a retreat. She left orders that on no account is she to be disturbed. She is not well. Perhaps you know she is under the care of the doctors. Madame must realize that what she asks is impossible.”

“I tell you,” Linda insisted, “I must see her. I tell you that if you don't help me, she will never forgive you—never. If you are devoted to her, and I think you are, you will be serving her if you'll help me. Oh, how can I make you understand!”

The woman hesitated, but it was not the hesitation of one about to comply; it was the hesitancy of one fearing to reveal too much.

“Madame,” she said carefully, “it is not for me to understand what madame wishes, but the wishes of mademoiselle have been made very clear. I regret, madame, I deeply regret”

Then Linda surprised herself. She burst into tears, she wept with the complete abandon of a child, terrible, rocking sobs choked her. She tore at her gloves with nervous frenzy, her whole body contracted and jerked in an ecstasy of nervous pain. Her resistance had broken; the strange, dulled daze into which her disaster had precipitated her was shattered. A look of fright came into the woman's eyes—fright and comprehension, and with it a deep femininity, a motherliness that wiped out the still restraint of the trained maid. She reached out a strong, competent hand and steadied Linda's reeling form. She spoke, and her accents held the stricken girl's attention as a physician takes the responsibility from his patient.

“Come—come with me, madame—to mademoiselle's room—to rest. I know you have had a shock. I am a good nurse. Let me take care of you as I would of mademoiselle. Mademoiselle trusts me, has always trusted me. You may trust me, too. Come.”

Uncontrollable tears streamed down Linda's cheeks. Shaking still as if in the grip of a chill, she succumbed to the insistent, enveloping motherliness. She leaned against the maid as she slowly led her out into the dim, echoing hall, up the long, dark stairs with its bronze gaslight statues at head and newel posts, along a musty upper corridor, and into the big, square front room. Because physical resistance was beyond her, she suffered the maid to take off her hat and outer wraps. A firm, gentle rubbing, the caress of a soft satin negligee, that by its fluffy daintiness seemed to deny Isthar's tailored ownership, soothed her. Her great cap of wound hair was unbound and brushed, her aching, swollen eyes were blinded and soothed with moist, cool, scented cloths. Gradually the rocking seas of emotion subsided. Exhausted and relieved, she lay quiet. The scientific knowledge and almost divination with which the attendant handled and soothed her aroused her wonder. Was Isthar ever like this—a nervous, hysterical wreck? She remembered that last interview. Some mystery lay behind Isthar's life, or lay embedded in it. With all her caustic frankness, Isthar was a creature remote from her kind. These were the first coherent thoughts that came into Linda's mind; their coming was assurance that self-possession was returning.

“If madame will rest now a little—it is the nerves, I know. In a half hour I will bring some tea, or a little sherry, perhaps. Now, madame is better. With silence all will be well.”

There was the gentle sound of a softly closed door. Linda sighed and relaxed, tried not to think, and failing that, tried to think coherently. Suddenly she sat up. By an accident that might be providential she was in Isthar's own room. Here might be some clew to her present whereabouts. She gathered the negligee about her and rose to her feet. She groped along the walls till she found the electric switch—not realizing that daylight still lingered out of doors. The room became visible in all its intimate detail. The furniture was beautiful, museum pieces of the most delicate Louis XVI French period. A breath of decadent Versailles, feminine, sensuous. Linda was amazed. Was this the boudoir of Isthar Lane? As soon expect a spider to spin Valenciennes lace. The bookshelves reflected more of the woman she knew; but here again was a puzzle. Shelf after shelf was given over to the lore of the Orient. Shelf after shelf of mere fairy tale and folklore, that and blatant, glittering romance. In spite of herself, in spite of her quest, Linda paused to observe and wonder.

The immense bathroom adjoining was a revelation and yet intriguing. It had been made over into the brightest and most elegant of Roman —mirrored and tiled and decorated; silver dolphins for waterspouts, blue-mosaic walls, and cabinets of essences, scented crystals, soaps and perfumes, towels of linen, toilet trifles of gold. The shrine of a beauty cult, a priestess of Astarte could have demanded no more elaborate and costly altar for the rites of purification. A white-enameled chaise longue occupied the end of the room, near it a little glass-topped table held a Benares box of carved silver. One of Isthar's eternal cigarettes lay beside it on a black glass tray.

Linda roused herself from her almost hypnotic contemplation. At any moment the maid might come back. If she were to find where Isthar had hidden herself, she must make the most of the opportunity. A glance at the laden toilet table showed no scrap of paper, nothing but orderly rows of oddly beautiful personal belongings. Across the room a wide secretary-writing desk of buhl design spread its inviting length. Here were writing materials, a bill file, letters, and notebooks—it was so easy and obvious that a sigh escaped her—a heap of letters, redirected in a cramped, foreign writing—“c|o Doctor Trowbridge, The Lindens, Airyville, Connecticut.” The woman had told her “mademoiselle'” was in the doctor's care. She was here, then. With the knowledge came the nervous drive of all Linda's energies. She must lie quiet, must wait for the return of the maid as if she had never moved from the bed. But then, as soon as she could escape without arousing suspicion she must make for Airyville. The car? No; by train. The car was a very obvious, highly colored affair. It would only attract attention. She might have difficulty in obtaining admission, if the place was a sanitarium. A visiting card of Isthar's? She sought and found a box in the drawer of the secretary—wrote “Admit bearer' above the name. With trembling fingers she abstracted two letters from the bundle awaiting remailing. She could, if necessary, plead the importance of their personal delivery. She found her purse where the maid had laid it on the center table, thrust her finds into it, switched off the lights, and crept back to bed, forcing herself to lie and wait.

Fortunately for her it was not for long. A tap on the door announced the return of Tascha. She tiptoed over and nodded approval as Linda opened calm and grateful eyes to hers.

“Madame is better? I knew she would be. See, a cup of camomile tea, such as we drink in France for the nerves.” Linda obediently drank the infusion. “And now I will help madame to dress, if madame will be so good as to sit in the little chair before the dressing glass. I will see that madame shall look like sixteen—yes, like sixteen—beautiful ladies should not know tears.” She smiled.

In those expert hands Linda was coifed, powdered, and primped, buttoned and snapped and “turned out.” Linda hesitated; it would never do for her to appear to give up. She must stick to her rôle. Accordingly she resumed her appeals, but while she obtained sympathy and respectful commiseration, she obtained no information. Hugging her knowledge and fearing to reveal it, Linda simulated defeat. She appeared to be near tears again as she was led to the door once more, and conducted to the dilapidated “stoop.”

“I deeply regret, madame.” The kind, understanding gaze of the wise black eyes followed her down to the car.

Linda had herself driven to the Grand Central Station, dismissed her car, told the chauffeur to report at the apartment that she was dining with friends, and hurried to the rotunda. At the information booth she learned that her train left in a few minutes. She bought her ticket and hurriedly boarded the train.

Isthar had somehow become fixed in her mind as the one hope of mediation. If Isthar were ill, she could send, for Roland and he would surely come. If Isthar were able to return to the city, she would bring her back to the apartment. Roland would listen to Isthar, if only she, Linda, could convince her that their future depended on bridging the terrible chasm that had opened between her husband and herself.

It was after eight o'clock and black night when she descended at the little station of Airyville. She found a hack, and had herself driven down a village street, across an echoing bridge, and out to a wall-inclosed villa of many and brightly lighted windows. At the main entrance she was met by a white-clad nurse. Her inquiry for Miss Isthar Lane brought an odd light to the woman's eves. If Mrs. Bland—she glanced at the card Linda handed her—would step into the doctor's office? With a beating heart Linda followed. A moment later she was facing the keen, blue eyes of an elderly gentleman of professional manner.

“This is a bad time to call on a patient, Mrs. Bland; quite against our rules.”

“It's important.” Linda's black eyes gave him no doubt as to the importance. “Here is a card from Miss Lane—in—in case I needed it to gain admission, and here are two letters that require her personal attention.”

“Ah,” said the doctor. “Pardon.” He took the letters, tore them open, and shook out the contents. Linda's eyes opened in surprise, but the doctor, intent on the missives, did not see her. “You understand, of course, that we have to be very careful with the patient. I regret to say that, in spite of all our vigilance, she obtains it somehow, notwithstanding the fact that she is bitterly anxious to be cured of the habit.” He sighed.

Linda's heart contracted. “The habit!” So that was it—those cigarettes were—doped! She felt she must speak, must make her surprise and concern evident. “In the form of cigarettes?” she managed to articulate.

He nodded. “Yes, for years that way; lately she has been smoking—opium. However, if the nurse goes with you, and you make no attempt to approach her—but—I fear you will not be very happy in the interview. She has had a bad day.” He signaled to the nurse, nodded, bowed to Linda, and turned to his desk. “Not more than ten minutes, nurse,” he said decidedly.

“Sorry,” the attendant murmured, “I can't leave you alone—I can't even take you into her room. You'll have to talk from the door.”

