the outside world came to Fred in a weekly
letter from Helen, which arrived every Saturday night. He used to tear
the envelopes open viciously and read every word with cold disdain. He
never thought of answering one ... indeed, many a time he had an
impulse to send them back unopened. But curiosity always got the
better hand. Not that he found her news of such moment, but her
dissimulation fascinated him. She never chided him for not replying
... she never complained ... but every line was flavored with the
self-justification of all essential falseness. She was playing a game
with herself as completely as if she had written the letters and then
scribbled her own name upon the envelope. She was looking forward to
the day when she could say:

"I did my duty ... I helped start him in business ... I saved him from
jail ... I wrote him a letter every week, in spite of the fact that he
never answered me... What more would you have a woman do?"

What more, indeed? How completely he read her now! Yes, even between
the lines of her nonchalant gossipings he could glimpse her soul in
all its intricate completeness. Her letters were salt on his deadened
wound. Perhaps that was why he did not return them unopened. He felt
vaguely that it would be a shameful thing to be ultimately sealed to
indifference.

But one Saturday night two letters were put into his hand. He read the
strange one first.

I have not written you before because I had no news for you.
Yesterday I passed Hilmer's house and saw your wife wheeling
Mrs. Hilmer up and down the sidewalk. Some day when I get a
chance I shall speak to Mrs. Hilmer.

I am living in a lodging house on Turk Street. My name is
Sylvia Molineaux. You will find my address below. Write and
tell me what you want. And always remember that I am here
watching.

GINGER.

CHAPTER XV

Toward the middle of the following week Fred answered Ginger's letter.
But his phrases were guarded and his description of life at the
hospital full of studied distortion. He knew quite well that every
letter which left the institution was opened and censored, but, with
certain plans lying fallow in his brain, he had a method back of the
exaggerated contentment he pictured. He had a feeling that Ginger
would not be misled altogether. She knew the deceitful bravado of life
too well and, according to her own report, something of the existence
he was leading in t