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 that there was no danger of branding her with an act even worse than stealing. There mustn't be a trace of a motive left behind. Better destroy Mr. Bullard's letter immediately. He tore it slowly into tiny bits, and then burned them in the bowl on the washstand.

Afterward he turned off the light and went over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. Oh, my! Wasn't there some other way? Slowly, painstakingly, he proceeded again for the hundredth time, to pursue all the old paths of possible escape, although he already knew they ended in blank walls. He had no friend from whom he could borrow a thousand dollars. His father had no such amount to spare, and if he had, his father might tell Sheilah. There was the same grave risk with Gretchen's husband. Of course banks lent money, if you had property for collateral, but the insurance policy was the only property Felix owned in the world. He couldn't get the whole thousand on that, could he, and Mr. Bullard wanted it all. He wished he dared go to a lawyer and ask him if he had to pay it all. But he was afraid of lawyers. They get you to tell them things you don't want to sometimes. No, it wasn't safe to ask anybody to advise him. Well, he didn't need any one to advise him not to tell Sheilah, in spite of what Mr. Bullard said.

Sheilah seemed so much happier lately. The chil-