A moment later Linda stood in a small anteroom of a private suite. The nurse opened a door and entered. Linda, standing outside, saw in the bright light of the overhead cluster of electrics the vision of a neat, white bed, a white chair and table, and propped up on pillows, a haggard face that gazed blankly into her own.

“Isthar!” she cried involuntarily. The staring eyes met hers with a curious calm.

“Hello, Linda. Found me out, did you?” The voice was colorless.

“I must—I must speak with her alone,” Linda begged of the nurse.

“Sorry—we can't, you know.”

“They won't let you, Linda,” Isthar spoke. “I came here because you put it up to me to make a last effort. Well, you didn't know you were putting it up to me, of course. I don't know how you got to me, or why, but you did.” She glanced at the nurse. “but don't mind her; she's used to melodrama—tell it.”

As in a dream Linda spoke.

“Isthar, what am I going to do? Roland has left me.” She struggled against her mounting hopelessness and fright. “You—he'll listen to you, Isthar. If you can't go to him, send for him to come to you!”

“And see me like this—my God!” The words were whispered, but they rang with panic.

“He got hold of a letter of mine,” Linda went on doggedly, “one written before we were married, to Teddy—Mrs. Fontaine. I did marry Roland to escape from poverty and the little town I hated. I did marry him in cold blood, bragging that I'd be free in a year and be a fashionable divorcee with big alimony. I did deliberately trade on his bad reputation. It's true. But I swear it isn't true now. I love him, but he won't believe me, and he's gone mad—he's killing himself—he's disgraced himself. He has told me to take all I bargained for and get out. He even says he'll shame me into leaving him. But, oh, Isthar, if you'd see him and make him understand!” Linda stopped short. A change was coming over Isthar's face. It was as if a sponge were being passed across her features, eradicating all human expression—only the agate eyes seemed still to live.

“Is there any hope for her?” Linda turned to the nurse and caught her warning look.

“Of course,” she said cheerily. “We'll have her in fine shape in a month, and she'll help us, I'm sure.”

Suddenly Isthar struggled to a sitting position, her face took on the set, rapt look of an oracle.

“Linda,” she gasped, her breath coming in short, painful intake, “I—watch out for Con—I've been watching him, He cant fool me. He's a snake—you are in his way, Linda—watch out! I can't—now. I know I'm right,” she laughed dryly, “but I was all wrong about poor old Caldwell. He's a good friend. Oh, I knew you and Roland were headed for something. Roland is a fool; tell him so—so are you. But I—I—I'm the greatest fool of all!” She threw up her hands in a gesture of tragic impotence and collapsed upon the pillows.

“You see,” said the nurse sadly, “Sorry, you must go now.”

In a daze Linda suffered herself to be conducted back to the doctor's office. As in a dream she heard the diffident voice of the nurse.

“You mustn't take what she said to you about—about people—too seriously, Mrs. Bland. We never can be sure of anything, you know.”

The blue-eyed doctor looked up at the visitor. “Ah,” he said, smiling, “you've had a shock. I was afraid you might. Nurse, aromatic spirits of ammonia, please. Let us hope that we can help Miss Lane through her trouble. Did you keep your cab? Good. You can make the ten-forty-five and be at home before midnight.” Linda obediently drank the milky liquid the nurse handed her. “Can we offer you something to eat? But, of course, you had your dinner before leaving the city.”

Linda nodded listlessly and turned away.

“Good night, doctor,” she answered. “Thank you for admitting me.”

The nurse saw her to the taxi, tried to think of some heartening word to say, and failed.

Linda felt weak and physically ill. Blow on blow, her powers of resistance were being battered down. What to do now—whom to go to? The long wait in the empty, dingy station seemed endless, the trip in the train, a nightmare of sound and sight—people, people who didn't know.and didn't care—people who looked at her because she was beautiful and her hat and gown were modish and conspicuous—people she hated because they were alive and there to see her unhappiness. The Grand Central Station was a bedlam through which she seemed to crawl. She was too weary to hurry. She was afraid to go home, afraid to face those empty rooms. Roland would be gone, that was certain. To face the commiseration of the servants, the sleek pity of Cummings. She shuddered, and yet—home was the only place where she could hope to have news of him. Deserted or not, it was home.

She was deposited at the ornate entrance of her house, too tired to observe the embarrassment of the doorman, the hesitation of the elevator boy. They could not refuse to take her up, and she did not see the attendant cross quickly to the telephone as the cage ascended with unwonted slowness. She inserted her key in the familiar door, pushed it open, and stopped short. Loud, shrill laughter echoed from the drawing-room. Some one was playing a furious fox trot on the piano. There was an excited feminine scream, and a full soprano voice began to sing:

tried to turn away, to reach the stairs to the mezzanine, to find her room, but her feet led her, as in a dream, down the corridor. Her fingers found the chiseled silver knob, she turned it slowly, her eyes wide and set for the vision of what lay beyond. So softly she opened the door that the party within had not heard. On the wide window divan Roland sprawled, his head in the lap of a bobbed-haired girl, whose evening gown of silver tissue was a mere disordered wisp. At the piano a youth banged away, on either side a young woman of no uncertain cast. Another couple occupied an easy-chair together. From behind the door to the dining room came giggles and the sound of clinking glassware.

A sob of despair broke from Linda's constricted throat. She wanted to turn and run. She could not; she could only stand statuelike in the middle of the floor.

They became aware of her presence. It was like the bursting of a bomb of silence. The group at the piano involuntarily clutched at one another. The couple in the chair fell apart. Roland alone did not stir, did not look toward her. The bobbed-haired girl twisted from the divan and sprang to her feet.

“My God!” she gasped. “Oh, my God!” She stood there a long moment, her wide, china-blue eyes fixed on the tragic figure before her. Then she whirled on her host like a silver cloud of fury. “You're a rat, you are—a rat!” Squaring her delicate, white shoulders, she marched straight to Linda and faced her courageously. “I beg your pardon, missis. We've no right to be here. We shouldn't have come, but he lied to us—to me. I'm—I'm horribly sorry, believe me. I wouldn't have this happen, not for nothing!”

Linda was vaguely aware of others, men and girls coming from the dining room. A sort of fluffy panic was in progress. Still Roland lay sprawled on the divan, smoking and regarding the ceiling as if he were alone in the room, enjoying a quiet cigarette. Was the smoke drifting so densely—obscuring everything—or was it getting dark, she wondered. Were the electric lights dimming—going out Then she heard the sound of a fall, and became aware that she was down on the floor. In a moment she opened her eyes. In some unaccountable way she seemed to have changed places with Roland, for now her head was lying in a silver-tissue lap, and over her bent a cloud of bobbed~blond hair and a pair of terrified china-blue eyes—then came merciful oblivion.

Linda recovered consciousness in the darkness of her own room. She could not guess whether she had been unconscious for minutes or hours, but during that interval her mind had, somehow, been active. She awoke with a determination. There was one person she must find and face—Teddy Fontaine—and she must ask help of Caldwell. He could keep in touch with Roland. As for herself, even the hideous situation she had faced last night, this invasion of the sanctity of her home, even that, was part of the bitter payment the fates were exacting from her. Coward she might seem and shameless to endure and remain, but endure and remain she would.

She lay wide-eyed in the soft, perfumed silence, thinking, revolving the situation. Ever and anon her heart squeezed by pity for that other tragedy not her own upon which she had stumbled. The ghastly, drawn face of Isthar on the pillows, her agate, opaque eyes, the tense crookedness of that twisted mouth. Poor Isthar—of her suffering there could be no doubt. How had she slipped into the grip of drugs? Linda recalled the battered cigarette case with a shudder, the little pile of stubs that always accumulated at Isthar's elbow Poor woman! Was it heart hunger that had driven her to the malefic surcease, or the curiosity of her brain—at once avid of emotion and strangely reticent? Poor Isthar! How recreate a broken will? Poor Isthar!

Linda's mind wandered back to that beautiful, intensely feminine room her weakness had invaded, and the ministrations, so sadly experienced, of the enigmatic serving woman, in whose touch she had felt something achingly maternal. In ail the world Isthar had only this woman to yearn over her. In all the great, gloomy house of her ancestors, there was but the one living corner that she had made her own. Linda forgot her own miseries in the sudden comprehension of her friend's loneliness. What would be the end?

Linda crept out of bed, raised the window shade, and looked out. The cold light of a rainy day flooded the room. Eight, the little gold traveling clock informed her. A wave of dizziness warned her that her strength, both of mind and body, had been sorely overtaxed. She was faint from hunger, and emotionally drained. A cold shower proved invigorating. She rang for her maid, ordered breakfast to be served, and proceeded with her dressing. First she must get herself into shape to meet the trials of the day—and what they might be she could not even guess.

Silent and tactful the maid waited upon her. It hurt Linda to confide in the girl, but there could be no ignoring of what had transpired in the household, and she might need service, personal and disinterested. As the deft fingers coiled the crown of black hair about a face beautiful in spite of its wanness, Linda's eyes rested not on her own reflection in the mirror, but on the face of the maid. Moistening her dry lips, she choked back her pride.

“You know, of course, what happened last night.”

