s to the door. He
was like a drunken man. ... Patty believed it; Patty, just and
merciful, believed it. If she believed, what would John, the jealous
husband, believe? There were so many trifling things that now in
John's eyes would assume immense proportions. ... In less than half an
hour the world had stopped, turned about, and gone another way. He
opened the door. As he did so a woman rushed into the hall.

"Richard, Richard, I thought you would never come!"

"You, and in this house alone?" His shoulders drooped.

Mrs. Jack did not observe how white he was, how dull his eye, how
abject his whole attitude. She caught him by the sleeve and dragged
him into the living-room.

"Richard, I am dying!" she cried. She loosened the collaret at her
throat. "What shall I do, what shall I do?"

He realized then that he was not alone in misery.

"What is it, girl?" stirring himself.

"Listen, Dick!" She dropped into the old name unconsciously. She had
but one clear thought; this man could save her. "Some time ago--the
night you and John went down town together--I received a telephone
call from that vile wretch, McQuade."

"McQuade?" Warrington's interest was thoroughly aroused by that name;
nothing else could have aroused it.

"He said that if I did not persuade you to withdraw your name before
the convention met he would not oppose the publication of a certain
story concerning my past and yours. Horrible! What could I do? I
remained silent; it was Patty's advice. We were afraid that John would
kill McQuade if we told him." She let go of his arm and paced the
room, beating her hands together. "Think of the terror I have lived in
all these weeks! Half dead every evening when John came home; not
daring to read the papers; afraid of calling on my few friends! I have
never, in all my life, done an evil action, either in thought or deed.
What terrible gift is this that God gives to some people to make truth
half a truth and half a truth a lie? Read this!"

It was a half-sheet of ordinary office paper, written on a typewriter.
Its purport was similar to the one he had read but a few minutes
since. Only it was bolder; there were no protestations about anybody's
welfare. It was addressed to John Bennington.

"Great God! another anonymous letter! Do you know who sent this?"

"I can think of no one but McQuade; no one!" frantically. "Save me,
Richard! I love him better than God, and this is my punishment. If
John sees this, I