with unconcealed anxiety.

... Why had there been no letter?...

Appeasement came in the form of a package addressed in her handwriting.
Avidly he opened it. It was the promised Bible, mailed from New York
City. On the fly-leaf was written "I.O.W. to E.B."--nothing more. He
went through it page by page, seeking marked passages. There was none.
The doubt settled down on him again. The Hunger bit into him more
savagely.

... Why didn't she write? A word! Anything!

... Had she written Miss Van Arsdale?

At first it was intolerable that he should be driven to ask about her
from any other person; about Io, who had clasped him in the Valley of
the Shadow, whose lips had made the imminence of death seem a light
thing! The Hunger drove him to it.

Yes; Miss Van Arsdale had heard. Io Welland was in New York, and well.
That was all. But Banneker felt an undermining reserve.

Long days of changeless sunlight on the desert, an intolerable glare.
From the doorway of the lonely station Banneker stared out over leagues
of sand and cactus, arid, sterile, hopeless, promiseless. Life was like
that. Four weeks now since Io had left him. And still, except for the
Bible, no word from her. No sign. Silence.

Why that? Anything but that! It was too unbearable to his helpless
masculine need of her. He could not understand it. He could not
understand anything. Except the Hunger. That he understood well enough
now....

At two o'clock of a savagely haunted night, Banneker staggered from his
cot. For weeks he had not known sleep otherwise than in fitful passages.
His brain was hot and blank. Although the room was pitch-dark, he
crossed it unerringly to a shelf and look down his revolver. Slipping on
overcoat and shoes, he dropped the weapon into his pocket and set out up
the railroad track. A half-mile he covered before turning into the
desert. There he wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, and after that
groped his way, guarding with a stick against the surrounding threat of
the cactus, for his eyes were tight closed. Still blind, he drew out the
pistol, gripped it by the barrel, and threw it, whirling high and far,
into the trackless waste. He passed on, feeling his uncertain way
patiently.

It took him a quarter of an hour to find the railroad track and set a
sure course for home, so effectually had he lost himself.... No chance
of his recovering that old friend. It had been whispering to him, in the
blackness of empty nights, co