“But naturally,” the woman responded in a matter-of-fact voice. “It was very hard upon madam. I was hoping madam would not get up this morning. Such things”—she paused as if searching for the right word—“upset—flatten one.”

“I want to say,” Linda went on, “and you may tell Cummings, too, Mr.—my husband is not so much to blame. He is hurt—it is my fault. I did not mean to, but it has happened. I cannot help matters, but—I can understand and accept. And I shall expect you all to—stand by me and him; that is, if you will. I—I can't, of course, ask you to stay in—in such an unfortunate household, unless you wish—but” In spite of herself a note of pleading crept into her voice. “It is not easy for me—I am a stranger. It is more than—than duty I ask of you; it is help.”

“Madam may count on me.” Madelon patted the last coil into place. “And as for Cummings. He is devoted to monsieur. If he could do anything he would; but when monsieur commands, what can he do but obey?”

“Nothing,” said Linda quietly. “Now, if you will telephone for the car and give me a hat and a wrap, I shall go out until luncheon.”

Linda glanced at the telephone. No, she would call from outside. What she had to ask of Caldwell required secrecy, but she would call Teddy. If she refused to receive her, she must arrange to watch the house and waylay her in public. She got Mrs. Fontaine on the wire.

“Teddy,” she spoke quickly, hoping to hold the other's attention and prevent her from hanging up the receiver on the instant of recognition. “I've got to see you—I mean it. I—I beg of you—I'm coming over now—will you see me?”

There was a moment of hesitation, and then a rather shaken voice replied in the affirmative.

Linda smiled at her attendant and, with a gallant squaring of her shoulders, raised her head bravely. A heady wine of purpose mounted to her brain. She would fight to the last ditch for her love, accept whatever of ignominy and pain was in store for her, but never swerve from the one goal—to win him back. A swift glance of admiration flashed in her maid's eyes as she attended her mistress to the door.

The drive to the house of her former friend was all too short. She was trying to plan the manner of their meeting, realizing that she must proceed with the utmost caution if she were to gain anything at all by the interview.

Teddy, enveloped in a cloud of multi-colored chiffon, received her in her own little sitting room. There was constraint, yet Linda was keenly conscious of a new quality in Teddy. There was something dazed and hurt, something appealing, like the cry of a child in the dark. The simile came into Linda's mind and she wondered at it.

“Hello, Linda,” she said in a small voice. “Take that chair; it's more comfortable. Have a cigarette? Why do you look so funny?” she asked quickly, for at the word “cigarette” Linda had winced.

“I'm full of nerves, Ted,” Linda answered. “I'm having a terrible time, I suppose you know.” Teddy's eyes veiled as she nodded without speaking. “But there's one thing I don't understand. And I—I don't know whether you can tell me—you remember the letter I wrote you just after you were married, when you were in Quebec? The letter in which I bragged that I'd soon be a rich divorcee?”

Mrs. Fontaine nodded, but her face was expectant only.

“Well, Teddy, Roland has that letter!”

“What!” cried Teddy, startled. “But—but how could he? Are you sure?”

“He quoted it to me, word for word. That—that is what started all the trouble between us. He is hurt, so hurt—and I can't make him believe that it isn't true any more. I confessed, but I told him it wasn't true now He didn't believe me—oh, I don't blame him; I wouldn't, either, in his place. I can't blame myself enough. But how did he get that letter? I thought at first that you gave it to him, because you were angry with me, and then I just couldn't believe it of you. That's all. And I'm in the depths, Teddy”

“But, Lindy!” unconsciously the old intimate name came to Teddy's lips, “how can it be? Why—why, that letter, if I didn't destroy it at the time, is among my traveling things, in the little trunk in the storeroom. I haven't used that motor kit since. Of course, of course, I didn't give it to him. I was angry at you, awfully angry, because you were blaming everything on Con, and Con was telling me he was going out with Rowly in order to keep him out of trouble, if he could. I lost my temper.” Linda noted a quick shadow pass over her friend's childish face. “But that! Heavens! I'm glad you knew better when you thought it over. But then, who, and what for, Lindy? What for?”

“I don't know,” murmured Linda. “To make trouble between Roland and me. But who would want to; who would have anything to gain by it?”

They both sat silent. Teddy's blue eyes glanced at Linda sharply.

“Have you thought of”—she hesitated—“Isthar Lane?”

Linda jerked in a spasm of surprise.

“Isthar? No, oh, no!”

“Isthar was in love with him—is in love with him, and she's queer, and—well, I don't know just how, but different. If she were jealous, I can imagine her doing almost anything.”

“But not things like that, underhand and—treacherous. And, besides, how could she get that letter? You aren't intimate with her; she doesn't hang around this apartment.”

“She's got money. She could bribe,” Teddy suggested.

“But how, when she couldn't know such a letter existed? You don't send after something unless you know it's there, do you?”

“Wait. I'm going to look in that trunk. Come with me. I use one of the extra servants' rooms for storing. My keys—yes, here they are.”

The two girls proceeded down the corridor and through the pantry to a small room off the service entry. Teddy unlocked the door and entered.

“Here, that's the trunk; you remember it? It's for the motor rack.” She unsnapped its clasps and lifted the lid. The tray was littered with scraps, odds and ends, gloves, guidebooks, post cards—the usual litter of a tour. The bottom of the trunk was empty. Teddy stood in thought. “I seem to remember,” she said slowly, “that there were two letters from you, and you wired the day you were married—there's the very telegram.” She picked up the message from a corner. “I suppose I saved that because of sentiment, but”—she broke off—“wait a moment!” Excitedly she picked up a book that lay in the tray. “I was reading this, I remember, when it came—'The Golden Dog'—ah, here it is.' She jerked an envelope from between the pages. “That's it—and—it's empty!” She turned wide eyes on Linda, whose face was hard and white. “But how could any one have gotten in here, opened that door, this trunk? Known where to look? Linda—why, it just isn't possible!”

“It has happened,” said Linda quietly. “But—I'm so glad it wasn't you!” She held out her hand and Teddy clasped it. They stood together like two frightened children, hand in hand, staring at the gaping trunk.

“What will you do? You can't stay in your apartment—you can't stay with him after all that mess in the papers.”

“Oh, yes, I must,” said Linda. “No matter what happens, no matter what he does. If he kills me, it doesn't matter. I won't desert, that's all.”

“Come here, come and stay with me. I'd love to have you.”

Linda shook her head. “Thanks, Teddy, just the same.”

A look of relief came in Teddy's eyes at her refusal. There had been a moment of evident panic after she had impulsively given her invitation. Linda noted it and did not understand. With all her frankness, there was something baffling in the girl's manner, and there were traces of unaccountable worry. What was it that was troubling Teddy? No little thing, for her temperament was resilient and merry.

“Is Con seeing Roland now, all the time, every day, as they used to see each other?' Linda asked. Again the veiled shadow of concealment passed over Teddy's face.

“Why, yes—I think they do. Con seems to think that he's your husband's guardian, and they have some sort of a business deal on—I don't know just what, but it's very big—and—recent—I think. Con has spoken several times about going to see you, but he was afraid that if he did, Roland would think he was double crossing him, taking your side, and besides, of course, he knows that you blamed him for starting Roland on the down grade—you see, I told him all the things you said to me. He said he wanted things to simmer down a bit before he tried to act as go-between. He couldn't imagine 'what had made Roland go mad'—that's the way he put it. I'm sure he has no idea about that letter being in Roland's possession. That would explain everything, of course. Do you mind if I tell him?”

Linda shook her head. “No, I don't mind—tell him; though, somehow, I can't imagine Roland keeping anything from Con, not when they are off together as they have been. The big thing is that I want my husband to know I adore him; that I understand why he is like this; that nothing, nothing will drive me from him. Ask Con to tell him that, whenever he can, and—if he can help me—I'll be so grateful, so grateful.” She turned away to hide her emotion.

“I'll tell him,” said Teddy softly. “I know he'd do anything for you, Linda—he's a great admirer of yours, and you know how he adores Roland.”

Linda shrugged. It seemed to her, in her unhappiness, that she could expect help from no one—she seemed to be walled in—immured in impotence. She took her leave almost absently. The cordiality and renewal of intimacy that had seemed imminent were fading. The two women were almost formal in their farewells. Linda thought of it afterward and wondered, but for the moment she was inattentive to details. At a drug store where she stopped for some trivial purchases she entered a booth and called the club, for it was nearing noon—the hour Caldwell had told her she might reach him there. His voice was warmly reassuring. Of course he would make it his business to learn all he could. But Roland was hardly ever alone; Fontaine was with him all the time; they were inseparable; they were both there now; he had seen them enter not ten minutes before, and Roland looked like death. Linda winced.

“Come to tea this afternoon, Buddy, will you? Come to the apartment—yes, at five.”

She returned home. Mr. Bland had gone out, she was informed by Cummings, who did not refer to any of the happenings of the night before. She ate her luncheon dutifully, realizing the strain she was under made bodily recuperation a necessity. She felt that catastrophe impended, there was more trouble ahead. She could not guess from whence the blow would come, but it would come, and she must be strong to meet it. She tried to rest, but could not. She thought of going for a drive in the car—a run into the country, but she could not make up her mind to leave. She must wait, she must be on hand—for what? She could be back by five to receive Caldwell. She compromised on a short walk, but her uneasiness drove her back after a few blocks—the whole long, agonizing day was a calvary of pain.

