e trunk bottom. Beneath it lay half a
dozen yellow letters, and face down two tissue-wrapped photographs. The
Harvester examined them first. They were of a man close forty, having
a strong, aggressive face, on which pride and dominant will power were
prominently indicated. The other was a reproduction of a dainty and
delicate woman, with exquisitely tender and gentle features. Long the
Harvester studied them. The names of the photographer and the city were
missing. There was nothing except the faces. He could detect traces
of the man in the poise of the Girl and the carriage of her head, and
suggestions of the woman in the refined sweetness of her expression.
Each picture represented wealth in dress and taste in pose. Finally he
laid them together on the table, picked up one of the letters, and read
it. Then he read all of them.

Before he finished, tears were running down his cheeks, and his
resolution was formed. These were the appeals of an adoring mother,
crazed with fear for the safety of an only child, who unfortunately
had fallen under the influence of a man the mother dreaded and feared,
because of her knowledge of life and men of his character. They were one
long, impassioned plea for the daughter not to trust a stranger, not
to believe that vows of passion could be true when all else in life was
false, not to trust her untried judgment of men and the world against
the experience of her parents. But whether the tears that stained those
sheets had fallen from the eyes of the suffering mother or the starved
and deserted daughter, there was no way for the Harvester to know. One
thing was clear: It was not possible for him to rest until he knew if
that woman yet lived and bore such suffering. But every trace of address
had been torn away, and there was nothing to indicate where or in what
circumstances these letters had been written.

A long time the Harvester sat in deep thought. Then he returned all the
letters save one. This with the pictures he made into a packet that he
locked in his desk. The trunk he replaced and then went to bed. Early
the next morning he drove to Onabasha and posted the parcel. The address
it bore was that of the largest detective agency in the country. Then
he bought an interesting book, a box of fruit, and hurried back to the
Girl. He found her on the veranda, Belshazzar stretched close with one
eye shut and the other on his charge, whose cheeks were flushed with
lovely colour as she be