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 husband began to show signs of a flagging enthusiasm. At supper-time while others recounted their adventures, he took no part in the camp-fire merriment. There came a faraway look in his eye, and he fell back into the shadow, as far as possible from the flickering firelight and yet within its circle. Fay knew from his manner that he was wretchedly unhappy and was almost sorry for him—but was still relentless. This hunt was one thing she had exacted of him, and she insisted on her pound of flesh; so instead of sympathizing she eyed him watchfully and with suspicion, impelled to rail at him the minute they were alone. But she suppressed this impulse.

"I won't be an utter tyrant," she said to herself with noble magnanimity. "He can think about his business if he wants to."

But the next night when the scattered hunters came by twos and threes and weary into camp, George Judson was not among them. Fay, coming in again under escort of Sir Brian, found pinned conspicuously upon the flap of the Judson tent a note.

"Forgive me, darling, for running away," the note said, "but I couldn't stick it out any longer.

"At least I've got you planted up here, and Sir Brian and the others will see that you don't miss anything. Make my apologies to him and any