At last her guest arrived. One glimpse of his face as she entered the library showed her that he had news. She dismissed the servant as soon as the tea wagon was wheeled in, and turned her anxious eyes to his.

“What is it?” she whispered. “Is Roland off again?”

He looked his sympathy. “You can make more out of it than I can, perhaps. Anyway, this is what happened: It was at the club. Con and your husband had a devil of a row. Roland got a long-distance telephone call, and when he came out of the booth he was ghastly.

“He went straight up to Con and asked him something—don't know what it was, but Con got purple in the face and wanted to know 'who the devil dared say such a thing?' I heard Roland say, 'A disinterested party.' The tone was nasty, insinuating. Con came back at him that 'it was a condemned lie, and he ought to know better than to listen.' Said he didn't know to what the other referred, anyway. Roland told him that 'he couldn't grind his ax like that.' And then he turned on him. If I hadn't been listening with all my might I couldn't have got it, for they were talking almost in whispers—but I heard Roland hiss at him—'If I knew it was true, I'd kill you.' Then Con tried to laugh and slip his arm through Roland's. 'Shucks, no woman in the world should be allowed to come between the friendship of men.' Roland looked him straight in the eyes. 'Yes, if the friendship is real,' and with that he turned his back on Con and walked out. He passed close to me, and I never saw a more terrible look on a man's face. Then I went over to Fontaine. I wanted to find out all I could for you. Con was swearing under his breath. I did the mutual-friend thing; told him he 'mustn't go off the handle;' that I 'hoped there was no real trouble between him and Roland.' Con glared at me, told me to mind my own business, and then he went down to the telephone room and tried to find out where the call that Roland had came from—I was in the next booth—but, of course, they wouldn't give him any information. He wasn't going about it right; he was too anxious and angry. But, of course, he will find out when he gets to work. But what does all that mean to you, Linda? Do you make head or tail of it? What's the answer?”

She shook her head. A suspicion that Teddy had accused her husband of sending the letter entered her mind. But would she have telephoned Roland and not faced her husband with the charge? And what was there to be gained? She sat staring at her teacup, lost in speculation. But the condition was serious enough, no matter what had led up to it. In Roland's present reckless, destructive temper, any threat, no matter how wild, was a symptom not to be disregarded. She stirred, as if waking from a dream, as, indeed, she was, a waking nightmare of apprehension.

“Thank you, Buddy.” she said, extending her hand. “I don't know what to say. But if you can get hold of Roland, hang on to him, stay with him—I'm afraid. He did a thing last night that proves to me that there is no limit to—his madness. I'd have taken my oath that he was too fastidious, too much the gentleman to—but—he did!” Slowly, with difficulty, she told the whole incident, painfully choosing her words—her heart wrung with the vividness of her recollection.

“My God!” Caldwell exclaimed. “My God—and this—to you! He has gone insane!”

The thin teacup broke in her hand. “Oh, no, no!” she cried. “Don't say that. I'm telling you because I want you to realize that he's capable of almost anything. I don't want him to be alone; he mustn't be left to himself, and I'm—I'm out of it, and if he's fought with Con—do you see?—he's adrift. You'll have to follow him and keep watch! I—I have no friend but you, Buddy”

“I'll do what I can.” His brows were drawn in anxious puzzlement. “Goodness knows if I won't make a mess of it, but I'll try to be buffer for your—and if that's the case I'd better leave you and go on the trail. But don't be downhearted. No woman with your self-control and goodness can be kept in the wrong for long.” He looked at her with clear, unsmiling eyes. “I only wish it had been my luck to have won such a woman. I'd never give her a moment's uneasiness. But all I can do is try to help ont. I'll keep you informed. Good-by, for the present.”

Linda watched him go. She sat before the tea table as if reading her fortune in the broken cup before her. It was Cummings' soft approach that aroused her. He took the handle of the tea cart, looked up, and hesitated.

“The master has just come in,” he murmured discreetly. “He's in his room, madam,” he added, and moved silently away.

She sprang to her feet, tense and determined. She must see him, she must, no matter in what manner he received her. She tiptoed carefully to his door, stopped, and listened. She could hear him moving about, there was a subdued clatter of small objects. Timidly she rapped on the door.

“Please,” she begged. “It's Linda. Let me in, dear. I want to see you.”

There was silence. Her heart pounded painfully. She leaned against the casing, for her knees seemed, all at once, too weak to bear her weight. Would he open the door or ignore her? The door was finally pushed open, and her husband confronted her. He was in his shirt sleeves; on the bed lay a suit case half filled with his familiar toilet articles, a small pile of clothing heaped beside it; on the telephone stand at the head of the bed lay his wallet and automatic.

“Well,” he said harshly, “what do you want?”

“You're not going away, Roland?” she whispered.

He looked at her with unwinking eyes—eyes that stared, that looked sick and old. She put out a trembling hand toward him.

“No, no—please don't go—don't go.”

“You'd rather I'd entertain at home?” he queried. “Like to have me give parties right here, would you? Well, you see, there's nothing new about that now—no jazz to it; got to find something new. Now, if you'll get out, I'll finish packing.”

Linda steadied her wavering courage. “Tell me, Roland, why have you and Con quarreled? Tell me.”

“How do you know about that?” he demanded sharply. “Ah, of course—Caldwell. Well,” he stared at her coldly, “I don't mind relieving your feminine curiosity. I received a certain letter at the club that was very enlightening. I couldn't imagine to whose kind offices I owed the enlightenment. I never would have guessed. But I had a telephone call from a friend—that friend reminded me of a motive, one I hadn't thought of, and a lot of things became plain. Well, I began to see that Conrad had something to explain. He couldn't, to my satisfaction, and now, having been robbed of my wife and my pal, I think it's time I went off quietly somewhere and did a little stock taking with a view to future plans. Perhaps your little friend Teddy is in it, too. I wouldn't put anything past a woman, particularly one from your own home town. Good-by.”

Linda found sudden strength. She entered the room so quickly that she eluded her husband's grasp.

“I've told you, Roland, I don't blame you for anything. I blame myself. But, oh, my dear, I do love you—I love you! And if I believed Conrad could have done that, found and sent my letter to you—my wicked, blind letter—why”—her eyes flamed—“why, I'd kill him myself—oh, yes, I would. But he doesn't matter, nothing matters but you; and I love you—I have, ever since we were married, ever since I really knew you. I was only a discontented, envious girl when I met you. I'm a woman now, and—I love you.”

He turned away from her. “So I've heard, and from more truthful sources than from you. But I happen not to believe it. Now go on and cut your first divorce coupon from your bonds of matrimony. I'll keep in touch with my lawyers for a time, anyway, or perhaps you'd rather be a genuine widow. Your wish is law, you know.”

“Don't talk so, don't!” she implored, losing her self-control.

“All right, then. Get out, will you, and let me pack.” He crossed to the service bell and rang. “Ah, Cummings will chaperon me, if you insist on remaining—since you prefer intimate scenes with an audience.”

Feeling her nerve deserting her, Linda turned and left the room, her heart and soul sick with frightened misery. She encountered the valet in the hall, and stopped him with a gesture of appeal.

“Don't let him go—don't let him go!” she begged in a whisper. “And don't let him take his automatic. I'm afraid—I'm afraid!” She loosed her clutch on his arm and passed on,

“I'll try, madam,” she heard his whispered reply. “I'll try.”

In her room once more, she sat by the bed and stared at the wall unseeing, “What to do now? What to do? Teddy” the thought came once more. “Teddy, could she have sent that message, did she know?” Linda called the number and was surprised to get Mrs. Fontaine at once.

“Have you seen Con? Has he told you about—about the row?”

Teddy's sobbing voice came over the wire. “He—he came in in a terrible temper. He swore at me—he went out again. I don't know what to think!”

“Where did he go? Did he say where he was going?”

“He took the car. He told Williams to drive out to the country club in New Rochelle—he—he had an appointment there. Every Thursday night they play bridge. He wanted to know if I telephoned Roland at the club. He wouldn't believe me when I said I hadn't. What does it all mean—do you know?”

“I'm terrified,” Linda answered. “Roland is leaving—I don't know where he's going. He's packing now. I'll call you later. I don't know what I'll do—I don't know. It's about that letter, my letter. Roland thinks Con sent it anonymously. He says there was a motive for Con's sending it, but he didn't tell me what it was and I can't guess. Somebody, I don't know who, telephoned to him and told him. But who could know anything about it, except the person who did actually steal the letter? Listen, when Roland leaves I'm going to try and follow him. If I find out anything more, I'll let you know.” She hung up sharply, a half-formed plan forming in her mind. She rang for Madelon? It was plain that the master's departure was not news to the servants' hall. “Go out,” Linda ordered quickly, “get me a taxi, and have it wait about four doors down the street.”

