e
reached him a suspicion that all was not well with Laura.

Once he had made an abortive attempt to break from the turmoil of La
Salle Street and the Board of Trade, and, for a time at least, to get
back to the old life they both had loved--to get back, in a word, to
her. But the consequences had been all but disastrous. Now he could not
keep away.

"Corner wheat!" he had exclaimed to her, the following day. "Corner
wheat! It's the wheat that has cornered me. It's like holding a wolf by
the ears, bad to hold on, but worse to let go."

But absorbed, blinded, deafened by the whirl of things, Curtis Jadwin
could not see how perilously well grounded had been his faint suspicion
as to Laura's distress.

On the day after her evening with her husband in the art gallery, the
evening when Gretry had broken in upon them like a courier from the
front, Laura had risen from her bed to look out upon a world suddenly
empty.

Corthell she had sent from her forever. Jadwin was once more snatched
from her side. Where, now, was she to turn? Jadwin had urged her to go
to the country--to their place at Geneva Lake--but she refused. She saw
the change that had of late come over her husband, saw his lean face,
the hot, tired eyes, the trembling fingers and nervous gestures.
Vaguely she imagined approaching disaster. If anything happened to
Curtis, her place was at his side.

During the days that Jadwin and Crookes were at grapples Laura found
means to occupy her mind with all manner of small activities. She
overhauled her wardrobe, planned her summer gowns, paid daily visits to
her dressmakers, rode and drove in the park, till every turn of the
roads, every tree, every bush was familiar, to the point of wearisome
contempt.

Then suddenly she began to indulge in a mania for old books and first
editions. She haunted the stationers and second-hand bookstores,
studied the authorities, followed the auctions, and bought right and
left, with reckless extravagance. But the taste soon palled upon her.
With so much money at her command there was none of the spice of the
hunt in the affair. She had but to express a desire for a certain
treasure, and forthwith it was put into her hand.

She found it so in all other things. Her desires were gratified with an
abruptness that killed the zest of them. She felt none of the joy of
possession; the little personal relation between her and her belongings
vanished away. Her gowns, beautiful beyond all