The girl nodded and hastened out. With fingers that shook, Linda put on a small, inconspicuous hat, selected a veil and a wrap that concealed her face and figure.

In a few minutes the maid returned, announcing that the cab was waiting. For a moment Linda hesitated; perhaps it would be wise to take the woman with her. Then her natural reticence triumphed—she was best alone. She hurried down to the street and settled herself in the taxi to wait, having nervously explained to the driver that when she tapped on the glass he was to start, following the car that would at that moment be leaving the apartment building. The minutes dragged. If only Roland would change his mind; if only he would reconsider and decide to remain; perhaps he might even relent, ask for her—try to find her. Hope sprang hot in her heart. She was tempted to rush back, but her cooler brain refused to credit the thought. There had been no relenting, no forgiveness, no desire for understanding in his voice or manner—nothing but resentment, bitterness, and hatred.

At last, after what seemed hours of waiting, she saw the doorman summon a passing taxi, and a moment later Cummings appeared, carrying two suit cases. Then came Roland Bland, walking jauntily, to all appearances carefree and debonair.

Her own taxi started, warily following the other's lead. They proceeded to Fifth Avenue, went north, turned into Sixth Avenue at Fifty-seventh Street, and stopped for a moment in front of a drug store. At a discreet distance her driver drew up to the curb and waited. Linda dared not get out and walk by. She did not fear recognition, but she feared that if he came out quickly and got away, her own vehicle might be blocked from quick pursuit and so lose the trail. North again they went, through the park and toward the Drive, to stop abruptly before a large, brilliantly lighted hotel.

Roland got out, dismissed the cab, handed his suit cases to an attendant who ran forward from the door.

Linda hesitated. What was she to do? Dare she risk being seen following him in? And yet, unless she kept him in sight, of what use was her determined trailing? She, too, descended, paid her fare, and walked toward the entrance. She paused in the doorway. She felt safe. for the moment, as the light of the electrics made a glare between the interior of the building and the dark of the street. She saw him at the desk, observed that the hall boy received a key from the room clerk. But after opening the case and taking something from it, Roland handed back the bag to the boy, and, without approaching the elevators, strode quickly down the lobby. She realized with sudden fright that the corridor opened on the next street. She must catch up with him before he reached the exit at the other end—but she was too late. Before she had time to travel the rotunda halfway, he was out through the revolving glass doors to the street beyond. By the time she, too, reached the pavement, he was gone. She saw the starter at the curb, slipped him a bill, and hurriedly questioned him. Yes, a gentleman had just taken a taxi. He had not heard the address that had been given; he had noticed that the car had turned uptown on Broadway.

Her fear made her certain. Roland had gone out to the country club in search of Conrad Fontaine—the automatic—that was what he had taken from the suit case—and, of course, he knew where Con had gone. She had a terrible presentiment that nothing could stop or hold Roland, but there was one thing she could do, only one—warn Con. She must get him on the telephone. She turned back into the hotel, sought the telephone booths, and called the country club. Although she knew that it would take an hour for her husband to reach his destination, she was trembling with anxiety. There seemed to bé unsurmountable obstacles to getting in the call. “Busy wire,” no answer, wrong number—all the heartbreaking delays.

At last she got the club and held the wire while incompetent or deaf employees twisted the name incredibly, declared no such person was a member; that there was no Thursday night bridge club; that the gentleman had not yet arrived; and finally reported that Mr. Fontaine had received a telephone call a few moments before and had slipped out.

Not knowing what to believe, Linda almost wept at the contradictory reports. It was most important, she insisted. Was there any one in the club to whom she might speak who would really know? After interminable delays the steward was put on the wire. He corroborated the last information. Mr. Fontaine had received a message and stepped out of the club. Some one else had taken his hand in the card room. He had no idea where Mr. Fontaine could be located—but he couldn't be far—his bag was in the room he had taken, as was his custom on Thursday nights.

She was forced to content herself with what she had learned.

She came from the booth, her senses in a whirl. Somehow she must reach Conrad Fontaine and warn him—not that she cared whether he met with his just deserts or not. But her husband must be saved at all costs. He must be prevented from doing anything rash. The knowledge that he had taken the weapon persistently spurred on her resolution. Roland was also a member of the country club. He might follow Con up, create another scene. If only she could get Con out of the way! Abruptly she made her decision. She would go out there herself. It was a man's club, to be sure; more a yacht and gun club than a country club in its strictest sense. But once there, or near, she could continue to telephone until she reached him, If only she could forestall her husband.

She called a taxi and urged all speed, All the way out she debated with herself what her next move should be, But she was too confused and frightened to think out definitely the logic of the situation.

Linda arrived at last. But she shrank from the publicity of appearing at the club. Instead, she ordered herself driven to the Double Eagle Inn. She would telephone again—perhaps send the taxi driver over with a note asking Con to call her at the tavern at the earliest possible moment. On her way, however, she changed her mind. She had thought of another and a better plan. She would walk up through the club grounds, cut across the lawn toward the service wing, and intercept some employee who, for a substantial fee, would make it his business to locate Mr. Fontaine and bring him to her. That, after all, was the most practical thing to do. It might well be that Conrad himself had left word with the telephone boy not to give information, but to say that he “could not be reached.”

There was no way in which she could hope to gain admittance to the club-house, but for a twenty-dollar note, surely, she could bribe a servant to do her bidding. She entered the hostelry almost unobserved in the midst of a party arriving in three automobiles. She appeared to the enthusiastically welcoming proprietor to be one of them. In the wake of the chattering group of women she made her way to the dressing room, descending again almost at once, as she saw the hall below empty for the moment. She glided unnoticed down the stairs, out to the veranda, and around the drive to the main Post Road. Cars were parked on both sides of the inn, and the blazing lights of its winking electric sign made the way bright as day. Outside that circle of light was darkness, but for the usual arc lights along the road. A few private residences intervened, and then the twin stone shafts of the entrance to the club grounds towered above her. No one was in sight. Far along the curve of the drive she saw a red tail lantern glimmer and disappear. The country scents of late autumn hung on the air, for the many acres surrounding the buildings and abutting on the waters of the Sound were left in their natural state, save for the ministrations of the landscape gardener. Here and there along the drive iron posts surmounted by electric lights illuminated the way, but beyond, on either side, there was semidarkness and clump after clump of ornamental shrubbery.

Linda stepped quickly from the blue-stone road to the soft springiness of the turf. Almost at once she blundered into a rustling hydrangea bush, and paused, waiting till her eyes became accustomed to the darkness. She looked carefully about her, striving to fix her direction accurately. A hundred yards farther along was the bridge where the road curved over the inlet; the main approach, she knew, swung in a wide circle up to the porte-cochère. She had attended the ladies' day regatta, and now she strove to recall the details of the environs. There was a service entrance, and a bridge for its use, she remembered, that crossed the water that, moatlike, surrounded three of “the island.” Cautiously she made her way, bearing toward the left, giving a wide berth to the waiting cars and their chauffeurs. The sounds that issued from the rear of a large annex indicated that it contained the dining-hall dependencies. In that quarter she would be sure of obtaining assistance, but it was difficult to reach. The winding waters of the artificial ponds intervened. She was almost persuaded, in her haste and nervousness, to return and openly cross the main bridge. Then she came upon a narrow path. There was a pergola of some sort, a marble table, and ornamental benches, dim and gray in the dusk, under the trees. She paused a moment and sat down. Then, almost directly in front of her, she made out the bulk of a rustic bridge and the pale ribbon of a path that branched out from the other side of the star-strewn waters. Here, she thought, was a good place to ask Con to come to her—a spot easily described, “the pergola by the footbridge.”

She was quite close to the main house now. On the other side of a high lilac hedge the long windows of the billiard room sent out; a yellow radiance. Faintly she could hear the click of ivory balls, was almost convinced that she smelled a faint fragrance of cigar smoke on the air. She would wait here, she decided, after she had found a servant to take her message.

She rose and moved quickly toward the bridge. Something dark lay in the path; she had almost stepped on it. It was a man's soft hat. Involuntarily she stepped aside and almost into a clump of bushes. Her heel tangled in some, obstruction; she strove to free it, but could not, and leaned over. Her fingers closed about cloth, her touch recognized the form of a buttonhole. She had stepped on the lapel end of a man's coat. She almost screamed, and went to her knees on the gravel of the path. She twisted away, staring under the overhanging branches of the bush. There was no doubt of it—a man lay there! She could see his face, the position of his hands, three white spots in the shadow. She could make out no details, just the dark bulk of the form lying on its back and the pale triangle marked by hands and head. The terror that gripped her tore her heart, her lungs. It was only by a effort of supreme will that she controlled the spasm of her voice that demanded that she scream. She wrapped her arms tight about her waist, as if striving to hold herself together. She must not scream, she must not call, and she must not faint.

As she stared into the depth of shadow, her eyes began to focus more clearly what lay there. There was a dark splotch on the gravel where she knelt. She touched it—it was wet. The man was dead; such stricken, moveless relaxation and silence could only mean that. And if dead? Sudden strength came to her. She must see, she must know. She threw herself forward on her hands, peering down at the white blotch that was a face. She was not a foot away. A gleam of light from the windows crept between the leaves, outlining the features dimly.

It was Conrad Fontaine. And he was shot through the temple. She was too late—too late to warn him—too late to save Roland! It had been such an obvious place to appoint for a rendezvous, if Roland had been able to lure Conrad out of the club. But where now was Roland? She must find him. She would offer him an alibi. She would perjure her very soul for him. If necessary, she would claim that she had done it herself. Perhaps if she had the weapon She forced herself to search the body, under it, around it —there was no weapon, or if there was, it had been flung so far away that it was useless for her to hope to find it in the darkness.

She staggered to her feet, sick, nauseated. Her head swam, and her knees doubled under her, but she must go on—she must; she must get back to the city, to his hotel—no! She might lead the trail to him. No; home, home. From there she would reach out to find him, clear him, lie for him—die for him.

Dodging from tree to tree, more for the occasional support they offered than for concealment, she made her way toward the entrance. Occasionally an automobile roared by. Once the flash of the headlights swept her as a car took the bridge curve, and her heart stopped beating. She gained the creeper-covered wall that bounded the estate and followed it to the shelter of the towering gateposts. Another moment and she must face the full glare of the are lights. No motor pulse sounded, nor did she hear voices. She strove to move naturally and quickly, as she stepped around the buttress and out on the gravel. A few rapid steps and she was outside on the main road, for the moment deserted—no, not deserted. Across the road stood a low, gray roadster. She paused in panic, Which way should she turn? She was too frightened to orient herself, to remember in which direction lay the inn, And then a quick exclamation almost at her side sent her reeling backward with a stifled gasp.

“Linda! Linda—what are you doing here!”

She looked up, and then, tottering with relief, cast herself into the arms stretched out toward her.

“Buddy—Buddy Caldwell! Take me away—get me away from here,” she whispered hoarsely. Panic, withstood so long, came upon her with the sense of protection his presence offered her.

He caught her. “This way—my car.” He led her across the road and helped her into the seat beside the driver's “Get in; sit still, When you can, tell me.”

She could not speak. Her eyes stared at him, eyes of the damned, terrified at the hell revealed to them. He climbed in beside her, released the brakes, and a moment later the car glided forward and down the steep grade, soundlessly as a ghost. He thought to relieve her tension by telling of the reason for his own presence,

“You told me to keep after Roland. I couldn't locate him. I suddenly remembered that he used to belong to the Thursday Bridge, and I found out that Con was expected there to-night. I thought I'd come up and hang around. But Roland hasn't been at the club. I asked, and I don't think he came up here. I guess we're safe for this evening.” He tried to speak lightly, with an ease he was far from feeling.

The woman beside him turned terrible eyes to his. She shuddered,

“Con—is in there—under the bushes—dead. I—I—killed him!”

Caldwell's hand swerved on the wheel, almost ditching the car.

“My God!” he whispered, “my God!” Instinctively he stepped on the accelerator, and the car shot ahead as if already pursued. As it roared down the road he curbed his runaway emotions, steadied himself. He could not but believe that Conrad Fontaine was lying in the club grounds, dead, but in his heart he knew that it was never Linda's hand that had been raised against him. And if not Linda—then Roland, of course, and she would try to shield him. He slowed the car down and turned to her calmly, keeping his voice to a natural cadence, as if speaking of the most commonplace matters imaginable.

“Has any one else found him? Do they know—up there?” She shook her head, her white lips set. “Good!” he exclaimed. “And does any one know that you've been here?” She shook her head once more. “Excellent.” He managed to smile at her reassuringly, as if murder was no more momentous a matter than a game of hockey. “Of course, you knew about the bridge club, so that was the reason you came out here—just as I did. Fortunate I was there waiting—odd, wasn't it? Just as if it were by appointment, when really I was sleuthing Roland. Perfectly natural, when you come to think of it, though,” he talked on, watching her stony face from the corner of his eye. It did not relax. She was like a lay figure, a manikin, a life-size marionette with a face of wax. But he must know more if he was to help her, to save her.

Already they were well within the city limits and rapidly nearing the Drive along the river.

“Tell me all about it,” he said, after a long silence. “Don't be afraid. I'm your friend all the way, you know. What is best to do? What shall our story be? Come on, Linda, confide the whole thing, and perhaps I'll see better than you can.”

“I wonder where Roland is now?” was her answer. She was not concerned in any way for herself. That one sentence spoke volumes.

“If I take you home, Linda,” he asked, “do you think you can act naturally? I couldn't take you in like this; you look like a ghost.”

She seemed to wake from her trance. One hand still clutched her gold bag, with its shower of precious ornaments.

“I have rouge and powder,” she said obediently and with a sudden accession of self-control. “I can make up so it won't be noticed. Pull up under a lamp, will you?” He did so, marveling at the strangeness of woman. Her hand was steady now as, with the aid of a tiny vanity mirror, she rouged her ashen cheeks to simulated freshness. “Yes,” she said. “If you will promise not to stop till you find Roland and let me know—I'll go home. I'll be in my room; I'll not leave it. They may not find him—Con—for hours; not till morning, perhaps. I must talk to Roland. I must find out” She checked herself suddenly.

“Look here,” he said sharply, “I know you didn't kill Con, so don't tell me you did. But Roland was capable of anything in his frame of mind. Now, I'm for saving Roland because, more than anything else, he's your husband and you love him and I want you to be happy. Now that you understand my motive, you know that I'll go to any length to make good. We can do better if we work together. You don't know that Roland did it, do you?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Then let's assume he didn't. Well, then, where would he be now?”

“When he left me,” she temporized, “he went to the Bellmore. I know; I followed him.”

“Then I'll start there, after I leave you. You don't think he'd give himself up in any quixotic moment of contrition, do you?”

“I tell you—I did it!” she cried desperately.

“All right, then. We have to prove that he wasn't there to help you. And —another thing. If I go on after Roland, if I find him and bring him—to you, will you give me your word of honor that if any question arises, no matter how, you won't state that you did it? Promise me that, or I won't move a finger for Roland.”

“I promise,” she agreed. “I'll say nothing—I'll know nothing, until I've seen him, or,” she amended, “until I know where he is, I promise.”

“I can trust you, I know,” he said simply. “And now the sooner I get you back the better. We have been out for a little spin on Long Island, if anybody should ask you—to Westbury and back. Who's to prove we weren't? I happened to see you just as you were making for—let's see—Isthar Lane's house.”

“Yes,” she said absently.

They were purring down the shining surface of Park Avenue, blue black in the shine of the electrics.

“We're getting near home,” he said gravely. “Pull yourself together now. Keep a grip on yourself, don't let go a minute, not even when you are alone in your own room. Don't give way. We're not out of the woods, but we don't know yet whether we're in them. Hold tight, now—ready?”

“Yes,” she answered calmly, and Caldwell marveled at the lightness of her tone.

He whirled across the pavement and brought up before the entrance of the apartment house. Jumping from his seat behind the wheel, he was ahead of the obsequious attendant to assist Linda to alight. Thanking her for the honor of her company, with gay volubility, he saw her to the cage of the elevator, She waved him a smiling “good night” as she saw his tall form foreshorten below her as the car sped upward. She asked some trivial question of the operator and let herself in at her own door.

It was as if Caldwell had hypnotized her by his orders, so strictly did she obey them. Not for one moment did she relax. She rang for her maid, smiled at the anxious inquiry of her eyes, and answered her unvoiced question.

“Yes, he's gone to a hotel—no, he doesn't know that I know, but it will be all right. I shall telephone to him in the morning.”

She undressed, prepared for bed quietly, and dismissed the girl with grateful thanks. The lights were extinguished for a moment. She day still. When she was sure that she would not be again disturbed, she got up, lighted the reading lamp at the head of her bed, threw. a matinée over her night-gown, and set herself to wait. Some time during the night, surely, Caldwell would telephone to her. It was not yet midnight—not yet midnight!—and so much had happened. Here she sat nursing her terrible knowledge, and doubtless, in her fairylike boudoir, Teddy was sitting, puzzling over the day's happenings, unaware of the tragic news that awaited her, never dreaming that the angry words Con had flung at her for the first time in his life were the last words of his that she would ever hear.

An almost ungovernable impulse to telephone her and break the truth arose in Linda. She felt almost as if she had no right to withhold the facts, that, somehow, in so doing she was guilty of treacherous deceit. Then she forgot that angle of the horror in her imaginings of Roland. Just how had it happened? Where had he fled? What were his thoughts of her, his wife—the cause of it all? Then, with a sudden wave of sickness, she recalled the feel of the dead body under her questing fingers—the choking terror that had gripped her heart as she gazed under the matted leafage and realized what lay there. A thousand mental photographs unreeled themselves before her—the starlight on the still waters of the inlet—the outline of the rustic bridge—the gleaming reflection of the light from the clubhouse windows on the whispering foliage of the concealing bushes. She felt again the shuddering blood creep at the roots of her hair as she had realized the meaning of that pale spot of moveless white flesh in the dark—all the details of her flight across the lawn, with its menacing shadows, its trees, its formless clumps of shrubbery, that to her distorted vision seemed every one to conceal a corpse. Her nerves were tense as violin strings, her eyes burned in her head, that ached and throbbed with every slow pulse of her heart.

Suddenly she sat erect, listening. Could it be? Her breath would not come; she was stifling. There was no mistake—his footstep, and now the door of the adjoining room—his room—opened and closed softly. There was a pause. She felt that he faced her door, that he was looking through it at her. She wanted to go to him, to take him in her arms, to murmur words of undying, forgiving love. She wanted to call out to him. She could not move—could not articulate; but she felt him there, on the other side of that door. He had come back, thank God!—he had come back!

A tap sounded on the separating panels, so light that had she not been awake and listening with all her might she would not have heard. It came again, and his voice, very low, scarcely a whisper:

“Linda—Linda—are you there?”

In a moment she was afoot, her trembling hand had found the knob and thrown wide the door, then her arms flung out toward him. In the same breath and movement he was across the sill, his arms were about her. In a silent, mad embrace they stood, everything blotted out in the meeting of their two hearts—in desperation, stripped of everything save the utter need of one another, they clung together as if they two stood alone on the deck of a sinking ship, as if at any moment the black waves of death and separation might engulf them. And something that each had lacked before was fused forever into the very metal of their souls. When, after an eternity of communion, white, haggard face looked into white, haggard face and desperate eyes sought desperate eyes, it was with no doubt or question of love, only the doubt and question of a menaced future. He was the first to find his voice as he strained her to him.

“My darling, there is a way out. It is all my fault, anyhow. I drove you to do it. I am to blame. And I love you, my darling, my darling—nothing shall take you from me!”

She lifted her hands and took his face between them. She looked into his eyes with eyes that shone with an immortal passion of tenderness.

“It doesn't matter—what you did—or why—you are mine, and it was my fault. I hurt you so that you went mad. I couldn't make you see that you were wrong, and that I did and do love you—and anything, anything, I don't care what—that has brought us together, I'm glad of, yes, glad!”

He crushed her to him once more, and then, with an effort of will, held her away.

“But we've got to plan. What does Caldwell know? Just what did you tell him? I saw your meeting at the gate. I knew he was waiting for something or somebody else, not for you. He was as amazed to see you as you were to see him. It isn't that I don't trust him. I know now that he is a friend. But what did you tell him?”

“I told him first about Con,” she shivered, and he took her to his arms again with a movement of savage; protective pity. “I told him first I did it, but he wouldn't believe it.”

“Thank God!” he exclaimed.

“I begged him to find you—to get you to come to me. I had to see you. He's gone to look for you now. Did he send you?”

Roland looked puzzled.

“No—I followed you and Caldwell back to the city. After I had gone into the club grounds, and found—what you'd left—I had to learn what it was that made you the wreck I saw at the gate. It took me some time. It wasn't till I thought of what would be the most natural place on the grounds for you to ask him to meet you, and then”

She looked at him, speechless with amazement. He misinterpreted her look.

“You see, I spotted you when you followed me into the hotel. I bribed the starter to tell you I'd taken a cab and left. I wanted to see what you meant to do. I was in his storm booth when you were questioning him. And then, after you had been in the telephone booth, I found out the number you called. It came over me—I guessed. I remembered your threat, and I got the biggest car I could hire at the garage around the corner. I wasn't ten minutes behind you, but I'd lost you; now do you see?”

But she was only partly following his words. All her senses were converged on one thing—the meaning she divined underlay everything. She caught him to her with frenzied joy.

“Do you mean,” she choked with excitement, “that you didn't kill Con?—that you think I did?”

It was his turn to grow tense with a shiver of exultation.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Do you—do you mean that you didn't? I—I didn't see him to-night—till I saw him dead!”

“Oh, oh!” She burst into a paroxysm of tears and she buried her head on his shoulder. “Of course, I thought you had. That's why I told Buddy I did it. I was on my way there to try and bribe a servant to take a message to Con, to warn him to keep out of your way.. I—I thought I knew you were after him—your automatic—you packed it. I saw you take it out of the bag on the sly at the hotel. You'd said you would if you were ever sure. Oh, Roland! I'm—I'm so happy!”

He kissed her tear-wet eyes. His heart was bounding with happiness. Who or what was the Nemesis that had settled life's account with his former friend and companion, so selfish is love, he did not even question. There was but one radiant fact in the world. Between himself and Linda there could never come again a shadow of question or doubt—never again. In that miracle of bliss everything else was swallowed up. They sat side by side in an embrace of heart and soul, the world forgotten.

The telephone shrilled and jangled, shattering their dream. Their tense nerves jerked in response, leaving them powerless for an instant. The bell shrilled again insistently. Linda had a moment gf terror—then she smiled.

“Caldwell,” she guessed, taking up the instrument, “to report that he can't get in touch with you. What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him I'm here, and it's all right—here, give me that.” He took the receiver from her, “What? Who?” A puzzled frown crossed his brow. “Here, Linda, for you—very particular—some sort of foreigner. Perhaps”—his words trailed off, but his look continued the sentence—“perhaps the body has been found—perhaps some one saw you.

“Steady,” he whispered. “If it's anything you don't want to answer, pretend you can't hear.”

But Linda's face had gone blank with surprise as she listened.

“Is she there?” she exclaimed. “At home! Very low, you say! She wants me—of course—I'll come—we'll come at once. Tell her—at once.” She hung up. “Roland, it's Isthar. She's at home—dying. But how did she get there? I—I don't understand!” Rapidly she explained her mad visit to the sanitarium. In shocked bewilderment he heard of his friend's condition. Then a look of realization crept into his eyes. That tragic revelation explained so much that had always been puzzling about her strange personality.

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Good God! And I never guessed, I never guessed! Dying! Poor woman—poor Isthar!”

Linda began to wind her heavy braids about her head, jamming in hairpins at random. She shook herself from the pegnoir, tossed her clothes on the bed. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. Isthar must be ill, indeed, to have asked Tascha to call her at that hour—or was it some vagary of the drug? And why was she at home, and not in the sanitarium under the doctor's care? But there was no time to lose. These were questions that would answer themselves in the course of time. Now it was imperative to answer Isthar's call. Dying! A vivid recollection of her as she had last seen her on the narrow cot, her pillows no whiter than her bloodless face, her eyes opaque with the frightening opaqueness of the eyes of a snake about to shed its skin. She heard in memory that toneless voice giving her vague instructions and vague warnings—sending a message to Roland, to call himself a fool, and raising weak hands to heaven to proclaim that she, of all the world, was the greatest fool Poor Isthar!

“Call a cab!” she exclaimed, as she hooked and buttoned with nervous haste.

Before the old, brownstone front of Isthar's home they drew up at last. The front windows of the second floor were brightly lighted. The door was opened by the dour elderly woman, whose face fell as she recognized the visitors. Evidently she had been expecting the doctor.

“Miss Lane can't see you, ma'am,” she said curtly. “She has retired; she is not well.”

“I know,” said Linda quickly. “Send for her maid, for Tascha, we must see her—we must!”

The woman shook her head hopelessly, glanced up the bleak stairs, and hesitated. Then she turned and slowly climbed to the floor above.

A moment later the black silhouette of Isthar's attendant stood beckoning at the head of the steep flight. The gas globe behind her made of her a shadowy, faceless bulk. Anxiously Linda tried to read her expression, but all she saw was a pale oval above the somber figure. As they neared, the woman turned and preceded them, walking silently as a ghost. Very cautiously she opened the door, very gently she spoke.

“They have come, Miss Isthar.”

Both Linda and Roland were startled at the strength and clearness of the voice that called them.

“Come in, my dears, come on in. So you got my message? Nobody in your apartment seemed to know exactly where either of you were.”

They entered the room, where every light was blazing full. Flowers were everywhere—in vases and bowls, lying on the coverlet, heaped on the tiny rococo night table. Isthar was propped up in bed by many pillows, beside her extended hand lay the battered cigarette case.

Linda exclaimed, the change was so great from the helpless, opaque-eyed woman she had last seen. Isthar looked as of old. Her movements were tense and alive, her eyes were bright. She was smiling her quizzical, twisted smile.

“It is good to see you,” she went on, a queer note in her voice—a tumbling of words hurrying one upon the other. “I ran away from the sanitarium. I suppose you know, Linda; you must have telephoned.”

“No,” said Linda. “I never dreamed you were back. I thought you promised the doctor”

Isthar nodded gayly as she lit another cigarette.

“Yes, my dear, I know. But I wanted to make a good exit. No curtain calls, you see. And I am bent on not having an anticlimax. Come here, Roland.”

Roland crossed to her, sat down on the bed,'and took her hand in his; his eyes, pitying and affectionate, never left her face.

“What I want to know is—is all right between you two?” She turned her eager eyes on the young people beside her.

Linda looked at Roland, her heart in her eyes. Her husband leaned across the bed, and with his free hand sought hers.

“I begin to understand,” he said slowly.

“Had to do some little act of kindness before I left,” Isthar hurried on. “I couldn't leave you money; what I've got goes to that angel of a woman who has cared for a peevish, impossible person like me for years, because she loved me.” She looked across the room to where Tascha crouched on the chaise longue in an attitude of despair. “You've got more now than is good for you, anyway, Roland. What had I to will you, my children? Not a thing. But I could give you to each other. It all came to me, Linda, as you talked to me in the hospital. I couldn't answer you, I couldn't make you see that I understood. But I did hear, and I understood, far more than you did, what and who the trouble was, and I knew, too, that unless that canker was cut out altogether it would come back. So—I cut it out for you. That's what I'm leaving you in my unwritten will—your future together, your love for each other. I killed him—Fontaine.”

Isthar sank back, a satisfied smile on her face, and relaxed with the calmness of the well content.

“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Linda. “Don't, don't say such things, Isthar! They were right; you are mad.”

Isthar looked up at the man bending over her, with the impish grin of a gamin.

“You don't think so, do you, Roland? Anyway, if they haven't found him yet, they will—at the turn of the drive, just beyond the first culvert under the lilac hedge. I telephoned for him to come out and meet me there. He didn't dare refuse; he didn't know what I had to say, and besides, he had no reason to guess that I” Suddenly she had turned a ghastly white. Her fictitious strength was ebbing fast.

“Oh, everything has worked out all right—just as I'd planned,” she went on with an effort. “First, I had to reach Roland, dear Roland. I've been Roland's confidante for years and years, Linda. I knew all about his business, about everything that concerns him. Why, he's been blood for that leech, Conrad Fontaine, since their college days. He's supported him, put money into his schemes, helped him, plunged like a crazy man, and carried many a mad thing through, too, for him. But Conrad—he'd pander to any of Roland's vices in order to hold him. Oh, don't I know, haven't I tried my hardest to make you see, you poor, blind idiot?” The affection in her voice belied her words as she tried to squeeze Roland's hand with her weakening grasp.

“You did. You were always right.”

“Don't you see,” she said earnestly, “when Roland married you he began cleaning up his investments. He didn't want to be loaded up with wild gambles any more. He'd promised Con he'd back him in a big scheme. Instead, he backed right out. The only way that Conrad could hope to get his backer back”—she paused as if expecting applause for her play on words—“was to do what he did—try to break it up between you. Didn't he know Roland, here, almost as well as I do? Didn't I warn you”—she looked at Linda—“that Rowly was sensitive? Why, he saw red the moment he got that letter of yours. Oh, I could see it all, when you told me. I could see Conrad's mind working, see the thoughts he had thought, the plans he had made. I knew what he'd done, and—but all the rest came afterward. I didn't know just how I was going to circumvent him—not then—but afterward it all came to me, and it worked out, step for step, as easily as a stocking unravels once it's started. It wasn't any trick at all, and,” she sighed happily, “I'm so glad—it was worth the effort! To bring you together again—my dears.”

She lay back and her words came in a dreamy whisper. “I kept on thinking about you two and your love for each other—that Conrad was trying to destroy. It spurred me on—gave me strength. I don't even remember hearing the pistol shot. I was blind—and my heart was beating in my eyes. I don't know how long I was there, but when I got up to go, I found I'd been on my knees beside him My—my gown, Tascha—tell them, wasn't it torn and wet and muddy?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” the heartbroken woman answered.

There was a long silence in the room. Isthar's eyes, resting on the bowed heads of Roland and Linda, glowed with infinite love.

“Go, my children. I—I want you to remember only how glad I am that you are happy again. Promise that you will not grieve for me. Go now,” she pleaded. “Good-by!”

Roland rose and stood beside her. Reverently and with infinite sadness he raised the white, wasted hand to his lips.

“Good-by, my dearest friend, good-by.”

Linda knelt down. Her fingers passed lightly over Isthar's damp forehead.

“Somehow it will be made right for you, Isthar,” she said brokenly. “We'll never forget what you've done for us.”

Roland led her from the room and down the grim, half-lit stairs.

Dawn was breaking. Faintly in the east the blue of night was paling, though the stars burned bright overhead. A chill wind crept down the deserted street. Linda and Roland stood hand in hand before the old house, looking up at the lighted windows of the second floor.

“Pray, Roland, pray,” she whispered chokingly. “I can't bear it. And yet she's happy—I saw it in her eyes. She's happy; she has no regrets, not one!”

“God help her!” he prayed devoutly. “God be merciful! It's an awful tangle, Linda. It's a fearful thing to take a man's life. But if there's forgiveness for any of us wretched mortals, surely it won't go hard with her. Come,” he said gently.

They turned away, walking the dead streets in silence. Even the avenues were deserted. It was a strange hour to be abroad. Now and then a policeman eyed them questioningly. There were no cabs, and the tears that still coursed down Linda's cheeks made her unwilling to board a lighted train, so they walked on, clinging to each other as the light drifted up into the sky, catching whiffs of vagrant cloud and painting them a misty rose.

As they neared their home Linda dried her eyes. After all, it was a new day—a day of beginnings. The night of unhappiness was past, gone with the two souls that had left the world, gone, leaving them with a new heaven and a new earth. Linda lowered her eyes from the contemplation of the rippled pink and azure above the tall buildings, so remote and so mystically beautiful, and became aware that across the street stood a long, gray roadster that she recognized.

“Look!” she exclaimed. “Buddy's car. He's sitting in it, watching our place. Come.”

She darted across the street. Caldwell sat hunched behind the wheel. He looked up at them as they approached, and Linda called his name. His eyes were heavy and he looked stiff and cold, but he smiled.

“I got here just a while ago,” he explained. “I was so done up, I just lay here, fagged out for half a moment. They told me you were out, over there.” He nodded toward the apartment house. “I suppose they thought me quite mad, calling at half-past three in the morning. But I have news—Isthar”

Linda interrupted him. “We have just left her. She is dying She sent for us to come.”

“Then you know.” Caldwell was silent a moment. “Ghastly business, but—but”

“'But'—that's just it,” said Roland, “Come in and have some hot coffee.”

“All right,” said Caldwell. “Get in and I'll take you across the street.”

Cummings, paler and more weary-eyed than usual, was still up and waiting.

“You see,” said Caldwell, as he sipped the steaming beverage, “a friend of mine—a reporter—got it at headquarters when it came”

“When what came?” said Roland, puzzled.

“Isthar's confession,” Buddy explained. “Oh, she left nothing to chance. She made it in full, while she was waiting for you, I guess—witnessed by the two women, her servants, She sent it to police headquarters, and they telephoned out to the club. Con wasn't found till then. Isthar may have been insane—but—she died game!”

There was a long silence. In their hearts they did reverence to the soul of a sinner.

Caldwell rose at last.

“I came to tell you at once—didn't know that you knew—and I wanted to clear things for you. Now I'll be off to sleep; I need it—and you, too.” He looked at Roland and then turned his tired eyes to Linda's white face. “You, too, Don't you ever get on the outs with each other again—it's too painful and it's too—dangerous. And look what it does to me!”

Roland took him by the hand.

“Man to man, Buddy—thanks, old friend.”

Linda laid her soft palm above the two clasped ones.

“The best and kindest friend a woman ever had, Buddy—and—she said so, too. Good night—no, good morning, and God bless you.”

Christmas Eve. The soft snow falling on the city streets, gala with the regalia of red and green, busy with the hurrying throngs. Linda looked down at the crowds below her window, at the regular lines of crawling motors, then up at the gray sky and its swirling down of crystals, eddying past. She turned at the sound of footsteps and greeted Roland as he entered the room.

“Christmas Eve,” she said slowly. “Do you remember? A year since I met you.”

He crossed to her side, drew her head to his shoulder, and kissed the thick, black braids.

“It isn't in my heart to celebrate,” he said, after a moment's silence. “I couldn't. There has been too much sadness and too much sorrow in this year—but—I'd like to go somewhere to-night to hear midnight mass. I'd like to somehow—be grateful and still—I've forgiven Con—and Isthar, poor Isthar!”

She took his hand in hers.

“It's just what I wanted to do, Roland, go to midnight mass. I want to feel that I'm forgiven for being what I was, for doing what I did. I don't deserve to have you as I have you now. I don't deserve to be happy like this. But I'm another woman now, thank God! There's only one thing left to wish for—that Teddy will get over her bitterness. But there must be some way to comfort her—to reach her.”

“Time,” said Roland softly, “only time. Poor Teddy! To-morrow, a year ago, and she was a bride—and now”

“I haven't heard of her for months, not since—she went away. Nobody has, not even her own people. Sister wrote me from home.”

Cummings, at the door, coughed discreetly.

“From the cable office, madam, for you.”

“For me?” exclaimed Linda. “A cable; open it, Rowly, while I sign the receipt.” She heard his quick intake of breath as she handed back the slip to the valet and turned expectantly toward her husband.

He handed her the message. “There's the answer to your prayer, Linda,” he said softly.

Linda glanced at the crinkled paper, her wonderful eyes glowed, a smile as lovely as light itself made her radiant. She read aloud in a hushed voice: